University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

The morning of the fete of May dawned with
cloudless skies. Ere the sun was fairly arisen,
scores of youths and maidens were in saddle for
two leagues or more around Castle Monteagle,
and coursing in high spirits towards the scene of
the day's festivities.

The archery ground was a spectacle of the
greatest activity and excitement. A level lawn,
just outside of the castle wall, had been temporarily
enclosed by a slight wicket fence. Here
and there in the area grew a venerable oak, sufficient
to shelter the archers, but without presenting
any obstacle to the sports in contemplation.
At the southern extremity of this park-lawn
was pitched a markee of large size, from
the summit of which fluttered and flashed in the
morning sunbeams the red cross banner of England
and the gorgeously emblazoned bannerets
of the noble Monteagles.

From the lattice of her room the fair girl,
whose “birthday” was to be honored by all this
rich display, gazed down upon the lawn with its
busy groups. She was already arrayed in her
archer's costume of green velvet and crimson
cap with a superb sable plume. Her graceful
and youthful figure was finely displayed by this
costume. She leaned upon a long and richly-ornamented
bow with a silken string, and with
one hand was tracing upon the window-sill, with
a thoughtful and absent manner, erratic outlines
of involved figures with the point of an arrow of
gold. Evidently her mind was not with her
hand, though her eyes followed mechanically the
movements of the point of the arrow.

She was observed by Radnor Cathcart. Attired
as Robin Hood, and looking like a prince
of the forest realms, he had thrown himself from
his horse a few moments before at the gate, and,
ascending the terrace, had designedly walked
around the square tower, which he well knew
would lead him past the windows of the room
occupied by Agnes, and which opened upon the
terrace.

He beheld her thus engaged, and drew near
her unperceived, and watched her countenance
through a lattice of ivy that partly veiled the
window. If she had been thinking of him,
there would have been a secret sympathy, a
certain instinct, that would have told him so.
But there was no such consciousness in his
soul. The fair face on which he looked was
indeed a mirror, but it did not reflect, as he
gazed upon it, his own image. He felt the
disappointment a man would feel, who looks
into a glass, as he supposes it to be, and sees
only his rival on the other side.

In a word, Radnor, predisposed to jealousy,
did not like the aspect of Agnes's countenance

though a more lovely one wooer never need
wish to gaze upon. Her pensive eyes, soft
and dreamy and bright as the gazelle's, though
the hue of the maiden's was borrowed from
the southern skies, followed musingly the
point of the arrow; and once a rich suffusion
from the heart mantled her cheeks and made
her look more beautiful than ever; yet Cathcart
liked her looks less than ever. He was
satisfied, quite so, that it was the thought of
somebody else besides himself that had brought
up that conscious emotion.

Still her beautiful eyes followed the point of
the golden arrow. His also did so, but he
could see nothing, for she consciously wrote
nothing; and though gold write on stone, it
leaves no more impression than words written
on the air with the finger's end.

But words shaped in the air with a finger
may be read by a quick eye. Radnor's jealousy
made his eyes very sharp; for jealousy
is a great quickener of all the passions and
emotions. Doubtless he would not acknowledge
that he was jealous! “Of whom?” he
might interrogate the interrogator. There was
no other Agnes knew; and everybody understood
they were by-and-by to be married. Of
course, if the young shell-gatherer were named,
the young nobleman would fling back a scronful
denial, and regard the intimation as an insult!
A young fisher's son make a lord jealous?
If he had him at his whip's end, he
would lash him as he would his hound. Yes,
and lash him for jealousy's sake. In a word,
the young noble hated Philip in his heart; but
he would not have deigned to hate one so
lowly, if he had not been touched with a pang
of jealousy. Not that he believed for a moment
that Agnes would favor a peasant with a
thought, or that the peasant would dare to look
up to her with a shadow of hope; yet he was
plainly jealous of the youthful shell-gatherer.

His eyes followed the motion of the golden
arrow as it seemed to trace out some shape or
other on the stone sill, and he hoped to read the
invisible words by the motion of the point; but
it only formed circles and curves in and curves
out, now a triangle and then a wreath. This
wreath seemed to please her, and she let it
shape itself into a crown, leaf and stem, beautifully
interwoven with the golden stylus, all invisibly.
Yet he could, by the movement of the
point, see the very form of the leaves, which
were laurels. When she had ended it she
paused, and seemed to regard it in her mind's
speculation as if it were visibly before her eyes;
then, with a smile and a sweeter blush, she commenced
writing with the point within this invisible
immortel. With an eager gaze Radnor followed
its motions. He saw her write a large
letter, which at first he thought would terminate
with being an R, and his heart bounded pleasingly;
but, after a slight pause at the first loop,
she there ended the letter, and left it a capital P.
Then followed a small “h,” then an “i,” to be
succeeded by an “I” and another “i;” and a
small “p” concluded this airy name written
within the airy wreath.

There was no doubting. His eyes had followed
the invisible tracery of the visible hand
as plainly as if it had left behind letters of fire.

“Philip!” he gasped. “This peasant is in
all her thoughts! If he crosses my path, I will
crush him beneath my feet as I would a worm.”

“So, fair maiden,” he suddenly exclaimed,
advancing into view, “you seem to be fancy free
this morning, and amusing yourself with your
thoughts. I trust they were agreeable.”

This was spoken with temper and a slight
manner of derision which he did not take the
trouble to conceal. Young as she was, she was
high-spirited, and felt his tone to be insulting to
her; and she answered, with a slight curve of
her upper lip:

“Extremely so, Radnor!”

“Then you were not thinking of me!” he
said, moodily.

“You must consider yourself a very disagreeable
person, then, cousin!”

He frowned, and retaliated, “I know well you
were not thinking of me; for I have been a-disagreeable
subject, I doubt not, since —”

“Since when, cousin?” she asked, quietly.

“Since you saw the fine eyes of that impertinent
fisher fixed upon you, and he flattered you
by giving you shells.”

“He has very fine eyes. I am glad you had
the taste to admire them, Radnor.”

“You are provoking, Agnes!”

“Then you should be more gentle, especially
on this my birthday.”

“Answer me one question!”

“If it be civil, cousin.”

“Who was in your thoughts as I came up?”

She colored like a peony, and, after a moment's
embarrassment, answered:

“O, a good many things.”

“I can tell you of one subject.”

“Name it!”

“The shell boy! Your thoughts were all
upon him!” he said, with an evil look of mischievous
triumph.

“Well, may I not think of whom I will?
Are you not thinking of him now? What
more harm if he cross my thoughts than yours,
cousin?”

“But you did more. You wrote his name
within a wreath!”

“Wrote his name?” she repeated, with looks
of amazement, first at him and then of close
scrutiny of the window sill. But it told to her
eyes no tale of betrayal. Again she fixed her
wondering gaze upon his face, on which was an
expression of intense triumph.

“Radnor, what do you mean? You saw me
write no name, for none was written!”

And yet she knew she had made the motion of
writing the outlines on the stone's surface; but,
not dreaming that she had by these motions
been betrayed, she began to fear that he had the
power to read her thoughts. She became pale,
and regarded him fixedly with a look of fear.
But fear was not a new emotion in his presence.
There was an imperative haughtiness and insolence
in his character that often made her feel
afraid of him; while he possessed, in his better
hours, better attributes, that made her easily forget
his more disagreeable manner.

“How could he know my thoughts?” she
mentally asked, and saying, hurriedly:

“You must excuse me, Radnor. My young
friends are spurring towards the gate, and I
must go down and receive them.”

“First,” he cried, detaining her by the hand
rudely, “tell me if you love not this peasant?”

“Cousin Radnor, your question is an insult!”

“So it is; and so it would be, if I were to ask
you if you loved my hound because he licked
your hand. I will only look upon your notice
of this fellow as I would regard a look of kindness
cast from your superb eyes upon my dog!
So, pardon the insult, fair cousin!”

There was a bright flash of indignant light in
the eyes of the young girl, but she suppressed
the answering speech that sprung to her lips,
and, saying she must receive her guests, fled
from him as he endeavored, in order to say
something more, to detain her by the golden arrow.
She left it in his hand, and disappeared.

“This girl has no longer a heart, soul and
mind all for me! I loved her because no one
had ever loved her, nor she a thought of other.
In all her freshness and innocence I bowed
down to her, and believed myself the only worshipper
of one who, young as she is, has all the
power and genius of a woman's nobler feelings
—innocence—nature without guile. I could
have taught her to love me—fear me—bend to
my will as if I were God to her! But this fisher's
boy, gifted with a form and face that make
him look beneath his coarse garb like a disguised
prince—this fellow, on whom nature, in a freak,
has lavished all the outward gifts of birth—he
has made an impression upon her imagination.
The thought of him has entered her heart. It
has corrapted her single-minded regard for me!
To write his name with unconscious expression
in motion of what she was meditating upon!
This betokens evil to my love's selfishness. On
her upon whom I fix my passion neither king
nor peasant must gaze admiringly! And this
arrow revealed her thought!” added the young
noble, as he regarded the elegant shaft which
was to be the victor's prize that day. “The
thing is blasted in my sight!” And, with a
gesture of anger, he cast it upon the floor of
the terrace, and, stepping upon it, ground it
with his heel as he walked away.

At nine o'clock the whole company had arrived
in the castle, and were regaled by a
sumptuous breakfast in the great hall. At
ten o'clock the trumpets sounded from the
archery ground, as the signal to prepare for
the chief sport of the day. The country people
gathered outside the lists in a dense crowd;
while within the barrier was an amphitheatre
of seats, where sat the lord and lady of the castle,
with more than a hundred nobles and gentry
with their ladies. Between this terrace
and the superb markee stood the archers, forty-four
in number, youths and maidens; the former
dressed like foresters, but in silk and gold
and velvet, and the latter in varied and graceful
costumes, in which green and crimson hues
predominated. Few of the youths were over
nineteen, while the maidens were from a fifteen
to eighteen years of age. Seldom has a festal
gathering displayed so much noble and high-born
beauty in promise. Peerless among her
peers was Agnes, “sole daughter of the house,”
whose loveliness drew expressions of admiration
from all eyes; for, though more beautiful
than all her companions, such was her sweetness
of temper, unconscious of superiority, and
her gentle deference to and preference for others,
that she was not only popular but beloved.

Opposite this group of competitors, about fifty
yards across the green, stood the target,
which was painted with five circles, each of a
different color. The centre of the circle was a
gilt disc, the size of a crown-piece.

The gold arrow, which Agnes had returned
for, and found upon the terrace, unaccountably
marred, was suspended above the target by blue
and scarlet ribbons. Over the target two great
oaks flung out their arching limbs, and formed a
grand roof above, like the groined ceiling of a
cathedral.

At length the herald sounded again, and the
sports began. Many a good hit was made, and
many a bad one, and laughter and applause alternated.
The young girls proved to be the
best shots, but, after an hour's trial, not an arrow
had touched the centre of the crown-piece,
though three times it had been struck. One of
these arrows belonged to Agnes.

Among the spectators outside the barrier was
old George, the fisherman, and near him stood
Philip, the shell-gatherer. His looks followed
only the movements of the daughter of the castle,
his eyes traced the path of only the arrows
from her bow.

If any one had watched his fine face, they
would not have failed to perceive that his heart
was in the success of Agnes; and if the watcher
knew much of the human heart, he would have
detected under the outward interest the timidity
of a love that was in the first trembling of its
new and strange emotions.

At length there was a recess for a banquet in
the tent.

During this interval of two hours, as they
were walking about the grounds, after the feast,
waiting for the herald's trumpet to sound for
them to resume the sports, old George, seeing
Agnes near the barrier, talking with a young
man who was feathering an arrow for her, drew
near, in a humble way, and said, deferentially:

“Ah, my young lady, no arrows like them
feathered with eagle's wing! I hope you were
pleased with my boy's gift.”

“Yes, George,” answered the maiden, kindly:
“but it takes an eagle to make the feathers fly
straight to the mark.”

“You do not make allowance for wind, lady;
and all your strings are made of silk, when they
should be of good deer's hide; silk gives, and
don't let the arrow go off with a spring, as it
ought to.”

“Why, George, what do you know about
archery?” asked Agnes, with a pleasant laugh.
“It would seem you ought to know only about
hooks and fish-lines, instead of talking so wisely
about bows and bow-strings.”

“In my younger days, lady, I could use the
bow, and have shot many a bird with arrows
headed with sharp steel. It was when I was in
the Hebrides, and lived as much by egging in
the high cliffs as fishing in the deep seas
a-neath. We often had to kill the birds to get
the eggs, and also for their down, with which
great ladies in them days trimmed their winter
coats. We had to use bows and arrows, not
only because guns and powder was dear, but the
noise of shooting would scare off the birds; and
when they got to understand how that the report
meant death, they wouldn't come back the
next year, but go to other islands. I have
killed in my day, lady, many an eider duck
with my yard-long arrow, at a hundred yards.”

“And we can't hit the centre of the target in
fifty,” said the young man, laughing. “Come,
old man, you must take a trial at the target, and
win the golden arrow; for we all deserve to lose
it, being such bunglers.”

“I couldn't do nothing, young gentleman,
with one of them toy-things,” answered George,
looking with contempt on the handsome bow, ornamented
with pearl, which he held in his hand.
“But perhaps Philip might do something with
it, as he is a better bowman than ever I was,
though I taught him.”

“Then Philip can use the bow,” cried Agnes.
“He must certainly enter the lists,” she added,
with carnestness.

“If he did, lady, he would quickly carry off
your golden arrow,” said the old man, proudly.

“If he will only consent! Will you, Philip?”
she asked, as the young shell gatherer's eyes
met hers, at which collision of glances both their
faces reddened, while Philip answered:

“I have not so much confidence as to be confident
of success; still, if you wish it, I will try;
but —” and here he glanced down upon his
coarse apparel.

“He shall have my suit,” answered the young
man, “for I should like, of all things, to see the
prize carried off by a fisher's boy. It is in the
porter's lodge, where I left it when I resolved I
would shoot arrows no more at a mark I could
not hit. He shall have my bow and arrows,
also.”

With some persuasion on the part of Agnes,
who had set her mind on Philip's entering the

list, for she had secretly hoped his skill would
prove superior to that of Radnor, who, moodily
keeping out of the sports in the morning, had
been heard to express his intention to enter the
lists, and secure a prize which “no one seemed
able to win,” as he sneeringly expressed it.
Agnes now resolved to set off Philip against
him; but aware that Radnor would not contend
with him, knowingly, she gladly embraced the
offer of her cheerful young friend, Edward, the
son of Charles Dacre, who forthwith, in his desire
to gratify her whim, led Philip off to the
porter's lodge; having first, however, pledged
secrecy about the whole matter to the fair girl.

About half an hour afterwards the lists were
once more alive with the archers, and the spectators
again were seated, as before, in the amphitheatre.
At the private suggestion of Agnes,
Lord Monteagle proclaimed, by the herald, that
after two trials each of the competitors, without
taking the prize, the lists should be open to all
comers.

There were many excellent shots, but none
clave the centre, which was so constructed, that,
when hit exactly, it opened in two leaves, like a
crown-piece split, and moving in and out on
hinges, and let the arrow through out of sight.
Out of over four hundred shots that day, not a
single arrow had disappeared, though two struck
within half an inch of the charmed centre.
Even Radnor's shaft failed. When at length
all had made two trials, the field was proclaimed
open to all comers. Upon this the eyes of
Agnes might have been seen to brighten, as she
looked earnestly towards the right side of the
tent, where she saw standing Edward Dacre,
and, near him, a young man of the noblest aspect
and appearance on the field that day. At
first she could not believe her eyes; but she
knew it must be the handsome shell-gatherer;
yet, but for that knowledge, she would never
have recognized him in his present costume.
The crimson cap, and sable plume tipped with
green, the jacket of rich purple velvet, and vest
of silk, gorgeous with gold, all exceedingly set
off one of the finest figures and most handsome
faces ever maiden gazed with admiration upon.
If she had almost lost her heart (which she had
never lost to Radnor) to the shell-gatherer,
there was danger of its irrecoverable loss now.

“Who accepts the invitation to all?” asked
Lord Monteagle. “Are there none of my fine
forester lads who want a golden arrow to kill
venison withal?”

There was a laugh in the crowd, but no one
moved to come forward, for the presence of the
great awed the peasantry; albeit among them
might have been some stalwort youths who
drew as good a bow as Robin himself.

“Come, Radnor,” said Lady Monteagle,
“try once more your skill, as there seems to be
no more competitors. We will not leave the
field till the target be hit. The last best hit was
your own.”

“I can hardly compete without a rival,” answered
Radnor.

“Hither comes one who looks as if he intended
to show us his skill,” said the earl, as he saw
a young man, with dark, flowing locks, an eagle
eye, a tread like a prince of the desert, and an
air at once frank and noble. All eyes were
turned upon him, as he advanced and took his
place at the point whence the arrows were to be
shot.

“Who is he?” “Whence comes he?” “Who
knows him?” was asked from one to another.

No one was more perplexed than the earl, unless
it was Radnor. He regarded him with a
look of open admiration, but, though Agnes
closely watched his countenance, without the
least suspicion. Indeed, old George did not
know him, and commented upon him, as of a
stranger, to his companions about the barrier.

Bowing to Agnes, who was seated upon a
canopied dais, like a queen upon her throne,
he strung his bow with a practised hand, and,
giving it one or two trials with his whole
arm's strength, he next chose his arrows with
great care. There were seven in his quiver,
and he had broken and cast upon the ground
six before he was satisfied with the seventh.

“He has seen a bow before,” said a forester,
within bearing of old George. “He means to
shoot but once!”

“Ay, man, and he looks, young as he is,
as if he knew how to use a bow. I never
saw but one lad, and that's my boy Philip,
who can hold a how like —”

The old man was interrupted and his attention
drawn by a cry of, “Hist! they are going
to shoot!”

Radnor took the first shot, after having,
with the greatest care, tightened his bow and
selected his shaft. All was suspense as the arrow
hummed sharply through the air along its
fifty yards of rapid flight. Every eye followed
it to the target. It struck the central crown-piece,
but not so exactly as to open the valve,

and fell, shivered in a dozen fragments, at the
foot of the target.

The unsuccessful archer dashed his bow upon
the earth, as the shout of the people, who at
first thought he had hit it fairly, changed into a
note of disapprobation. The populace were
tired of unsuccessful shots, and had a right to
suppose that one who had put himself, as it
were, on a “forlorn hope,” would carry off the
prize.

“Better not try, you'll fail!” said several
voices, as Philip drew his arrow up to his eye.
It lingered not a moment, but went off on its errand
like a shaft of light. Straight to the target's
centre it sped, and had no sooner touched
the gilded disc than it disappeared through it.

There was a simultaneous shout from peer
and peasant. The air rang with applause, and
when the cheers had subsided, there arose a
loud hum of voices, all speaking together in
praise of the shot and of the skill of the archer.
Old George was eloquent in his admiration, and
only wished he knew who had taught “that
young lord” how to use the bow.

The herald brought the golden arrow, and
placed it, kneeling, in the hands of Agnes, as
she sat upon her throne. He then conducted
the victor to her, who, blushing and embarrassed,
stood before the dais “the cynosure of all
eyes.”

Agnes then gracefully presented to him the
golden arrow, which he received with a grace
and self-possession singularly becoming, and replied
to her in a few words of grateful acknowledgement.

“It is Philip! I know him now!” cried the
old fisherman, hearing his voice.

“What, the shell-gatherer!” exclaimed Radnor,
with eyes full of the light of angry surprise

And fixing his gaze fully upon him, he then,
as if fully satisfied of his identity, grasped him
by the throat, crying:

“Caitiff! To dare compete with a noble!”

There was instantly a general commotion.
Philip flung back his antagonist, and, in the
act, dropped the gold arrow without knowing it.
He then turned to leave the spot, when a sudden
outcry caused him to look back. Radnor
was standing, with the golden arrow fitted to
the string of his bow and drawn hard to the
feather. In another moment the metal shaft
would have been launched through his body;
but Agnes, with a scream of horror, caught
Cathcart's hand, but too late to prevent a most
terrible calamity; for the arrow turned aside,
and the bow slipping at the same moment, the
point of the arrow rapidly grazed the brows of
the young girl, and pierced an oak, in which it
stuck tremblingly. Agnes, with a cry of pain,
fell insensible into the arms of the earl.

When at length she revived, she felt around
for her mother, and said, with touching plaintiveness,
“All is darkness!”

There seemed to be no visible wound on the
eyes, though the brow above them trickled with
blood; nevertheless, as it soon appeared to all,
was she, in that brief, cruel, guilty moment, rendered
totally blind! The light of her glorious
eyes, by one act of pride and passion, was extinguished
in darkness!