“You said well, holy mother,” Sir Cuthbert said.  “But you see the hawks scent the danger from afar, and are moving uneasily already.  Whether they consider it so pressing that they will dare to profane the convent, I know not.  But I am sure that should they do so, they will not hesitate a moment at the thought of the anger of the church.  Prince John has already shown that he is ready, if need be, to oppose the authority of the holy father, and he may well, therefore, despise any local wrath that might be excited by an action which he can himself disavow, and for which, even at the worst, he need only inflict some nominal punishment upon his vassal.  Bethink thee, lady, whether it would not be safer to send the Lady Margaret to the care of some person, where she may be concealed from the search of Sir Rudolph.”

“I would gladly do so,” the abbess said, “did I know of such a person or such a place.  But it is difficult indeed for a young lady of rank to be concealed from such sharp searchers as Sir Rudolph would be certain to place upon her track.  Your proposal that she should take refuge in the house of some small franklin near the forest, I cannot agree to.  In the first place, it would demean her to be so placed; and in the second, we could never be sure that the report of her residence there might not reach the ears of Sir Rudolph.  As a last resource, of course such a step would be justifiable, but not until at least overt outrages have been attempted.  Now I will call Lady Margaret in.”

The young girl entered with an air of frank gladness, but was startled at the alteration which had taken place in her former playfellow, and paused and looked at the abbess, as if inquiring whether this could be really the Cuthbert she had known.  Lady Margaret was fifteen in years; but she looked much younger.  The quiet seclusion in which she had lived in the convent had kept her from approaching that maturity which as an earl’s daughter, brought up in the stir and bustle of a castle, she would doubtless have attained.

“This is indeed Sir Cuthbert,” the abbess said, “your old playfellow, and the husband destined for you by your father and by the will of the king.”

Struck with a new timidity, the girl advanced, and, according to the custom of the times, held up her cheek to be kissed.  Cuthbert was almost as timid as herself.

“I feel, Lady Margaret,” he said, “a deep sense of my own unworthiness of the kindness and honour which the dear lord your father bestowed upon me; and were it not that many dangers threaten, and that it were difficult under the circumstances to find one more worthy of you, I would gladly resign you into the hands of such a one were it for your happiness.  But believe me that the recollection of your face has animated me in many of the scenes of danger in which I have been placed; and although even in fancy my thoughts scarcely ventured to rise so high, yet I felt as a true knight might feel for the lady of his love.”