“The heriot, Sir Ralph—­the heriot!  We’ll have a heriot at Easter!”

Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet, the knight could not have been more terrified.  He let the weapon fall.  His hands dropped powerless at his side.  His countenance was like the darkly rolling sea, strangely tossed by some invisible tempest.  The cause of this sudden and unexpected termination of the assault we will now proceed briefly to unfold.

The morning of this day, being the eve of the Blessed Nativity, had been employed by the Black Knight in the laudable occupation of visiting a poor widow; who, though recently bereaved of her husband, had not rendered the customary heriot.  Unfortunately, the only valuable she possessed was a cow, the produce of which formed the chief support of the family; four young children, and a boy of about fourteen, whose brains were generally supposed more or less oddly constructed than those of his neighbours, depended on this supply for their daily support.  Cold, bitter cold, was the season, and it had set in with more than common severity.  Day after day the payment was delayed.  Every morning the widow and her son fondled the poor beast, as though it were the last; but another morning and evening succeeded.  Supper could not supply the place of breakfast, nor breakfast contend against the wants of supper; and how could the already half-famished ones be sustained, when their only resource should be taken away?

“Go down upon your knees, Will, and thank God for another morning’s meal.  It is the eve of our blessed Lord’s incarnation, and I think He will not leave us to perish in this world, who has made such a bountiful provision for our well-being in the next.  The knight has not sent for the heriot, and I think that He alone who succours the widow and the fatherless can have inclined his heart to mercy.”

Scarcely were the thanksgivings finished, when they were alarmed by the rapid approach of their persecutor.  The door flew open, and in thundering accents the Black Knight himself came to make his demand.

“I’ll have thee to the dungeon, hag, for lack of service.  How comes it to pass the heriot is not paid!”

The widow made no reply.  Her heart was full.

“See to it,” continued the pitiless churl; “for if thy quittance be not forthcoming, and that in haste, I’ll turn thee and thy brats into the moor-dikes, where ye may live upon turf and ditch-water if it so please ye.”

“Oh, ha’ pity!” But the widow’s prayer was vain.  The Black Knight was never known to hearken either to pity or persuasion.

“Thy cow—­thy cow!  This night let it be rendered.  Sir Ralph Assheton never uttered a threat that fell to the ground.”

“Mother,” said the boy, “is this Sir Ralph, our liege lord?”

“Ay, fool,” angrily replied the knight.  “And what may thy wits gather by the asking?”

“And will he ever die, mother?”