The morning meal was ended; the sun already high in the
clear heavens, and the thin mist wreaths were dispersing from
the broad valley, and the bright river; and now a merry cavalcade
swept round the lawn from the stables — a dozen foresters
and grooms, well mounted, with led horses, two of the latter
decked with velvet side-saddles, which were then used by
ladies; and seven or eight serving-men, on foot, with hounds
and spaniels in their leashes; and among them, conspicuous
above the rest, the falconer, with his attendants, one bearing a
large frame whereon were cast — such was the technical jargon
used in the mystery of trainers — eight or ten long-winged

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

falcons, goshawks, and gerfalcons, and peregrines, with all their
gay paraphernalia of hoods, and bells, and jesses.

A little while afterward the fair girls came out, Annabel now
attired like her sister in the velvet riding-robe, and the slashed,
graceful hat, and were assisted to their saddles by the young
lover. Then he, too, bounded to his noble charger's back, and
the others of the company in their turn mounted, and the whole
party rode off, merrily, to the green meadows by the fair river's
side.

Away! away! the spaniels are uncoupled, and questing far
and wide among the long green flags, and water briony, and
mallows, that fringe the banks of many a creek and inlet of the
river — over the russet stubbles — up the thick alder coppices,
that fringe the steep ravines.

Away! away! the smooth soft turf, the slight and brushy
hedges, invite the free and easy gallop, invite the fearless leap!
Away! with hawk unhooded on the wrist and ready — with
graceful seat, light hand, and bounding heart! See how the
busy spaniels snuff the hot scent, and ply their feathery tails
among the dry fern on the bank of that old sunny ditch; there
has the game been lately — hold hard, bold cavaliers — hold hard,
my gentle ladies! — hurry not now the dogs. Hush! hark! the
black King Charles is whimpering already: that beautiful long-eared
and silky water-spaniel joins in the subdued chorus — how
they thread in and out the withering fern-stalks, how they rush
through the crackling brambles! Yaff! yaff! — now they give
tongue aloud — yaff! yaff! yaff! yaff! — and whir-r-r upsprings
the well-grown covey — now give your hearts to the loud whoop!—
now fling your hawks aloft! — now gather well your bridles
in your hands, now spur your gallant horses — on! on! sweep
over the low fence, skim the green meadow, dash at the rapid
brook — ladies and cavaliers pell-mell — all riding for themselves
and careless of the rest, forgetful of all fear, all thought,

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in the fierce, fast career, as with eyes all turned heavenward to
mark the soaring contest of the birds, trusting their good steeds
only, to bear them swift and safely, they drive in giddy routes
down the broad valley.

And now the flight is over, each gallant hawk has struck his
cowering quarry; the lures are shaken in the air, the falconer's
whoop and whistle recall the hovering falcon, and on they go
at slower pace to beat for fresh game — and lo! flip-flap, there
rises the first woodcock of the season.

“Ho! mark him — mark him down, good forester — we must
not miss that fellow — the very prince of game — the king he
would be, save that gray heronshaw of right has old claim to
the throne of falconrie!”

“Lo! there, my masters, he is down — down in that gulley's
bank, where the broom and the brachens feather the sunny
slope, and the long, rank grasses seem almost to choke its
mossy runnel.”

“Quick! quick! unhood the lanner — the young and speckled-breasted
lanner! — cast off the old gray-headed gerfalcon —
soh, Diamond, my brave bird! mark his quick, glancing eye,
and his proud crest, soh! cast him off, and he will wheel around
our heads, nor leave us till we flush the woodcock. No! no!
hold the young lanner hard, let him not fly, he is too mettlesome
and proud of wing to trust to — and couple all the dogs
up, except the stanch red setter.”

“Now we will steal on him up wind, and give him every
chance.”

“Best cross the gully here, fair dames, for it is something
deep and boggy, and if ye were to brave it, in the fury of the
gallop, you might be mired for your pains.”

“That bird will show you sport, be sure of it, for lo! the field
beyond is thickly set with stunted thorns, and tufts of alderbushes;
if your hawks be not keen of sight, and quick of wings

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

too, be sure that he will dodge them; and if he reach you hill-side
only, all covered as it is with evergreens, dense holly
brakes, and thick oak sapplings, he is as safe there in that covert,
as though he were a thousand leagues away in some deep
glen of the wild Atlas mountains.”

“Lo! there he goes, the gray hawk after him — by heaven!
in fair speed he outstrips the gerfalcon, he does not condescend
to dodge or double, but flies wild and high toward the purple
moorland, and there we can not follow him.”

“Ride, De Vaux, gallop for your life — cut in, cut in between
the bird and the near ridge — soh! bravely done, black charger—
now cast the lanner loose! so! that will turn him.”

“See! he has turned; and now he must work for it. The
angle he has made has brought old Diamond up against his
weather wing; now! he will strike — now! now!”

“But lo! the wary bird has dodged, and the hawk who had
soared, and was in the act of pouncing, checked his fleet pinion
and turned after him — how swift he flies dead in the wind's
eye — and the wind is rising; he can not face it now — tack
and tack, how he twists — how cleverly he beats to windward;
but now the odds are terribly against him, the cunning falcons
have divided, and are now flying sharply to cut him off, one at
each termination of his tacks — the lanner has outstripped him.

“Whoop! Robin, whoop! — soh! call him up the wind —
up the wind, falconer, or he will miss his stroke. There!
there he towers — up! up! in airy circles — he poises his
broad wing — he swoops — alack, poor woodcock! but no! he
has — by Pan, the god of hunters! — he has missed his cast —
no swallow ever winged it swifter than the wild bird of passage:
not now does he fly high among the clouds, but skims
the very surface of the lawn, twisting round every tree and baffling
the keen falcons.”

Now he is scarce ten paces from his covert; the old bird,

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

Diamond, flying like lightning, struggles in vain to weather
him — in vain — the game dashes behind the boll of a tall upright
oak, darts down among the hollies, and is lost. Well
flown, brave quarry — well flown, noble — ha! the hawk, the
brave old hawk, bent only on retrieving his lost flight, his eye
set too steadily on the bird which he so fiercely struggled to
outfly, has dashed with the full impetus of his arrowy flight
against the gnarled stem of the oak. He rebounds from it like
a ball from the iron target: never so much as once flaps his
fleet pinions; tears not the ground with beak or single. Diamond,
brave Diamond is dead — and pitying eyes look down
on him; and gentle tears are shed; and the soft hands that
were wont to fondle his high crest and smooth his ruffled wings,
compose his shattered pinions, and sleek his blood-stained
plumage. Alas, brave Diamond! — but fate — it is the fate of
war!

Another flight — another glowing gallop to make the blood
dance blithely in our veins — to drive dull care from our hearts!

But no, the sylvan meal is spread: down by that leafy nook,
under the still green canopy of that gigantic oak, where the
pure spring wells out so clear and limpid, from the bright yellow
gravel under its gnarled and tortuous roots — there is the
snow-white linen spread on the mossy green sword; there the
cold pasty and the larded capon tempt the keen appetite of the
jolly sportsman; there, plunged in the glassy waters, the tall
flasks of champagne are cooling! Who knows not the delicious
zest with which we banquet on the green sward; the
merry, joyous ease which, all restraint and ceremonial banished,
renders the sylvan meal, in the cool shadow by the rippling
brook, so indescribably delightful? And all who were
collected there were for a moment happy! — and many, in sad
after-days, remembered that gay feast, and dwelt upon the
young hopes, which were so flattering then, hopes which so

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soon decayed — and lingered on the contemplation of that soon
perished bliss, as if the great Italian had erred, when he declared
so wisely that to the sons of man —


“Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tiempo felice
Nella miseria.”
The bright wine sparkled in the goblet, but brighter flashed the
azure eyes of Marian, for her whole face was radiant with wild
starry beauty. Was it the thrilling rapture of the gallop, that
sent her blood boiling with strange excitement “through every
petty artery of her body” — was it the spirit-stirring chase
alone, or did the rich blood of the Gallic grape, sparingly tasted
though it was, lend something of unnatural power? hark to the
silvery tones of that sweet ringing laugh — and now how deep
a blush mantles her brow, her neck, her bosom, when in receiving
her glass from the hand of Ernest, their fingers mingled
for a moment.

But Ernest is unmoved, and calm, and seemingly unconscious—
and Annabel, fond Annabel, rejoices to mark her sister's
spirits so happily, so fully, as it seems, recovered from
that over-mastering sorrow. She saw not the hot blush, she
noted not its cause — and yet, can it be — can it be that casual
pressure was the cause? — can it be love? — love for a sister's
bridegroom, that kindles so the eye — that flushes so the cheek—
that thrills so the life-blood of lovely Marian! Away!
away with contemplation.

Ernest reflects not, for his brow is smooth and all unruffled
by a thought, his lips are smiling, his pulse calm and temperate—
and Marian pauses not — and Annabel suspects not — Hush!
they are singing. Lo! how the sweet and flute-like tones of
the fair girls are blended with the rich and deep contralto of
De Vaux. Lo! they are singing — singing the wood-notes
wild of the great master of the soul —

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“Heigho! sing heigho! under the green holly!
Most friendship is feigning,
Most loving mere folly!”
Alas for trusting Annabel! — soon shall she wake from her
fond dream, soon wake to wo, to anguish. Again they mount
their steeds — again they sweep the meadows, down to the very
brink of the broad, deep, transparent Wharfe — and now the
heronshaw is sprung. He flaps his dark grey vans, the hermit-bird
of the waters, and slowly soars away, till the falconer's
shrill whoop, and the sharp whistling flutter of the fleet pinions
in his rear, arouse him to his danger. Up! up! he soars —
up! up! scaling the very sky in small but swift gyrations —
while side by side the well-matched falcons wheel circling
around him still, and still out-topping him, till all the three are
lost in the dull, fleecy clouds — the clouds! — no one had seen—
no one has even dreamed, engrossed in the wild fervor of
the sport, that all the sky was overclouded; and the thick
blackness of the thunderstorm, driving up wind, and settling
down in terrible proximity to the earth, was upon them unseen
and unexpected.

Away! away! what heed they the dark storm-clouds — the
increasing flash! — these bold equestrians! Heavens! what a
flash — how keen! how close! how livid! the whole horizon
shone out for a moment's space one broad blue glare of fearful
living light — and simultaneously the thunder burst above them—
a crash as of ten thousand pieces of earth's heaviest ordnance,
shot off in one wild clatter. The horses of the party
were all careering at their speed, their maddest speed, across
a broad, green pasture, bordered on the right hand by the wide
channel of the Wharfe and on the left by an impracticable fence
of tall old thorns, with a deep ditch on either side, and a stout
timber railing. The two fair sisters were in front, leading the
joyous cavalcade, with their eyes in the clouds, their hearts

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full of the fire of the chase, when that broad dazzling glare
burst full in their faces.

Terrified by the livid flash and the appalling crash of the
reverberated thunder, the horses of the sisters bolted diverse —
Annabel's toward the broad, rapid Wharfe, between which and
the meadow through which they had been so joyously careering,
there was no fence or barrier at the spot where they were
then riding — Marian's toward the dangerous oxfence, which
has been mentioned! The charger of De Vaux, who rode
next behind them, started indeed, and whirled about, but was
almost immediately controlled by the strong arm and skilful
horsemanship of his bold rider; but of the grooms who followed,
several were instantly dismounted, and there were only three
or four who, mastering their terrified and fractious beasts, galloped
off to the aid of their young mistresses. They were both
good equestrians, and ordinarily fearless, but in such peril what
woman could preserve her wonted intrepidity unshaken — the
sky as black as night, with ever and anon a sharp clear stream
of the electric fluid dividing the dark storm-clouds, and the continuous
thunder rolling and crashing overhead — their horses
mad with terror, and endowed by that very madness with tenfold
speed and strength! — Annabel, whose clear head, and
calm, though resolute temper, gave her no small advantage over
her volatile, impetuous sister, sat, it is true, as firmly in her saddle,
as though she had been practising her menage in the ridingschool—
and held her fiery jennet with a firm, steady hand;
but naturally her strength was insufficient to control its fierce
and headlong speed; so that she saw upon the instant, that she
must be carried into the whirling waters of the swift river —
for a moment she thought of casting herself to the ground, but
it scarcely required one moment of reflection to show her that
such a course could lead but to destruction. So on she drove,
erect and steady in her seat, guiding her horse well, and

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keeping its head straight to the river bank, and hoping every instant
to hear the tramp of De Vaux's charger overtaking her, and
bringing succor — alas! for Annabel! — the first sound that distinctly
met her ears was a wild piercing shriek — “Ernest —
great God! my Ernest — help me! — save me!” It was the
voice of Marian, the voice of her own cherished sister, calling
on her betrothed — and he? Even in that dread peril, when
life was on a cast, her woman heart prevailed above her woman
fear, she turned, and saw the steed of Marian rushing with the
bit between his teeth toward the dangerous fence, which lay,
however, far more distant than the river to which her own
horse was in terrible proximity! and he, her promised husband,
the lord of her soul, he for whom she would have perished —
oh! how willingly! — perished with but the one regret of that
reparation — he had overlooked entirely, or heeded not at least,
her peril to whom his faith was sworn; and even before that
wild appealing cry, had started in pursuit — and was, as she
looked round, in the act of whirling Marian from her saddle
with one hand, while with the other he controlled his own
strong war-horse.

When she first heard that cry, her spirit sank within her —
but when she saw herself deserted, when the drear consciousness
that she was not beloved, broke on her, it seemed as if an
icebolt had pierced her heart of hearts! her eyes grew dim!
there was a sound of rushing waters in her ear!—not the sound
of the rushing river, although her horse was straining now up
the last ascent that banked it!—her pulse stood still! Had Annabel
then died, the bitterness of death was over. Before, however,
she had so much as wavered in her saddle, much less lost
rein or stirrup, a wild plunge, and the shock which ran through
every nerve, as her horse leaped into the brimful river, awoke
her for the moment to her present situation: unconsciously she
had retained her seat — her horse was swimming boldly — a

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loud plunge sounded from behind! another, and another! and
the next instant her steed's head was seized by the stalwart
arm of a young falconer, and turned toward the shore she had
just quitted; her brain reeled round, and she again was senseless—
thus was she borne to land, without the aid or intervention
of him, who should have been the first to venture all, to
lose all, for her safety. Alas! alas! for Annabel!