Presently it was further reported that the Lady of Whitburn was in
the fore front of the party, and the Lord of Salisbury hastened to
receive her at the gates, his suite being rapidly put into some
order.
She was a tall, rugged-faced North Country dame, not very smooth of
speech, and she returned his salute with somewhat rough courtesy,
demanding as she sprang off her horse with little aid, "Lives my
wench still?"
"Yes, madam, she lives, and the leech trusts that she will yet be
healed."
"Ah! Methought you would have sent to me if aught further had
befallen her. Be that as it may, no doubt you have given the
malapert boy his deserts."
"I hope I have, madam," began the Earl. "I kept him in close ward
while she was in peril of death, but--" A fresh bugle blast
interrupted him, as there clattered through the resounding gate the
other troop, at sight of whom the Lady of Whitburn drew herself up,
redoubling her grim dignity, and turning it into indignation as a
young page rushed forward to meet the newcomers, with a cry of
"Father! Lord Father, come at last;" then composing himself, doffed
his cap and held the stirrup, then bent a knee for his father's
blessing.
"You told me, Lord Earl, the mischievous, murderous fellow was in
safe hold," said the lady, bending her dark brows.
"While the maid was in peril," hastily answered Salisbury. "Pardon
me, madam, my Countess will attend you.
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