Chapter 31 - Page 2

well?

"Can you suppose it?" said Catherine. "Think you her heart and body
are framed of steel and iron, to endure the cruel disappointment of
yester even, and the infamous taunts of yonder puritanic hag?--Would
to God that I were a man, to aid her more effectually!"

"If those who carry pistols, and batons, and poniards," said the page,
"are not men, they are at least Amazons; and that is as formidable."

"You are welcome to the flash of your wit, sir," replied the damsel;
"I am neither in spirits to enjoy, nor to reply to it."

"Well, then," said the page, "list to me in all serious truth. And,
first, let me say, that the gear last night had been smoother, had you
taken me into your counsels."

"And so we meant; but who could have guessed that Master Page should
choose to pass all night in the garden, like some moon-stricken knight
in a Spanish romance--instead of being in his bed-room, when Douglas
came to hold communication with him on our project."

"And why," said the page, "defer to so late a moment so important a
confidence?"

"Because your communications with Henderson, and--with pardon--the
natural impetuosity and fickleness of your disposition, made us dread
to entrust you with a secret of such consequence, till the last
moment."

"And why at the last moment?" said the page, offended at this frank
avowal; "why at that, or any other moment, since I had the misfortune
to incur so much suspicion?"

"Nay--now you are angry again," said Catherine; "and to serve you
aright I should break off this talk; but I will be magnanimous, and
answer your question. Know, then, our reason for trusting you was
twofold. In the first place, we could scarce avoid it, since you slept
in the room through which we had to pass. In the second place----"

"Nay," said the page, "you may dispense with a second reason, when
the first makes your confidence in me a case of necessity."

"Good now, hold thy peace," said Catherine. "In the second place, as I
said before, there is one foolish person among us, who believes that
Roland Graeme's heart is warm, though his head is giddy--that his
blood is pure, though it boils too hastily--and that his faith and
honour are true as the load-star, though his tongue sometimes is far
less than discreet."

This avowal Catherine repeated in a low tone, with her eye fixed on
the floor, as if she shunned the glance of Roland while she suffered
it to escape her lips--"And this single friend," exclaimed the youth
in rapture; "this only