Chapter 9

"Oh, night of wo," she said, and wept,
"Oh, night foreboding sorrow!
"Oh, night of wo," she said and wept,
"But more I dread the morrow!"
SIR GILBERT ELLIOT.

The fatigue which had exhausted Flammock and the monk, was unfelt
by the two anxious maidens, who remained with their eyes bent, now
upon the dim landscape, now on the stars by which it was lighted,
as if they could have read there the events which the morrow was
to bring forth. It was a placid and melancholy scene. Tree and
field, and hill and plain, lay before them in doubtful light,
while at greater distance, their eye could with difficulty trace
one or two places where the river, hidden in general by banks and
trees, spread its more expanded bosom to the stars, and the pale
crescent. All was still, excepting the solemn rush of the waters,
and now and then the shrill tinkle of a harp, which, heard from
more than a mile's distance through the midnight silence,
announced that some of the Welshmen still protracted their most
beloved amusement. The wild notes, partially heard, seemed like
the voice of some passing spirit; and, connected as they were with
ideas of fierce and unrelenting hostility, thrilled on Eveline's
ear, as if prophetic of war and wo, captivity and death. The only
other sounds which disturbed the extreme stillness of the night,
were the occasional step of a sentinel upon his post, or the
hooting of the owls, which seemed to wail the approaching downfall
of the moonlight turrets, in which they had established their
ancient habitations.

The calmness of all around seemed to press like a weight on the
bosom of the unhappy Eveline, and brought to her mind a deeper
sense of present grief, and keener apprehension of future horrors,
than had reigned there during the bustle, blood, and confusion of
the preceding day. She rose up--she sat down--she moved to and fro
on the platform--she remained fixed like a statue to a single
spot, as if she were trying by variety of posture to divert her
internal sense of fear and sorrow.

At length, looking at the monk and the Fleming as they slept
soundly under the shade of the battlement, she could no longer
forbear breaking silence. "Men are happy," she said, "my beloved
Rose; their anxious thoughts are either diverted by toilsome
exertion, or drowned in the insensibility which follows it. They
may encounter wounds and death, but it is we who feel in the
spirit a more keen anguish than the body knows, and in the gnawing
sense of present ill and fear of future misery, suffer a living
death, more cruel than that which ends our woes at once."

"Do not be thus downcast, my noble lady," said Rose; "be