Forgive me, dear Isabel—for I will yet once more call you by that name—forgive me, for I scarce know what I write. I leave you for years, perhaps forever. I go to seek a name of which you will not be ashamed, or to die. God bless you, again and again, and again dearest Isabel! May you be happy. Once more God bless you!
The tears of the maiden fell thick and fast as she perused this passionate epistle, and she sighed,
“Poor, poor Lorraine—would we had never met, or that you had never loved.”
The absence of the page was felt throughout the castle, for all had loved the generous and high-souled boy. For many a long day the old servitors loved to recall his boyish deeds, and augur a glorious career for the young soldier. And often, as Isabel sat in her splendid chamber, while twilight deepened through the gorgeously curtained windows, her thoughts would wander away after her absent cousin, and taking the melancholy hue of the hour, she would indulge in mournful memories of the past, and sigh that she could make no return to Lorraine except what was all too cold for him,—her friendship. Even De Courtenay, could he have read her thoughts at such moments, would have pardoned her that involuntary pang.
It was the eve of a battle. Far along the sides of the hill stretched the camp of the allies, the long lines of white tents gleaming in the starlight, and the death-like silence of the sleeping army filling the mind with an awe, second only to that inspired by the holy silence of the calm and peaceful stars above. Below was a wide extensive valley, through which wound a narrow river, while here and there along the plain were scattered rich farms, and solemn woodlands. On the opposite range of uplands, the camp of the enemy might be detected by the long-line of watch-fires glittering on the horizon. Occasionally the neigh of a steed, or the “all’s well!” of the sentinel, floated past on the night air. All else was still. A profound calm reigned where to-morrow would be heard the shouts of thousands, the booming of artillery, and the clash of meeting squadrons.
It was yet long before day when Lorraine sprang from his couch, and hastily attiring himself, prepared to join his troop, at the expected summons. It was to him a day of the most intense interest, for not only was he then for the first time to behold the conflict of man with man, but he was to begin that career of arms which he had determined should give him renown or death.