The monastery; The abbot.

THE ABBOT. 475
"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
nold 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 Grgeme'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 one who would do justice to the poor Roland Grieme, and whose own
generous heart taught her to distinguish between follies of the brain and
faults of the heart-Will you not tell me, dearest Catherine, to whom I owe
my most grateful, my most heartfelt thanks?"
" Nay," said Catherine, with her eyes still fixed on the ground, "if your
owvn heart tell you not-"
"Dearest Catherine!" said the page, seizing upon her hand, and kneeling
on one knee.
"If your own heart, I say, tell you not," said Catherine, gently disengaging her hand, "it is very ungrateful; for since the maternal kindness
of the Lady Fleming "
The page started on his feet. "By Heaven, Catherine, your tongue
wears as many disguises as your person! But you only mock me, cruel
girl. You know the Lady Fleming has no more regard for any one, than
hath the forlorn princess who is wrought into yonder piece of old figured
court tapestry."
"It may be so," said Catherine Seyton, "but you should not speak so
loud."
" Pshaw!" answered the page, but at the same time lowering his voice,
4' she cares for no one but herself and the Queen. And you know, besides,
there is no one of you whose opinion I value, if I have not your own. No
-not that of Queen Mary herself."
" The more shame for you, if it be so," said Catherine, with great composure.
"Nay, but, fair Catherine," said the page, "why will you thus damp my
ardour, when I am devoting myself, body and soul, to the cause of your
mistress?"
"It is because in doing so," said Catherine, "you debase a cause so
noble, by naming along with it any lower or more selfish motive. Believe
me," she said, with kindling eyes, and while the blood mantled on her
cheek, "they think vilely and falsely of women — I mean of those who