gers in the world were to croak their
ridiculous prophecies against him. Seeing, however, his father so
earnestly bent on the matter, his resolution began to give way, and at
length he consented to the arrangement. At six the following morning,
therefore, Walter entered the tower, which he fastened within as
strongly as iron burs would admit, and which was secured outside in a
manner equally firm. He took possession of his voluntary prison with
melancholy feelings, rather occasioned by the loss of present pleasure,
than the fear of future pain. He sighed as he looked upon the wide
domain before him, and thought how sad would it be to hear the joyous
horn summoning his companions to the chase, and find himself prevented
from attending it--to hear the winter wind howling round his tower, and
rushing between the rocks beneath him, and miss the cheerful song and
merry jest, which were wont to make even the blast a pleasant sound.
Certainly his time passed as pleasantly as circumstances permitted. He
drew up in a basket, at his meal hours, every luxury which the season
produced. His father and sisters daily conversed with him from below,
for a considerable time; and the morris-dancers often raised his
laughter by their grotesque movements.

Weeks and months thus passed, and Walter still was well and cheerful.
His own and his sisters' hopes grew more lively, but the anxiety of Sir
Maurice increased. The day drew near which was to restore his son to his
arms in confident security, or to fulfil the prediction which left him
without an heir to his name and honours.

On the preceding afternoon Walter continually endeavoured to cheer his
parent, by speaking of what he would do on the morrow; desired his
sisters to send round to all their friends, that he might stretch his
limbs once more in the merry dance; and continued to talk of the future
with much confidence, that even Sir Maurice caught a spark of hope from
the fiery spirits of the youth.

As the night drew on, and his sisters were about to leave him, promising
to wake him at six by a song, in answer to their usual inquiry if he
wanted anything more that night, "Nothing," said he, "and yet the night
feels chilly, and I have little fuel left--send me one more faggot."
This was sent him, and as he drew it up, "This," said he, "is the last
time I shall have to dip for my wants, like an old woman for water:
thank God! for it is wearisome work to the arm."

Sir Maurice still