But, alas! a handsome cavalier had met her several times in her walks. He had even spoken to her. Who was he? Mava had not discovered; she only knew him by the name of he. When she saw a bark glide slowly and secretly under the castle-walls,—she felt her heart beat.
“It is he!” she said. When, at eve, a distant voice was heard in the cliffs—“It is he!” she said,— “He!” That word said all. There is but one he in a woman’s life.
The secret of her love was soon revealed to the Lord of Dunluce.
Macquillain, the proudest of chiefs, was the harshest of fathers. He vowed the year should not pass without her being married to the son of one of his powerful neighbours. “I will die first,” thought the young girl, and anticipating, as it were, the sacrifice of her life, she began to prepare her shroud. Happiness could no longer be hers, since she could now be nothing to him.
Her father, one day, finding her sewing a white robe, asked her drily:
“Is that a bridal dress?”
“No, my father,” answered she, “it is a shroud for my tomb.”
“A shroud! We shall see that.”
“Yes, father, you shall see it.”
These words were uttered in a prophetic tone. Macquillain seemed troubled by them. Unfortunately Mava had no longer a mother to defend her against her father. The lord of the castle shaken in his determination, for an instant, persisted in it more firmly than ever. Convinced that he had exhausted all means of persuasion with his daughter, he tried what severity would effect.
The poor child, condemned henceforward to see no living thing, was shut up in one of the towers of Dunluce. Her food was thrust in through an opening in the wall: she herself was obliged to make her bed and sweep her chamber. She had nothing near her but the walls of her prison,—no hope, save the tomb; no support, but prayer. Mava, resigned to her fate, took her broom every evening and swept her chamber in silence.
“You have only to say one word,” cried Macquillain, one day from without, “and I will restore you to liberty. Promise to wed the noble chief, whom I have destined to be your husband.”
Mava made no answer.
“Speak! child. What is your resolution?”
“To sweep my chamber.”
“For how long?”
“For ever!”
“Another dismal prophecy?” replied Macquillain. You think to frighten me with your sybilline tone, but you will not succeed. Are you still making your shroud?”
“It is finished; you shall see it.”
The lord of the castle began now to feel remorse; he was convinced that nothing would shake Mava’s determination. Either he must yield or she must die. Paternal love was not extinct in his heart; fear revived the flame of his affection. He had but this one child: could he make up his mind to lose her? but the pride of the castellan spoke as loudly as the affection of the sire. To yield to his daughter, to confess himself conquered and to retract his sentence would be an unpardonable weakness. He would be laughed at everywhere. Could he subject himself to such an indignity?
Macquillain had obtained exact information respecting Mava’s lover. Reginald was of noble birth, brave, and well-connected; wealth alone was wanting. Enough. The castellan’s resolution was taken. He would not yield to his daughter—he would not revoke his decision; but he would save his child.
One day, Mava, alone in her turret, holding her fatal broom, with her head leaning on the handle of this instrument of toil, was shedding bitter tears. On a sudden she heard the well-known sound of music of a harp through the bars of her window; the sounds came from a fisherman’s skiff which lay alongside the shore. That morning she had seen her father leave the castle with an escort of soldiers. Armed cap-a-pie, he was doubtless gone on some expedition, and would not return for several days. Mava began anew to hope.
“That boat is his,” said she; “he comes and I shall escape from this my prison by his means, and for him.”
Alas! the sea began to swell; the wind to whistle menacingly, and peals of thunder rumbled from the darkening shades which were sweeping in fast from the ocean, almost drowning the sweet and clear chords of the minstrel in the boat, which had become the sport of the elements, and, ere long, was impelled by the hurricane to the foot of the rocks beneath the castle. Was it about to be dashed in pieces there? No; the brave hand that steered it braved the billows that assailed it in broken and impetuous fury. It glided in between the rocks, and was lost to view under the steep rock which overhung the cavern of the castle.
The captive scarcely breathed. What a surprise awaited her! A key turned in the lock of her prison; one of the servitors of the castle, in a brown cloak, advanced towards her:
“You shall be saved!” said he. “Follow me!”
“And he?” she asked.
“And he also.”
“Whither must I go?”
“Under the cavern of the fort. He awaits you. Come quickly.”
“I am ready.”
Mava followed her guide, she learned from him that her lover, having procured information respecting the localities, had bribed the gaoler of the tower. Heaven seconded his designs.
Reginald perceived a glimmering light at the far end of the cavern. Mava advanced towards him, pale and trembling; her white dress torn by the rough projections of the cave; her feet wounded by the sharp pebbles which she had to traverse. What matter? She approached, she reached him.
Who could describe their transport. They forgot their dangers and their situation, their misfortunes and the storm. Years, trials, time and tide were all alike forgotten.
“Fly, fly, and speedily,” exclaimed the gaoler.
The lovers quitted the cavern, and the frail boat emerged on the open stormy sea.
Thus did Mava leave her home.
*****