heart he had seduced in vain, and say at length, honestly and firmly,
"I cannot wed thee. Forget me, and farewell."

Doubtless his learned and ingenious mind conjured up softer words than
these, and more purfled periods wherein to dress the iron truth. But
in these two sentences the truth lay. He arrived at the farm, he
entered the house; he felt it as a reprieve that he met not the
bounding step of the welcoming Sibyll. He sat down in the humble
chamber, and waited a while in patience,--no voice was heard. The
silence at length surprised and alarmed him. He proceeded farther.
He was met by the widowed owner of the house, who was weeping; and her
first greeting prepared him for what had chanced. "Oh, my lord, you
have come to tell me they are safe, they have not fallen into the
hands of their enemies,--the good gentleman, so meek, the poor lady,
so fair!"

Hastings stood aghast; a few sentences more explained all that he
already guessed. A strange man had arrived the evening before at the
house, praying Adam and his daughter to accompany him to the Lord
Hastings, who had been thrown from his horse, and was now in a cottage
in the neighbouring lane,--not hurt dangerously, but unable to be
removed, and who had urgent matters to communicate. Not questioning
the truth of this story, Adam and Sibyll had hurried forth, and
returned no more. Alarmed by their long absence, the widow, who at
first received the message from the stranger, went herself to the
cottage, and found that the story was a fable. Every search had since
been made for Adam and his daughter, but in vain. The widow,
confirmed in her previous belief that her lodgers had been attainted
Lancastrians, could but suppose that they had been thus betrayed to
their enemies. Hastings heard this with a dismay and remorse