In some breasts passion lies conceal’d and silent,
Like war’s swart powder in a castle vault,
Until occasion, like the linstock, lights it:
Then comes at once the lightning — and the thunder,
And distant echoes tell that all is rent asunder.
Old play.
Roland Graeme, availing himself of a breach in the holly screen, and of the assistance of the full moon, which was now arisen, had a perfect opportunity, himself unobserved, to reconnoitre the persons and the motions of those by whom his rest had been thus unexpectedly disturbed; and his observations confirmed his jealous apprehensions. They stood together in close and earnest conversation within four yards of the place of his retreat, and he could easily recognize the tall form and deep voice of Douglas, and the no less remarkable dress and tone of the page at the hostelry of Saint Michael’s.
“I have been at the door of the page’s apartment,” said Douglas, “but he is not there, or he will not answer. It is fast bolted on the inside, as is the custom, and we cannot pass through it — and what his silence may bode I know not.”
“You have trusted him too far,” said the other; “a feather-headed cox-comb, upon whose changeable mind and hot brain there is no making an abiding impression.”
“It was not I who was willing to trust him,” said Douglas, “but I was assured he would prove friendly when called upon — for ——” Here he spoke so low that Roland lost the tenor of his words, which was the more provoking, as he was fully aware that he was himself the subject of their conversation.
“Nay,” replied the stranger, more aloud, “I have on my side put him off with fair words, which make fools vain — but now, if you distrust him at the push, deal with him with your dagger, and so make open passage.”
“That were too rash,” said Douglas; “and besides, as I told you, the door of his apartment is shut and bolted. I will essay again to waken him.”
Graeme instantly comprehended, that the ladies, having been somehow made aware of his being in the garden, had secured the door of the outer room in which he usually slept, as a sort of sentinel upon that only access to the Queen’s apartments. But then, how came Catherine Seyton to be abroad, if the Queen and the other lady were still within their chambers, and the access to them locked and bolted?—“I will be instantly at the bottom of these mysteries,” he said, “and then thank Mistress Catherine, if this be really she, for the kind use which she exhorted Douglas to make of his dagger — they seek me, as I comprehend, and they shall not seek me in vain.”
Douglas had by this time re-entered the castle by the wicket, which was now open. The stranger stood alone in the garden walk, his arms folded on his breast, and his eyes cast impatiently up to the moon, as if accusing her of betraying him by the magnificence of her lustre. In a moment Roland Graeme stood before him —“A goodly night,” he said, “Mistress Catherine, for a young lady to stray forth in disguise, and to meet with men in an orchard!”
“Hush!” said the stranger page, “hush, thou foolish patch, and tell us in a word if thou art friend or foe.”
“How should I be friend to one who deceives me by fair words, and who would have Douglas deal with me with his poniard?” replied Roland.
“The fiend receive George of Douglas and thee too, thou born madcap and sworn marplot!” said the other; “we shall be discovered, and then death is the word.”
“Catherine,” said the page, “you have dealt falsely and cruelly with me, and the moment of explanation is now come — neither it nor you shall escape me.”
“Madman!” said the stranger, “I am neither Kate nor Catherine — the moon shines bright enough surely to know the hart from the hind.”
“That shift shall not serve you, fair mistress,” said the page, laying hold on the lap of the stranger’s cloak; “this time, at least, I will know with whom I deal.”
“Unhand me,” said she, endeavouring to extricate herself from his grasp; and in a tone where anger seemed to contend with a desire to laugh, “use you so little discretion towards a daughter of Seyton?”
But as Roland, encouraged perhaps by her risibility to suppose his violence was not unpardonably offensive, kept hold on her mantle, she said, in a sterner tone of unmixed resentment,—“Madman! let me go!— there is life and death in this moment — I would not willingly hurt thee, and yet beware!”
As she spoke she made a sudden effort to escape, and, in doing so, a pistol, which she carried in her hand or about her person, went off.
This warlike sound instantly awakened the well-warded castle. The warder blew his horn, and began to toll the castle bell, crying out at the same time, “Fie, treason! treason! cry all! cry all!”
The apparition of Catherine Seyton, which the page had let loose in the first moment of astonishment, vanished in darkness; but the plash of oars was heard, and, in a second or two, five or six harquebuses and a falconet were fired from the battlements of the castle successively, as if levelled at some object on the water. Confounded with these incidents, no way for Catherine’s protection (supposing her to be in the boat which he had heard put from the shore) occurred to Roland, save to have recourse to George of Douglas. He hastened for this purpose towards the apartment of the Queen, whence he heard loud voices and much trampling of feet. When he entered, he found himself added to a confused and astonished group, which, assembled in that apartment, stood gazing upon each other. At the upper end of the room stood the Queen, equipped as for a journey, and — attended not only by the Lady Fleming, but by the omnipresent Catherine Seyton, dressed in the habit of her own sex, and bearing in her hand the casket in which Mary kept such jewels as she had been permitted to retain. At the other end of the hall was the Lady of Lochleven, hastily dressed, as one startled from slumber by the sudden alarm, and surrounded by domestics, some bearing torches, others holding naked swords, partisans, pistols, or such other weapons as they had caught up in the hurry of a night alarm. Betwixt these two parties stood George of Douglas, his arms folded on his breast, his eyes bent on the ground, like a criminal who knows not how to deny, yet continues unwilling to avow, the guilt in which he has been detected.
“Speak, George of Douglas,” said the Lady of Lochleven; “speak, and clear the horrid suspicion which rests on thy name. Say, ‘A Douglas was never faithless to his trust, and I am a Douglas.’ Say this, my dearest son, and it is all I ask thee to say to clear thy name, even under, such a foul charge. Say it was but the wile of these unhappy women, and this false boy, which plotted an escape so fatal to Scotland — so destructive to thy father’s house.”
“Madam,” said old Dryfesdale the steward, “this much do I say for this silly page, that he could not be accessary to unlocking the doors, since I myself this night bolted him out of the castle. Whoever limned this night-piece, the lad’s share in it seems to have been small.”
“Thou liest, Dryfesdale,” said the Lady, “and wouldst throw the blame on thy master’s house, to save the worthless life of a gipsy boy.”
“His death were more desirable to me than his life,” answered the steward, sullenly; “but the truth is the truth.”
At these words Douglas raised his head, drew up his figure to its full height, and spoke boldly and sedately, as one whose resolution was taken. “Let no life be endangered for me. I alone ——”
“Douglas,” said the Queen, interrupting him, “art thou mad? Speak not, I charge you.”
“Madam,” he replied, bowing with the deepest respect, “gladly would I obey your commands, but they must have a victim, and let it be the true one.— Yes, madam,” he continued, addressing the Lady of Lochleven, “I alone am guilty in this matter. If the word of a Douglas has yet any weight with you, believe me that this boy is innocent; and on your conscience I charge you, do him no wrong; nor let the Queen suffer hardship for embracing the opportunity of freedom which sincere loyalty — which a sentiment yet deeper — offered to her acceptance. Yes! I had planned the escape of the most beautiful, the most persecuted of women; and far from regretting that I, for a while, deceived the malice of her enemies, I glory in it, and am most willing to yield up life itself in her cause.”
“Now may God have compassion on my age,” said the Lady of Lochleven, “and enable me to bear this load of affliction! O Princess, born in a luckless hour, when will you cease to be the instrument of seduction and of ruin to all who approach you? O ancient house of Lochleven, famed so long for birth and honour, evil was the hour which brought the deceiver under thy roof!”
“Say not so, madam,” replied her grandson; “the old honours of the Douglas line will be outshone, when one of its descendants dies for the most injured of queens — for the most lovely of women.”
“Douglas,” said the Queen, “must I at this moment — ay, even at this moment, when I may lose a faithful subject for ever, chide thee for forgetting what is due to me as thy Queen?”
“Wretched boy,” said the distracted Lady of Lochleven, “hast thou fallen even thus far into the snare of this Moabitish woman?— hast thou bartered thy name, thy allegiance, thy knightly oath, thy duty to thy parents, thy country, and thy God, for a feigned tear, or a sickly smile, from lips which flattered the infirm Francis — lured to death the idiot Darnley — read luscious poetry with the minion Chastelar — mingled in the lays of love which were sung by the beggar Rizzio — and which were joined in rapture to those of the foul and licentious Bothwell?”
“Blaspheme not, madam!” said Douglas;—“nor you, fair Queen, and virtuous as fair, chide at this moment the presumption of thy vassal!— Think not that the mere devotion of a subject could have moved me to the part I have been performing. Well you deserve that each of your lieges should die for you; but I have done more — have done that to which love alone could compel a Douglas — I have dissembled. Farewell, then, Queen of all hearts, and Empress of that of Douglas!— When you are freed from this vile bondage — as freed you shall be, if justice remains in Heaven — and when you load with honours and titles the happy man who shall deliver you, cast one thought on him whose heart would have despised every reward for a kiss of your hand — cast one thought on his fidelity, and drop one tear on his grave.” And throwing himself at her feet, he seized her hand, and pressed it to his lips.
“This before my face!” exclaimed the Lady of Lochleven —“wilt thou court thy adulterous paramour before the eyes of a parent?— Tear them asunder, and put him under strict ward! Seize him, upon your lives!” she added, seeing that her attendants looked at each other with hesitation.
“They are doubtful,” said Mary. “Save thyself, Douglas, I command thee!”
He started up from the floor, and only exclaiming, “My life or death are yours, and at your disposal!”— drew his sword, and broke through those who stood betwixt him and the door. The enthusiasm of his onset was too sudden and too lively to have been opposed by any thing short of the most decided opposition; and as he was both loved and feared by his father’s vassals, none of them would offer him actual injury.
The Lady of Lochleven stood astonished at his sudden escape —“Am I surrounded,” she said, “by traitors? Upon him, villains!— pursue, stab, cut him down.”
“He cannot leave the island, madam,” said Dryfesdale, interfering; “I have the key of the boat-chain.”
But two or three voices of those who pursued from curiosity, or command of their mistress, exclaimed from below, that he had cast himself into the lake.
“Brave Douglas still!” exclaimed the Queen —“Oh, true and noble heart, that prefers death to imprisonment!”
“Fire upon him!” said the Lady of Lochleven; “if there be here a true servant of his father, let him shoot the runagate dead, and let the lake cover our shame!”
The report of a gun or two was heard, but they were probably shot rather to obey the Lady, than with any purpose of hitting the mark; and Randal immediately entering, said that Master George had been taken up by a boat from the castle, which lay at a little distance.
“Man a barge, and pursue them!” said the Lady.
“It were quite vain,” said Randal; “by this time they are half way to shore, and a cloud has come over the moon.”
“And has the traitor then escaped?” said the Lady, pressing her hands against her forehead with a gesture of despair; “the honour of our house is for ever gone, and all will be deemed accomplices in this base treachery.”
“Lady of Lochleven,” said Mary, advancing towards her, “you have this night cut off my fairest hopes — You have turned my expected freedom into bondage, and dashed away the cup of joy in the very instant I was advancing it to my lips — and yet I feel for your sorrow the pity that you deny to mine — Gladly would I comfort you if I might; but as I may not, I would at least part from you in charity.”
“Away, proud woman!” said the Lady; “who ever knew so well as thou to deal the deepest wounds under the pretence of kindness and courtesy?— Who, since the great traitor, could ever so betray with a kiss?”
“Lady Douglas of Lochleven,” said the Queen, “in this moment thou canst not offend me — no, not even by thy coarse and unwomanly language, held to me in the presence of menials and armed retainers. I have this night owed so much to one member of the house of Lochleven, as to cancel whatever its mistress can do or say in the wildness of her passion.”
“We are bounden to you, Princess,” said Lady Lochleven, putting a strong constraint on herself, and passing from her tone of violence to that of bitter irony; “our poor house hath been but seldom graced with royal smiles, and will hardly, with my choice, exchange their rough honesty for such court-honour as Mary of Scotland has now to bestow.”
“They,” replied Mary, “who knew so well how to take , may think themselves excused from the obligation implied in receiving. And that I have now little to offer, is the fault of the Douglasses and their allies.”
“Fear nothing, madam,” replied the Lady of Lochleven, in the same bitter tone, “you retain an exchequer which neither your own prodigality can drain, nor your offended country deprive you of. While you have fair words and delusive smiles at command, you need no other bribes to lure youth to folly.”
The Queen cast not an ungratified glance on a large mirror, which, hanging on one side of the apartment, and illuminated by the torch-light, reflected her beautiful face and person. “Our hostess grows complaisant,” she said, “my Fleming; we had not thought that grief and captivity had left us so well stored with that sort of wealth which ladies prize most dearly.”
“Your Grace will drive this severe woman frantic,” said Fleming, in a low tone. “On my knees I implore you to remember she is already dreadfully offended, and that we are in her power.”
“I will not spare her, Fleming,” answered the Queen; “it is against my nature. She returned my honest sympathy with insult and abuse, and I will gall her in return,— if her words are too blunt for answer, let her use her poniard if she dare!”
“The Lady Lochleven,” said the Lady Fleming aloud, “would surely do well now to withdraw, and to leave her Grace to repose.”
“Ay,” replied the Lady, “or to leave her Grace, and her Grace’s minions, to think what silly fly they may next wrap their meshes about. My eldest son is a widower — were he not more worthy the flattering hopes with which you have seduced his brother?— True, the yoke of marriage has been already thrice fitted on — but the church of Rome calls it a sacrament, and its votaries may deem it one in which they cannot too often participate.”
“And the votaries of the church of Geneva,” replied Mary, colouring with indignation, “as they deem marriage no sacrament, are said at times to dispense with the holy ceremony.”— Then, as if afraid of the consequences of this home allusion to the errors of Lady Lochleven’s early life, the Queen added, “Come, my Fleming, we grace her too much by this altercation; we will to our sleeping apartment. If she would disturb us again to-night, she must cause the door to be forced.” So saying, she retired to her bed-room, followed by her two women.
Lady Lochleven, stunned as it were by this last sarcasm, and not the less deeply incensed that she had drawn it upon herself, remained like a statue on the spot which she had occupied when she received an affront so flagrant. Dryfesdale and Randal endeavoured to rouse her to recollection by questions.
“What is your honourable Ladyship’s pleasure in the premises?”
“Shall we not double the sentinels, and place one upon the boats and another in the garden?” said Randal.
“Would you that despatches were sent to Sir William at Edinburgh, to acquaint him with what has happened?” demanded Dryfesdale; “and ought not the place of Kinross to be alarmed, lest there be force upon the shores of the lake?”
“Do all as thou wilt,” said the Lady, collecting herself, and about to depart. “Thou hast the name of a good soldier, Dryfesdale, take all precautions.— Sacred Heaven! that I should be thus openly insulted!”
“Would it be your pleasure,” said Dryfesdale, hesitating, “that this person — this Lady — be more severely restrained?”
“No, vassal!” answered the Lady, indignantly, “my revenge stoops not to so low a gratification. But I will have more worthy vengeance, or the tomb of my ancestors shall cover my shame!”
“And you shall have it, madam,” replied Dryfesdale —“ere two suns go down, you shall term yourself amply revenged.”
The Lady made no answer — perhaps did not hear his words, as she presently left the apartment. By the command of Dryfesdale, the rest of the attendants were dismissed, some to do the duty of guard, others to their repose. The steward himself remained after they had all departed; and Roland Graeme, who was alone in the apartment, was surprised to see the old soldier advance towards him with an air of greater cordiality than he had ever before assumed to him, but which sat ill on his scowling features.
“Youth,” he said, “I have done thee some wrong — it is thine own fault, for thy behaviour hath seemed as light to me as the feather thou wearest in thy hat; and surely thy fantastic apparel, and idle humour of mirth and folly, have made me construe thee something harshly. But I saw this night from my casement, (as I looked out to see how thou hadst disposed of thyself in the garden,) I saw, I say, the true efforts which thou didst make to detain the companion of the perfidy of him who is no longer worthy to be called by his father’s name, but must be cut off from his house like a rotten branch. I was just about to come to thy assistance when the pistol went off; and the warder (a false knave, whom I suspect to be bribed for the nonce) saw himself forced to give the alarm, which, perchance, till then he had wilfully withheld. To atone, therefore, for my injustice towards you, I would willingly render you a courtesy, if you would accept of it from my hands.”
“May I first crave to know what it is?” replied the page.
“Simply to carry the news of this discovery to Holyrood, where thou mayest do thyself much grace, as well with the Earl of Morton and the Regent himself, as with Sir William Douglas, seeing thou hast seen the matter from end to end, and borne faithful part therein. The making thine own fortune will be thus lodged in thine own hand, when I trust thou wilt estrange thyself from foolish vanities, and learn to walk in this world as one who thinks upon the next.”
“Sir Steward,” said Roland Graeme, “I thank you for your courtesy, but I may not do your errand. I pass that I am the Queen’s sworn servant, and may not be of counsel against her. But, setting this apart, methinks it were a bad road to Sir William of Lochleven’s favour, to be the first to tell him of his son’s defection — neither would the Regent be over well pleased to hear the infidelity of his vassal, nor Morton to learn the falsehood of his kinsman.”
“Um!” said the steward, making that inarticulate sound which expresses surprise mingled with displeasure. “Nay, then, even fly where ye list; for, giddy-pated as ye may be, you know how to bear you in the world.”
“I will show you my esteem is less selfish than ye think for,” said the page; “for I hold truth and mirth to be better than gravity and cunning — ay, and in the end to be a match for them.— You never loved me less, Sir Steward, than you do at this moment. I know you will give me no real confidence, and I am resolved to accept no false protestations as current coin. Resume your old course — suspect me as much and watch me as closely as you will, I bid you defiance — you have met with your match.”
“By Heaven, young man,” said the steward, with a look of bitter malignity, “if thou darest to attempt any treachery towards the House of Lochleven, thy head shall blacken in the sun from the warder’s turret!”
“He cannot commit treachery who refuses trust,” said the page; “and for my head, it stands as securely on my shoulders, as on any turret that ever mason built.”
“Farewell, thou prating and speckled pie,” said Dryfesdale, “that art so vain of thine idle tongue and variegated coat! Beware trap and lime-twig.”
“And fare thee well, thou hoarse old raven,” answered the page; “thy solemn flight, sable hue, and deep croak, are no charms against bird-bolt or hail-shot, and that thou mayst find — it is open war betwixt us, each for the cause of our mistress, and God show the right!”
“Amen, and defend his own people!” said the steward. “I will let my mistress know what addition thou hast made to this mess of traitors. Good night, Monsieur Featherpate.”
“Good-night, Seignior Sowersby,” replied the page; and, when the old man departed, he betook himself to rest.
Poison’d — ill fare!— dead, forsook, cast off!—
King John .
However weary Roland Graeme might be of the Castle of Lochleven — however much he might wish that the plan for Mary’s escape had been perfected, I question if he ever awoke with more pleasing feelings than on the morning after George Douglas’s plan for accomplishing her deliverance had been frustrated. In the first place, he had the clearest conviction that he had misunderstood the innuendo of the Abbot, and that the affections of Douglas were fixed, not on Catherine Seyton, but on the Queen; and in the second place, from the sort of explanation which had taken place betwixt the steward and him, he felt himself at liberty, without any breach of honour towards the family of Lochleven, to contribute his best aid to any scheme which should in future be formed for the Queen’s escape; and, independently of the good-will which he himself had to the enterprise, he knew he could find no surer road to the favour of Catherine Seyton. He now sought but an opportunity to inform her that he had dedicated himself to this task, and fortune was propitious in affording him one which was unusually favourable.
At the ordinary hour of breakfast, it was introduced by the steward with his usual forms, who, as soon as it was placed on the board in the inner apartment, said to Roland Graeme, with a glance of sarcastic import, “I leave you, my young sir, to do the office of sewer — it has been too long rendered to the Lady Mary by one belonging to the house of Douglas.”
“Were it the prime and principal who ever bore the name,” said Roland, “the office were an honour to him.”
The steward departed without replying to this bravade, otherwise than by a dark look of scorn. Graeme, thus left alone, busied himself as one engaged in a labour of love, to imitate, as well as he could, the grace and courtesy with which George of Douglas was wont to render his ceremonial service at meals to the Queen of Scotland. There was more than youthful vanity — there was a generous devotion in the feeling with which he took up the task, as a brave soldier assumes the place of a comrade who has fallen in the front of battle. “I am now,” he said, “their only champion: and, come weal, come wo, I will be, to the best of my skill and power, as faithful, as trustworthy, as brave, as any Douglas of them all could have been.”
At this moment Catherine Seyton entered alone, contrary to her custom; and not less contrary to her custom, she entered with her kerchief at her eyes. Roland Graeme approached her with beating heart and with down-cast eyes, and asked her, in a low and hesitating voice, whether the Queen were well?
“Can you suppose it?” said Catherine. “Think you her heart and body are framed of steel and iron, to endure the cruel disappointment of yester even, and the infamous taunts of yonder puritanic hag?— Would to God that I were a man, to aid her more effectually!”
“If those who carry pistols, and batons, and poniards,” said the page, “are not men, they are at least Amazons; and that is as formidable.”
“You are welcome to the flash of your wit, sir,” replied the damsel; “I am neither in spirits to enjoy, nor to reply to it.”
“Well, then,” said the page, “list to me in all serious truth. And, first, let me say, that the gear last night had been smoother, had you taken me into your counsels.”
“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 hold 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 Graeme’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 Graeme, 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 own 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, “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 deserve the name — who deem that they love the gratification of their vanity, or the mean purpose of engrossing a lover’s admiration and affection, better than they love the virtue and honour of the man they may be brought to prefer. He that serves his religion, his prince, and his country, with ardour and devotion, need not plead his cause with the commonplace rant of romantic passion — the woman whom he honours with his love becomes his debtor, and her corresponding affection is engaged to repay his glorious toil.”
“You hold a glorious prize for such toil,” said the youth, bending his eyes on her with enthusiasm.
“Only a heart which knows how to value it,” said Catherine. “He that should free this injured Princess from these dungeons, and set her at liberty among her loyal and warlike nobles, whose hearts are burning to welcome her — where is the maiden in Scotland whom the love of such a hero would not honour, were she sprung from the blood royal of the land, and he the offspring of the poorest cottager that ever held a plough?”
“I am determined,” said Roland, “to take the adventure. Tell me first, however, fair Catherine, and speak it as if you were confessing to the priest — this poor Queen, I know she is unhappy — but, Catherine, do you hold her innocent? She is accused of murder.”
“Do I hold the lamb guilty, because it is assailed by the wolf?” answered Catherine; “do I hold yonder sun polluted, because an earth-damp sullies his beams?”
The page sighed and looked down. “Would my conviction were as deep as thine! But one thing is clear, that in this captivity she hath wrong — She rendered herself up, on a capitulation, and the terms have been refused her — I will embrace her quarrel to the death!”
“Will you — will you, indeed?” said Catherine, taking his hand in her turn. “Oh, be but firm in mind, as thou art bold in deed and quick in resolution; keep but thy plighted faith, and after ages shall honour thee as the saviour of Scotland!”
“But when I have toiled successfully to win that Leah, Honour, thou wilt not, my Catherine,” said the page, “condemn me to a new term of service for that Rachel, Love?”
“Of that,” said Catherine, again extricating her hand from his grasp, “we shall have full time to speak; but Honour is the elder sister, and must be won the first.”
“I may not win her,” answered the page; “but I will venture fairly for her, and man can do no more. And know, fair Catherine,— for you shall see the very secret thought of my heart,— that not Honour only — not only that other and fairer sister, whom you frown on me for so much as mentioning — but the stern commands of duty also, compel me to aid the Queen’s deliverance.”
“Indeed!” said Catherine; “you were wont to have doubts on that matter.”
“Ay, but her life was not then threatened,” replied Roland.
“And is it now more endangered than heretofore?” asked Catherine Seyton, in anxious terror.
“Be not alarmed,” said the page; “but you heard the terms on which your royal mistress parted with the Lady of Lochleven?”
“Too well — but too well,” said Catherine; “alas! that she cannot rule her princely resentment, and refrain from encounters like these!”
“That hath passed betwixt them,” said Roland, “for which woman never forgives woman. I saw the Lady’s brow turn pale, and then black, when, before all the menzie, and in her moment of power, the Queen humbled her to the dust by taxing her with her shame. And I heard the oath of deadly resentment and revenge which she muttered in the ear of one, who by his answer will, I judge, be but too ready an executioner of her will.”
“You terrify me,” said Catherine.
“Do not so take it — call up the masculine part of your spirit — we will counteract and defeat her plans, be they dangerous as they may. Why do you look upon me thus, and weep?”
“Alas!” said Catherine, “because you stand there before me a living and breathing man, in all the adventurous glow and enterprise of youth, yet still possessing the frolic spirits of childhood — there you stand, full alike of generous enterprise and childish recklessness; and if today, or tomorrow, or some such brief space, you lie a mangled and lifeless corpse upon the floor of these hateful dungeons, who but Catherine Seyton will be the cause of your brave and gay career being broken short as you start from the goal? Alas! she whom you have chosen to twine your wreath, may too probably have to work your shroud!”
“And be it so, Catherine,” said the page, in the full glow of youthful enthusiasm; “and do thou work my shroud! and if thou grace it with such tears as fall now at the thought, it will honour my remains more than an earl’s mantle would my living body. But shame on this faintness of heart! the time craves a firmer mood — Be a woman, Catherine, or rather be a man — thou canst be a man if thou wilt.”
Catherine dried her tears, and endeavoured to smile.
“You must not ask me,” she said, “about that which so much disturbs your mind; you shall know all in time — nay, you should know all now, but that — Hush! here comes the Queen.”
Mary entered from her apartment, paler than usual, and apparently exhausted by a sleepless night, and by the painful thoughts which had ill supplied the place of repose; yet the languor of her looks was so far from impairing her beauty, that it only substituted the frail delicacy of the lovely woman for the majestic grace of the Queen. Contrary to her wont, her toilette had been very hastily despatched, and her hair, which was usually dressed by Lady Fleming with great care, escaping from beneath the headtire, which had been hastily adjusted, fell in long and luxuriant tresses of Nature’s own curling, over a neck and bosom which were somewhat less carefully veiled than usual.
As she stepped over the threshold of her apartment, Catherine, hastily drying her tears, ran to meet her royal mistress, and having first kneeled at her feet, and kissed her hand, instantly rose, and placing herself on the other side of the Queen, seemed anxious to divide with the Lady Fleming the honour of supporting and assisting her. The page, on his part, advanced and put in order the chair of state, which she usually occupied, and having placed the cushion and footstool for her accommodation, stepped back, and stood ready for service in the place usually occupied by his predecessor, the young Seneschal. Mary’s eye rested an instant on him, and could not but remark the change of persons. Hers was not the female heart which could refuse compassion, at least, to a gallant youth who had suffered in her cause, although he had been guided in his enterprise by a too presumptuous passion; and the words “Poor Douglas!” escaped from her lips, perhaps unconsciously, as she leant herself back in her chair, and put the kerchief to her eyes.
“Yes, gracious madam,” said Catherine, assuming a cheerful manner, in order to cheer her sovereign, “our gallant Knight is indeed banished — the adventure was not reserved for him; but he has left behind him a youthful Esquire, as much devoted to your Grace’s service, and who, by me, makes you tender of his hand and sword.”
“If they may in aught avail your Grace,” said Roland Graeme, bowing profoundly.
“Alas!” said the Queen, “what needs this, Catherine?— why prepare new victims to be involved in, and overwhelmed by, my cruel fortune?— were we not better cease to struggle, and ourselves sink in the tide without farther resistance, than thus drag into destruction with us every generous heart which makes an effort in our favour?— I have had but too much of plot and intrigue around me, since I was stretched an orphan child in my very cradle, while contending nobles strove which should rule in the name of the unconscious innocent. Surely time it were that all this busy and most dangerous coil should end. Let me call my prison a convent, and my seclusion a voluntary sequestration of myself from the world and its ways.”
“Speak not thus, madam, before your faithful servants,” said Catherine, “to discourage their zeal at once, and to break their hearts. Daughter of Kings, be not in this hour so unkingly — Come, Roland, and let us, the youngest of her followers, show ourselves worthy of her cause — let us kneel before her footstool, and implore her to be her own magnanimous self.” And leading Roland Graeme to the Queen’s seat, they both kneeled down before her. Mary raised herself in her chair, and sat erect, while, extending one hand to be kissed by the page, she arranged with the other the clustering locks which shaded the bold yet lovely brow of the high-spirited Catherine.
“Alas! ma mignóne ,” she said, for so in fondness she often called her young attendant, “that you should thus desperately mix with my unhappy fate the fortune of your young lives!— Are they not a lovely couple, my Fleming? and is it not heart-rending to think that I must be their ruin?”
“Not so,” said Roland Graeme, “it is we, gracious Sovereign, who will be your deliverers.”
“Ex oribus parvulorum! ” said the Queen, looking upward; “if it is by the mouth of these children that Heaven calls me to resume the stately thoughts which become my birth and my rights, thou wilt grant them thy protection, and to me the power of rewarding their zeal!”— Then turning to Fleming, she instantly added,—“Thou knowest, my friend, whether to make those who have served me happy, was not ever Mary’s favourite pastime. When I have been rebuked by the stern preachers of the Calvinistic heresy — when I have seen the fierce countenances of my nobles averted from me, has it not been because I mixed in the harmless pleasures of the young and gay, and rather for the sake of their happiness than my own, have mingled in the masque, the song, or the dance, with the youth of my household? Well, I repent not of it — though Knox termed it sin, and Morton degradation — I was happy, because I saw happiness around me; and woe betide the wretched jealousy that can extract guilt out of the overflowings of an unguarded gaiety!— Fleming, if we are restored to our throne, shall we not have one blithesome day at a blithesome bridal, of which we must now name neither the bride nor the bridegroom? but that bridegroom shall have the barony of Blairgowrie, a fair gift even for a Queen to give, and that bride’s chaplet shall be twined with the fairest pearls that ever were found in the depths of Lochlomond; and thou thyself, Mary Fleming, the best dresser of tires that ever busked the tresses of a Queen, and who would scorn to touch those of any woman of lower rank,— thou thyself shalt, for my love, twine them into the bride’s tresses.— Look, my Fleming, suppose them such clustered locks as those of our Catherine, they would not put shame upon thy skill.”
So saying, she passed her hand fondly over the head of her youthful favourite, while her more aged attendant replied despondently, “Alas! madam, your thoughts stray far from home.”
“They do, my Fleming,” said the Queen; “but is it well or kind in you to call them back?— God knows, they have kept the perch this night but too closely — Come, I will recall the gay vision, were it but to punish them. Yes, at that blithesome bridal, Mary herself shall forget the weight of sorrows, and the toil of state, and herself once more lead a measure.— At whose wedding was it that we last danced, my Fleming? I think care has troubled my memory — yet something of it I should remember — canst thou not aid me?— I know thou canst.”
“Alas! madam,” replied the lady ——
“What!” said Mary, “wilt thou not help us so far? this is a peevish adherence to thine own graver opinion, which holds our talk as folly. But thou art court-bred, and wilt well understand me when I say, the Queen commands Lady Fleming to tell her where she led the last branle .”
With a face deadly pale, and a mien as if she were about to sink into the earth, the court-bred dame, no longer daring to refuse obedience, faltered out —“Gracious Lady — if my memory err not — it was at a masque in Holyrood — at the marriage of Sebastian.”
The unhappy Queen, who had hitherto listened with a melancholy smile, provoked by the reluctance with which the Lady Fleming brought out her story, at this ill-fated word interrupted her with a shriek so wild and loud that the vaulted apartment rang, and both Roland and Catherine sprang to their feet in the utmost terror and alarm. Meantime, Mary seemed, by the train of horrible ideas thus suddenly excited, surprised not only beyond self-command, but for the moment beyond the verge of reason.
“Traitress!” she said to the Lady Fleming, “thou wouldst slay thy sovereign — Call my French guards — a moi! a moi! mes Fran?ais! — I am beset with traitors in mine own palace — they have murdered my husband — Rescue! rescue for the Queen of Scotland!” She started up from her chair — her features, late so exquisitely lovely in their paleness, now inflamed with the fury of frenzy, and resembling those of a Bellona. “We will take the field ourself,” she said; “warn the city — warn Lothian and Fife — saddle our Spanish barb, and bid French Paris see our petronel be charged!— Better to die at the head of our brave Scotsmen, like our grandfather at Flodden, than of a broken heart, like our ill-starred father!”
“Be patient — be composed, dearest Sovereign,” said Catherine: and then addressing Lady Fleming angrily, she added, “How could you say aught that reminded her of her husband?”
The word reached the ear of the unhappy Princess, who caught it up, speaking with great rapidity. “Husband!— what husband?— Not his most Christian Majesty — he is ill at ease — he cannot mount on horseback.— Not him of the Lennox — but it was the Duke of Orkney thou wouldst say.”
“For God’s love, madam, be patient!” said the Lady Fleming.
But the Queen’s excited imagination could by no entreaty be diverted from its course. “Bid him come hither to our aid,” she said, “and bring with him his lambs, as he calls them — Bowton, Hay of Talla, Black Ormiston, and his kinsman Hob — Fie! how swart they are, and how they smell of sulphur! What! closeted with Morton? Nay, if the Douglas and the Hepburn hatch the complot together, the bird, when it breaks the shell, will scare Scotland. Will it not, my Fleming?”
“She grows wilder and wilder,” said Fleming; “we have too many hearers for these strange words.”
“Roland,” said Catherine, “in the name of God, begone! You cannot aid us here — Leave us to deal with her alone — Away — away!”
She thrust him to the door of the anteroom; yet even when he had entered that apartment, and shut the door, he could still hear the Queen talk in a loud and determined tone, as if giving forth orders, until at length the voice died away in a feeble and continued lamentation.
At this crisis Catherine entered the anteroom. “Be not too anxious,” she said, “the crisis is now over; but keep the door fast — let no one enter until she is more composed.”
“In the name of God, what does this mean?” said the page; “or what was there in the Lady Fleming’s words to excite so wild a transport?”
“Oh, the Lady Fleming, the Lady Fleming,” said Catherine, repeating the words impatiently; “the Lady Fleming is a fool — she loves her mistress, yet knows so little how to express her love, that were the Queen to ask her for very poison, she would deem it a point of duty not to resist her commands. I could have torn her starched head-tire from her formal head — The Queen should have as soon had the heart out of my body, as the word Sebastian out of my lips — That that piece of weaved tapestry should be a woman, and yet not have wit enough to tell a lie!”
“And what was this story of Sebastian?” said the page. “By Heaven, Catherine, you are all riddles alike!”
“You are as great a fool as Fleming,” returned the impatient maiden; “know ye not, that on the night of Henry Darnley’s murder, and at the blowing up of the Kirk of Field, the Queen’s absence was owing to her attending on a masque at Holyrood, given by her to grace the marriage of this same Sebastian, who, himself a favoured servant, married one of her female attendants, who was near to her person?”
“By Saint Giles,” said the page, “I wonder not at her passion, but only marvel by what forgetfulness it was that she could urge the Lady Fleming with such a question.”
“I cannot account for it,” said Catherine; “but it seems as if great and violent grief and horror sometimes obscure the memory, and spread a cloud like that of an exploding cannon, over the circumstances with which they are accompanied. But I may not stay here, where I came not to moralize with your wisdom, but simply to cool my resentment against that unwise Lady Fleming, which I think hath now somewhat abated, so that I shall endure her presence without any desire to damage either her curch or vasquine. Meanwhile, keep fast that door — I would not for my life that any of these heretics saw her in the unhappy state, which, brought on her as it has been by the success of their own diabolical plottings, they would not stick to call, in their snuffling cant, the judgment of Providence.”
She left the apartment just as the latch of the outward door was raised from without. But the bolt which Roland had drawn on the inside, resisted the efforts of the person desirous to enter. “Who is there?” said Graeme aloud.
“It is I,” replied the harsh and yet slow voice of the steward Dryfesdale.
“You cannot enter now,” returned the youth.
“And wherefore?” demanded Dryfesdale, “seeing I come but to do my duty, and inquire what mean the shrieks from the apartment of the Moabitish woman. Wherefore, I say, since such is mine errand, can I not enter?”
“Simply,” replied the youth, “because the bolt is drawn, and I have no fancy to undo it. I have the right side of the door today, as you had last night.”
“Thou art ill-advised, thou malapert boy,” replied the steward, “to speak to me in such fashion; but I shall inform my Lady of thine insolence.”
“The insolence,” said the page, “is meant for thee only, in fair guerdon of thy discourtesy to me. For thy Lady’s information, I have answer more courteous — you may say that the Queen is ill at ease, and desires to be disturbed neither by visits nor messages.”
“I conjure you, in the name of God,” said the old man, with more solemnity in his tone than he had hitherto used, “to let me know if her malady really gains power on her!”
“She will have no aid at your hand, or at your Lady’s — wherefore, begone, and trouble us no more — we neither want, nor will accept of, aid at your hands.”
With this positive reply, the steward, grumbling and dissatisfied, returned down stairs.
It is the curse of kings to be attended
By slaves, who take their humours for a warrant
To break into the bloody house of life,
And on the winking of authority
To understand a law.
King John .
The Lady of Lochleven sat alone in her chamber, endeavouring with sincere but imperfect zeal, to fix her eyes and her attention on the black-lettered Bible which lay before her, bound in velvet and embroidery, and adorned with massive silver clasps and knosps. But she found her utmost efforts unable to withdraw her mind from the resentful recollection of what had last night passed betwixt her and the Queen, in which the latter had with such bitter taunt reminded her of her early and long-repented transgression.
“Why,” she said, “should I resent so deeply that another reproaches me with that which I have never ceased to make matter of blushing to myself? and yet, why should this woman, who reaps — at least, has reaped — the fruits of my folly, and has jostled my son aside from the throne, why should she, in the face of all my domestics, and of her own, dare to upbraid me with my shame? Is she not in my power? Does she not fear me? Ha! wily tempter, I will wrestle with thee strongly, and with better suggestions than my own evil heart can supply!”
She again took up the sacred volume, and was endeavouring to fix her attention on its contents, when she was disturbed by a tap at the door of the room. It opened at her command, and the steward Dryfesdale entered, and stood before her with a gloomy and perturbed expression on his brow.
“What has chanced, Dryfesdale, that thou lookest thus?” said his mistress —“Have there been evil tidings of my son, or of my grandchildren?”
“No, Lady,” replied Dryfesdale, “but you were deeply insulted last night, and I fear me thou art as deeply avenged this morning — Where is the chaplain?”
“What mean you by hints so dark, and a question so sudden? The chaplain, as you well know, is absent at Perth upon an assembly of the brethren.”
“I care not,” answered the steward; “he is but a priest of Baal.”
“Dryfesdale,” said the Lady, sternly, “what meanest thou? I have ever heard, that in the Low Countries thou didst herd with the Anabaptist preachers, those boars which tear up the vintage — But the ministry which suits me and my house must content my retainers.”
“I would I had good ghostly counsel, though,” replied the steward, not attending to his mistress’s rebuke, and seeming to speak to himself. “This woman of Moab ——”
“Speak of her with reverence,” said the Lady; “she is a king’s daughter.”
“Be it so,” replied Dryfesdale; “she goes where there is little difference betwixt her and a beggar’s child — Mary of Scotland is dying.”
“Dying, and in my castle!” said the Lady, starting up in alarm; “of what disease, or by what accident?”
“Bear patience, Lady. The ministry was mine.”
“Thine, villain and traitor!— how didst thou dare ——”
“I heard you insulted, Lady — I heard you demand vengeance — I promised you should have it, and I now bring tidings of it.”
“Dryfesdale, I trust thou ravest?” said the Lady.
“I rave not,” replied the steward. “That which was written of me a million of years ere I saw the light, must be executed by me. She hath that in her veins that, I fear me, will soon stop the springs of life.” “Cruel villain,” exclaimed the Lady, “thou hast not poisoned her?” “And if I had,” said Dryfesdale, “what does it so greatly merit? Men. bane vermin — why not rid them of their enemies so? in Italy they will do it for a cruizuedor.”
“Cowardly ruffian, begone from my sight!”
“Think better of my zeal, Lady,” said the steward, “and judge not without looking around you. Lindesay, Ruthven, and your kinsman Morton, poniarded Rizzio, and yet you now see no blood on their embroidery — the Lord Semple stabbed the Lord of Sanquhar — does his bonnet sit a jot more awry on his brow? What noble lives in Scotland who has not had a share, for policy or revenge, in some such dealing?— and who imputes it to them? Be not cheated with names — a dagger or a draught work to the same end, and are little unlike — a glass phial imprisons the one, and a leathern sheath the other — one deals with the brain, the other sluices the blood — Yet, I say not I gave aught to this lady.”
“What dost thou mean by thus dallying with me?” said the Lady; “as thou wouldst save thy neck from the rope it merits, tell me the whole truth of this story-thou hast long been known a dangerous man.”
“Ay, in my master’s service I can be cold and sharp as my sword. Be it known to you, that when last on shore, I consulted with a woman of skill and power, called Nicneven, of whom the country has rung for some brief time past. Fools asked her for charms to make them beloved, misers for means to increase their store; some demanded to know the future — an idle wish, since it cannot be altered; others would have an explanation of the past — idler still, since it cannot be recalled. I heard their queries with scorn, and demanded the means of avenging myself of a deadly enemy, for I grow old, and may trust no longer to Bilboa blade. She gave me a packet —‘Mix that,’ said she, ‘with any liquid, and thy vengeance is complete.’”
“Villain! and you mixed it with the food of this imprisoned Lady, to the dishonour of thy master’s house?”
“To redeem the insulted honour of my master’s house, I mixed the contents of the packet with the jar of succory-water: They seldom fail to drain it, and the woman loves it over all.”
“It was a work of hell,” said the Lady Lochleven, “both the asking and the granting.— Away, wretched man, let us see if aid be yet too late!”
“They will not admit us, madam, save we enter by force — I have been. twice at the door, but can obtain no entrance.”
“We will beat it level with the ground, if needful — And, hold — summon Randal hither instantly.— Randal, here is a foul and evil chance befallen — send off a boat instantly to Kinross, the Chamberlain Luke Lundin is said to have skill — Fetch off, too, that foul witch Nicneven; she shall first counteract her own spell, and then be burned to ashes in the island of Saint Serf. Away, away — Tell them to hoist sail and ply oar, as ever they would have good of the Douglas’s hand!”
“Mother Nicneven will not be lightly found, or fetched hither on these conditions,” answered Dryfesdale.
“Then grant her full assurance of safety — Look to it, for thine own life must answer for this lady’s recovery.”
“I might have guessed that,” said Dryfesdale, sullenly; “but it is my comfort I have avenged mine own cause, as well as yours. She hath scoffed and scripped at me, and encouraged her saucy minion of a page to ridicule my stiff gait and slow speech. I felt it borne in upon me that I was to be avenged on them.”
“Go to the western turret,” said the Lady, “and remain there in ward until we see how this gear will terminate. I know thy resolved disposition — thou wilt not attempt escape.”
“Not were the walls of the turret of egg-shells, and the lake sheeted ice,” said Dryfesdale. “I am well taught, and strong in belief, that man does nought of himself; he is but the foam on the billow, which rises, bubbles, and bursts, not by its own effort, but by the mightier impulse of fate which urges him. Yet, Lady, if I may advise, amid this zeal for the life of the Jezebel of Scotland, forget not what is due to thine own honour, and keep the matter secret as you may.”
So saying, the gloomy fatalist turned from her, and stalked off with sullen composure to the place of confinement allotted to him.
His lady caught at his last hint, and only expressed her fear that the prisoner had partaken of some unwholesome food, and was dangerously ill. The castle was soon alarmed and in confusion. Randal was dispatched to the shore to fetch off Lundin, with such remedies as could counteract poison; and with farther instructions to bring mother Nicneven, if she could be found, with full power to pledge the Lady of Lochleven’s word for her safety.
Meanwhile the Lady of Lochleven herself held parley at the door of the Queen’s apartment, and in vain urged the page to undo it.
“Foolish boy!” she said, “thine own life and thy Lady’s are at stake — Open, I say, or we will cause the door to be broken down.”
“I may not open the door without my royal mistress’s orders,” answered Roland; “she has been very ill, and now she slumbers — if you wake her by using violence, let the consequence be on you and your followers.”
“Was ever woman in a strait so fearful!” exclaimed the Lady of Lochleven —“At least, thou rash boy, beware that no one tastes the food, but especially the jar of succory-water.”
She then hastened to the turret, where Dryfesdale had composedly resigned himself to imprisonment. She found him reading, and demanded of him, “Was thy fell potion of speedy operation?”
“Slow,” answered the steward. “The hag asked me which I chose — I told her I loved a slow and sure revenge. ‘Revenge,’ said I, ‘is the highest-flavoured draught which man tastes upon earth, and he should sip it by little and little — not drain it up greedily at once.”
“Against whom, unhappy man, couldst thou nourish so fell a revenge?”
“I had many objects, but the chief was that insolent page.”
“The boy!— thou inhuman man!” exclaimed the lady; “what could he do to deserve thy malice?”
“He rose in your favour, and you graced him with your commissions — that was one thing. He rose in that of George Douglas’s also — that was another. He was the favourite of the Calvinistic Henderson, who hated me because my spirit disowns a separated priesthood. The Moabitish Queen held him dear — winds from each opposing point blew in his favour — the old servitor of your house was held lightly among ye — above all, from the first time I saw his face, I longed to destroy him.”
“What fiend have I nurtured in my house!” replied the Lady. “May God forgive me the sin of having given thee food and raiment!”
“You might not choose, Lady,” answered the steward. “Long ere this castle was builded — ay, long ere the islet which sustains it reared its head above the blue water, I was destined to be your faithful slave, and you to be my ungrateful mistress. Remember you not when I plunged amid the victorious French, in the time of this lady’s mother, and brought off your husband, when those who had hung at the same breasts with him dared not attempt the rescue?— Remember how I plunged into the lake when your grandson’s skiff was overtaken by the tempest, boarded, and steered her safe to the land. Lady — the servant of a Scottish baron is he who regards not his own life, or that of any other, save his master. And, for the death of the woman, I had tried the potion on her sooner, had not Master George been her taster. Her death — would it not be the happiest news that Scotland ever heard? Is she not of the bloody Guisian stock, whose sword was so often red with the blood of God’s saints? Is she not the daughter of the wretched tyrant James, whom Heaven cast down from his kingdom, and his pride, even as the king of Babylon was smitten?”
“Peace, villain !” said the Lady — a thousand varied recollections thronging on her mind at the mention of her royal lover’s name; “Peace, and disturb not the ashes of the dead — of the royal, of the unhappy dead. Read thy Bible; and may God grant thee to avail thyself better of its contents than thou hast yet done!” She departed hastily, and as she reached the next apartment, the tears rose in her eyes so hastily, that she was compelled to stop and use her kerchief to dry them. “I expected not this,” she said, “no more than to have drawn water from the dry flint, or sap from a withered tree. I saw with a dry eye the apostacy and shame of George Douglas, the hope of my son’s house — the child of my love; and yet I now weep for him who has so long lain in his grave — for him to whom I owe it that his daughter can make a scoffing and a jest of my name! But she is his daughter — my heart, hardened against her for so many causes, relents when a glance of her eye places her father unexpectedly before me — and as often her likeness to that true daughter of the house of Guise, her detested mother, has again confirmed my resolution. But she must not — must not die in my house, and by so foul a practice. Thank God, the operation of the potion is slow, and may be counteracted. I will to her apartment once more. But oh! that hardened villain, whose fidelity we held in such esteem, and had such high proof of! What miracle can unite so much wickedness and so much truth in one bosom!”
The Lady of Lochleven was not aware how far minds of a certain gloomy and determined cast by nature, may be warped by a keen sense of petty injuries and insults, combining with the love of gain, and sense of self-interest, and amalgamated with the crude, wild, and indigested fanatical opinions which this man had gathered among the crazy sectaries of Germany; or how far the doctrines of fatalism, which he had embraced so decidedly, sear the human conscience, by representing our actions as the result of inevitable necessity.
During her visit to the prisoner, Roland had communicated to Catherine the tenor of the conversation he had had with her at the door of the apartment. The quick intelligence of that lively maiden instantly comprehended the outline of what was believed to have happened, but her prejudices hurried her beyond the truth.
“They meant to have poisoned us,” she exclaimed in horror, “and there stands the fatal liquor which should have done the deed!— Ay, as soon as Douglas ceased to be our taster, our food was likely to be fatally seasoned. Thou, Roland, who shouldst have made the essay, wert readily doomed to die with us. Oh, dearest Lady Fleming, pardon, pardon, for the injuries I said to you in my anger — your words were prompted by Heaven to save our lives, and especially that of the injured Queen. But what have we now to do? that old crocodile of the lake will be presently back to shed her hypocritical tears over our dying agonies.— Lady Fleming, what shall we do?”
“Our Lady help us in our need !” she replied; “how should I tell?— unless we were to make our plaint to the Regent.”
“Make our plaint to the devil,” said Catherine impatiently, “and accuse his dam at the foot of his burning throne!— The Queen still sleeps — we must gain time. The poisoning hag must not know her scheme has miscarried; the old envenomed spider has but too many ways of mending her broken web. The jar of succory-water,” said she —“Roland, if thou be’st a man, help me — empty the jar on the chimney or from the window — make such waste among the viands as if we had made our usual meal, and leave the fragments on cup and porringer, but taste nothing as thou lovest thy life. I will sit by the Queen, and tell her at her waking, in what a fearful pass we stand. Her sharp wit and ready spirit will teach us what is best to be done. Meanwhile, till farther notice, observe, Roland, that the Queen is in a state of torpor — that Lady Fleming is indisposed — that character” (speaking in a lower tone) “will suit her best, and save her wits some labour in vain. I am not so much indisposed, thou understandest.”
“And I?” said the page —
“You?” replied Catherine, “you are quite well — who thinks it worth while to poison puppy-dogs or pages?”
“Does this levity become the time?” asked the page.
“It does, it does,” answered Catherine Seyton; “if the Queen approves, I see plainly how this disconcerted attempt may do us good service.”
She went to work while she spoke, eagerly assisted by Roland. The breakfast table soon displayed the appearance as if the meal had been eaten as usual; and the ladies retired as softly as possible into the Queen’s sleeping apartment. At a new summons of the Lady Lochleven, the page undid the door, and admitted her into the anteroom, asking her pardon for having withstood her, alleging in excuse, that the Queen had fallen into a heavy slumber since she had broken her fast.
“She has eaten and drunken, then?” said the Lady of Lochleven.
“Surely,” replied the page, “according to her Grace’s ordinary custom, unless upon the fasts of the church.”
“The jar,” she said, hastily examining it, “it is empty — drank the Lady Mary the whole of this water?”
“A large part, madam; and I heard the Lady Catherine Seyton jestingly upbraid the Lady Mary Fleming with having taken more than a just share of what remained, so that but little fell to her own lot.”
“And are they well in health?” said the Lady of Lochleven.
“Lady Fleming,” said the page, “complains of lethargy, and looks duller than usual; and the Lady Catherine of Seyton feels her head somewhat more giddy than is her wont.”
He raised his voice a little as he said these words, to apprise the ladies of the part assigned to each of them, and not, perhaps, without the wish of conveying to the ears of Catherine the page-like jest which lurked in the allotment.
“I will enter the Queen’s bedchamber,” said the Lady of Lochleven; “my business is express.”
As she advanced to the door, the voice of Catherine Seyton was heard from within —“No one can enter here — the Queen sleeps.”
“I will not be controlled, young lady,” replied the Lady of Lochleven; “there is, I wot, no inner bar, and I will enter in your despite.”
“There is, indeed, no inner bar,” answered Catherine, firmly, “but there are the staples where that bar should be; and into those staples have I thrust mine arm, like an ancestress of your own, when, better employed than the Douglasses of our days, she thus defended the bedchamber of her sovereign against murderers. Try your force, then, and see whether a Seyton cannot rival in courage a maiden of the house of Douglas.”
“I dare not attempt the pass at such risk,” said the Lady of Lochleven: “Strange, that this Princess, with all that justly attaches to her as blameworthy, should preserve such empire over the minds of her attendants.— Damsel, I give thee my honour that I come for the Queen’s safety and advantage. Awaken her, if thou lovest her, and pray her leave that I may enter — I will retire from the door the whilst.”
“Thou wilt not awaken the Queen?” said the Lady Fleming.
“What choice have we?” said the ready-witted maiden, “unless you deem it better to wait till the Lady Lochleven herself plays lady of the bedchamber. Her fit of patience will not last long, and the Queen must be prepared to meet her.”
“But thou wilt bring back her Grace’s fit by thus disturbing her.”
“Heaven forbid!” replied Catherine; “but if so, it must pass for an effect of the poison. I hope better things, and that the Queen will be able when she wakes to form her own judgment in this terrible crisis. Meanwhile, do thou, dear Lady Fleming, practise to look as dull and heavy as the alertness of thy spirit will permit.”
Catherine kneeled by the side of the Queen’s bed, and, kissing her hand repeatedly, succeeded at last in awakening without alarming her. She seemed surprised to find that she was ready dressed, but sate up in her bed, and appeared so perfectly composed, that Catherine Seyton, without farther preamble, judged it safe to inform her of the predicament in which they were placed. Mary turned pale, and crossed herself again and again, when she heard the imminent danger in which she had stood. But, like the Ulysses of Homer,
— Hardly waking yet,
Sprung in her mind the momentary wit,
and she at once understood her situation, with the dangers and advantages that attended it.
“We cannot do better,” she said, after her hasty conference with Catherine, pressing her at the same time to her bosom, and kissing her forehead; “we cannot do better than to follow the scheme so happily devised by thy quick wit and bold affection. Undo the door to the Lady Lochleven — She shall meet her match in art, though not in perfidy. Fleming, draw close the curtain, and get thee behind it — thou art a better tire-woman than an actress; do but breathe heavily, and, if thou wilt, groan slightly, and it will top thy part. Hark! they come. Now, Catherine of Medicis, may thy spirit inspire me, for a cold northern brain is too blunt for this scene!”
Ushered by Catherine Seyton, and stepping as light as she could, the Lady Lochleven was shown into the twilight apartment, and conducted to the side of the couch, where Mary, pallid and exhausted from a sleepless night, and the subsequent agitation of the morning, lay extended so listlessly as might well confirm the worst fears of her hostess.
“Now, God forgive us our sins!” said the Lady of Lochleven, forgetting her pride, and throwing herself on her knees by the side of the bed; “It is too true — she is murdered!”
“Who is in the chamber?” said Mary, as if awaking from a heavy sleep. “Seyton, Fleming, where are you? I heard a strange voice. Who waits? — Call Courcelles.”
“Alas! her memory is at Holyrood, though her body is at Lochleven.— Forgive, madam,” continued the Lady, “if I call your attention to me — I am Margaret Erskine, of the house of Mar, by marriage Lady Douglas of Lochleven.”
“Oh, our gentle hostess,” answered the Queen, “who hath such care of our lodgings and of our diet — We cumber you too much and too long, good Lady of Lochleven; but we now trust your task of hospitality is well-nigh ended.”
“Her words go like a knife through my heart,” said the Lady of Lochleven —“With a breaking heart, I pray your Grace to tell me what is your ailment, that aid may be had, if there be yet time.”
“Nay, my ailment,” replied the Queen, “is nothing worth telling, or worth a leech’s notice — my limbs feel heavy — my heart feels cold — a prisoner’s limbs and heart are rarely otherwise — fresh air, methinks, and freedom, would soon revive me; but as the Estates have ordered it, death alone can break my prison-doors.”
“Were it possible, madam,” said the Lady, “that your liberty could restore your perfect health, I would myself encounter the resentment of the Regent — of my son, Sir William — of my whole friends, rather than you should meet your fate in this castle.”
“Alas! madam,” said the Lady Fleming, who conceived the time propitious to show that her own address had been held too lightly of; “it is but trying what good freedom may work upon us; for myself, I think a free walk on the greensward would do me much good at heart.”
The Lady of Lochleven rose from the bedside, and darted a penetrating look at the elder valetudinary. “Are you so evil-disposed, Lady Fleming?”
“Evil-disposed indeed, madam,” replied the court dame, “and more especially since breakfast.”
“Help! help!” exclaimed Catherine, anxious to break off a conversation which boded her schemes no good; “help! I say, help! the Queen is about to pass away. Aid her, Lady Lochleven, if you be a woman!”
The Lady hastened to support the Queen’s head, who, turning her eyes towards her with an air of great languor, exclaimed, “Thanks, my dearest Lady of Lochleven — notwithstanding some passages of late, I have never misconstrued or misdoubted your affection to our house. It was proved, as I have heard, before I was born.”
The Lady Lochleven sprung from the floor, on which she had again knelt, and, having paced the apartment in great disorder, flung open the lattice, as if to get air.
“Now, Our Lady forgive me!” said Catherine to herself. “How deep must the love of sarcasm, be implanted in the breasts of us women, since the Queen, with all her sense, will risk ruin rather than rein in her wit!” She then adventured, stooping over the Queen’s person, to press her arm with her hand, saying, at the same time, “For God’s sake, madam, restrain yourself!”
“Thou art too forward, maiden,” said the Queen; but immediately added, in a low whisper, “Forgive me, Catherine; but when I felt the hag’s murderous hands busy about my head and neck, I felt such disgust and hatred, that I must have said something, or died. But I will be schooled to better behaviour — only see that thou let her not touch me.”
“Now, God be praised!” said the Lady Lochleven, withdrawing her head from the window, “the boat comes as fast as sail and oar can send wood through water. It brings the leech and a female — certainly, from the appearance, the very person I was in quest of. Were she but well out of this castle, with our honour safe, I would that she were on the top of the wildest mountain in Norway; or I would I had been there myself, ere I had undertaken this trust.”
While she thus expressed herself, standing apart at one window, Roland Graeme, from the other, watched the boat bursting through the waters of the lake, which glided from its side in ripple and in foam. He, too, became sensible, that at the stern was seated the medical Chamberlain, clad in his black velvet cloak; and that his own relative, Magdalen Graeme, in her assumed character of Mother Nieneven, stood in the bow, her hands clasped together, and pointed towards the castle, and her attitude, even at that distance, expressing enthusiastic eagerness to arrive at the landing-place. They arrived there accordingly, and while the supposed witch was detained in a room beneath, the physician was ushered to the Queen’s apartment, which he entered with all due professional solemnity. Catherine had, in the meanwhile, fallen back from the Queen’s bed, and taken an opportunity to whisper to Roland, “Methinks, from the information of the threadbare velvet cloak and the solemn beard, there would be little trouble in haltering yonder ass. But thy grandmother, Roland — thy grandmother’s zeal will ruin us, if she get not a hint to dissemble.”
Roland, without reply, glided towards the door of the apartment, crossed the parlour, and safely entered the antechamber; but when he attempted to pass farther, the word “Back! Back!” echoed from one to the other, by two men armed with carabines, convinced him that the Lady of Lochleven’s suspicions had not, even in the midst of her alarms, been so far lulled to sleep as to omit the precaution of stationing sentinels on her prisoners. He was compelled, therefore, to return to the parlour, or audience-chamber, in which he found the Lady of the castle in conference with her learned leech.
“A truce with your cant phrase and your solemn foppery, Lundin,” in such terms she accosted the man of art, “and let me know instantly, if thou canst tell, whether this lady hath swallowed aught that is less than wholesome?”
“Nay, but, good lady — honoured patroness — to whom I am alike bonds-man in my medical and official capacity, deal reasonably with me. If this, mine illustrious patient, will not answer a question, saving with sighs and moans — if that other honourable lady will do nought but yawn in my face when I inquire after the diagnostics — and if that other young damsel, who I profess is a comely maiden —”
“Talk not to me of comeliness or of damsels,” said the Lady of Lochleven, “I say, are they evil-disposed?— In one word, man, have they taken poison, ay or no?”
“Poisons, madam,” said the learned leech, “are of various sorts. There is your animal poison, as the lepus marinus, as mentioned by Dioscorides and Galen — there are mineral and semi-mineral poisons, as those compounded of sublimate regulus of antimony, vitriol, and the arsenical salts — there are your poisons from herbs and vegetables, as the aqua cymbalariae, opium, aconitum, cantharides, and the like — there are also —”
“Now, out upon thee for a learned fool! and I myself am no better for expecting an oracle from such a log,” said the Lady.
“Nay, but if your ladyship will have patience — if I knew what food they have partaken of, or could see but the remnants of what they have last eaten — for as to the external and internal symptoms, I can discover nought like; for, as Galen saith in his second book de Antidotis —”
“Away, fool!” said the Lady; “send me that hag hither; she shall avouch what it was that she hath given to the wretch Dryfesdale, or the pilniewinks and thumbikins shall wrench it out of her finger joints!”
“Art hath no enemy unless the ignorant,” said the mortified Doctor; veiling, however, his remark under the Latin version, and stepping apart into a corner to watch the result.
In a minute or two Magdalen Graeme entered the apartment, dressed as we have described her at the revel, but with her muffler thrown back, and all affectation of disguise. She was attended by two guards, of whose presence she did not seem even to be conscious, and who followed her with an air of embarrassment and timidity, which was probably owing to their belief in her supernatural power, coupled with the effect produced by her bold and undaunted demeanour. She confronted the Lady of Lochleven, who seemed to endure with high disdain the confidence of her air and manner.
“Wretched woman!” said the Lady, after essaying for a moment to bear her down, before she addressed her, by the stately severity of her look, “what was that powder which thou didst give to a servant of this house, by name Jasper Dryfesdale, that he might work out with it some slow and secret vengeance?— Confess its nature and properties, or, by the honour of Douglas, I give thee to fire and stake before the sun is lower!”
“Alas!” said Magdalen Graeme in reply, “and when became a Douglas or a Douglas’s man so unfurnished in his revenge, that he should seek them at the hands of a poor and solitary woman? The towers in which your captives pine away into unpitied graves, yet stand fast on their foundation — the crimes wrought in them have not yet burst their vaults asunder — your men have still their cross-bows, pistolets, and daggers — why need you seek to herbs or charms for the execution of your revenges?”
“Hear me, foul hag,” said the Lady Lochleven,—“but what avails speaking to thee?— Bring Dryfesdale hither, and let them be confronted together.”
“You may spare your retainers the labour,” replied Magdalen Graeme. “I came not here to be confronted with a base groom, nor to answer the interrogatories of James’s heretical leman — I came to speak with the Queen of Scotland — Give place there!”
And while the Lady Lochleven stood confounded at her boldness, and at the reproach she had cast upon her, Magdalen Graeme strode past her into the bedchamber of the Queen, and, kneeling on the floor, made a salutation as if, in the Oriental fashion, she meant to touch the earth with her forehead.
“Hail, Princess!” she said, “hail, daughter of many a King, but graced above them all in that thou art called to suffer for the true faith — hail to thee, the pure gold of whose crown has been tried in the seven-times heated furnace of affliction — hear the comfort which God and Our Lady send thee by the mouth of thy unworthy servant.— But first”— and stooping her head she crossed herself repeatedly, and, still upon her knees, appeared to be rapidly reciting some formula of devotion.
“Seize her, and drag her to the massy-more!— to the deepest dungeon with the sorceress, whose master, the Devil, could alone have inspired her with boldness enough to insult the mother of Douglas in his own castle!”
Thus spoke the incensed Lady of Lochleven, but the physician presumed to interpose.
“I pray of you, honoured madam, she be permitted to take her course without interruption. Peradventure we shall learn something concerning the nostrum she hath ventured, contrary to law and the rules of art, to adhibit to these ladies, through the medium of the steward Dryfesdale.”
“For a fool,” replied the Lady of Lochleven, “thou hast counselled wisely — I will bridle my resentment till their conference be over.”
“God forbid, honoured Lady,” said Doctor Lundin, “that you should suppress it longer — nothing may more endanger the frame of your honoured body; and truly, if there be witchcraft in this matter, it is held by the vulgar, and even by solid authors on Demonology, that three scruples of the ashes of the witch, when she hath been well and carefully burned at a stake, is a grand Catholicon in such matter, even as they prescribe crinis canis rabidi , a hair of the dog that bit the patient, in cases of hydrophobia. I warrant neither treatment, being out of the regular practice of the schools; but, in the present case, there can be little harm in trying the conclusion upon this old necromancer and quacksalver-fiat experimentum (as we say) in corpore vili .”
“Peace, fool!” said the Lady, “she is about to speak.”
At that moment Magdalen Graeme arose from her knees, and turned her countenance on the Queen, at the same time advancing her foot, extending her arm, and assuming the mien and attitude of a Sibyl in frenzy. As her gray hair floated back from beneath her coif, and her eye gleamed fire from under its shaggy eyebrow, the effect of her expressive though emaciated features, was heightened by an enthusiasm approaching to insanity, and her appearance struck with awe all who were present. Her eyes for a time glanced wildly around as if seeking for something to aid her in collecting her powers of expression, and her lips had a nervous and quivering motion, as those of one who would fain speak, yet rejects as inadequate the words which present themselves. Mary herself caught the infection as if by a sort of magnetic influence, and raising herself from her bed, without being able to withdraw her eyes from those of Magdalen, waited as if for the oracle of a Pythoness. She waited not long, for no sooner had the enthusiast collected herself, than her gaze became instantly steady, her features assumed a determined energy, and when she began to speak, the words flowed from her with a profuse fluency, which might have passed for inspiration, and which, perhaps, she herself mistook for such.
“Arise,” she said, “Queen of France and of England! Arise, Lioness of Scotland, and be not dismayed though the nets of the hunters have encircled thee! Stoop not to feign with the false ones, whom thou shall soon meet in the field. The issue of battle is with the God of armies, but by battle thy cause shall be tried. Lay aside, then, the arts of lower mortals, and assume those which become a Queen! True defender of the only true faith, the armoury of heaven is open to thee! Faithful daughter of the Church, take the keys of St. Peter, to bind and to loose!— Royal Princess of the land, take the sword of St. Paul, to smite and to shear! There is darkness in thy destiny;— but not in these towers, not under the rule of their haughty mistress, shall that destiny be closed — In other lands the lioness may crouch to the power of the tigress, but not in her own — not in Scotland shall the Queen of Scotland long remain captive — nor is the fate of the royal Stuart in the hands of the traitor Douglas. Let the Lady of Lochleven double her bolts and deepen her dungeons, they shall not retain thee — each element shall give thee its assistance ere thou shalt continue captive — the land shall lend its earthquakes, the water its waves, the air its tempests, the fire its devouring flames, to desolate this house, rather than it shall continue the place of thy captivity.— Hear this, and tremble, all ye who fight against the light, for she says it, to whom it hath been assured!”
She was silent, and the astonished physician said, “If there was ever an Energumene, or possessed demoniac, in our days, there is a devil speaking with that woman’s tongue!”
“Practice,” said the Lady of Lochleven, recovering her surprise; “here is all practice and imposture — To the dungeon with her!”
“Lady of Lochleven,” said Mary, arising from her bed, and coming forward with her wonted dignity, “ere you make arrest on any one in our presence, hear me but one word. I have done you some wrong — I believed you privy to the murderous purpose of your vassal, and I deceived you in suffering you to believe it had taken effect. I did you wrong, Lady of Lochleven, for I perceive your purpose to aid me was sincere. We tasted not of the liquid, nor are we now sick, save that we languish for our freedom.”
“It is avowed like Mary of Scotland,” said Magdalen Graeme; “and know, besides, that had the Queen drained the drought to the dregs, it was harmless as the water from a sainted spring. Trow ye, proud woman,” she added, addressing herself to the Lady of Lochleven, “that I— I— would have been the wretch to put poison into the hands of a servant or vassal of the house of Lochleven, knowing whom that house contained? as soon would I have furnished drug to slay my own daughter!”
“Am I thus bearded in mine own castle?” said the Lady; “to the dungeon with her!— she shall abye what is due to the vender of poisons and practiser of witchcraft.”
“Yet hear me for an instant, Lady of Lochleven,” said Mary; “and do you,” to Magdalen, “be silent at my command.— Your steward, lady, has by confession attempted my life, and those of my household, and this woman hath done her best to save them, by furnishing him with what was harmless, in place of the fatal drugs which he expected. Methinks I propose to you but a fair exchange when I say I forgive your vassal with all my heart, and leave vengeance to God, and to his conscience, so that you also forgive the boldness of this woman in your presence; for we trust you do not hold it as a crime, that she substituted an innocent beverage for the mortal poison which was to have drenched our cup.”
“Heaven forfend, madam,” said the Lady, “that I should account that a crime which saved the house of Douglas from a foul breach of honour and hospitality! We have written to our son touching our vassal’s delict, and he must abide his doom, which will most likely be death. Touching this woman, her trade is damnable by Scripture, and is mortally punished by the wise laws of our ancestry — she also must abide her doom.”
“And have I then,” said the Queen, “no claim on the house of Lochleven for the wrong I hare so nearly suffered within their walls? I ask but in requital, the life of a frail and aged woman, whose brain, as yourself may judge, seems somewhat affected by years and suffering.”
“If the Lady Mary,” replied the inflexible Lady of Lochleven, “hath been menaced with wrong in the house of Douglas, it may be regarded as some compensation, that her complots have cost that house the exile of a valued son.”
“Plead no more for me, my gracious Sovereign,” said Magdalen Graeme, “nor abase yourself to ask so much as a gray hair of my head at her hands. I knew the risk at which I served my Church and my Queen, and was ever prompt to pay my poor life as the ransom. It is a comfort to think, that in slaying me, or in restraining my freedom, or even in injuring that single gray hair, the house, whose honour she boasts so highly, will have filled up the measure of their shame by the breach of their solemn written assurance of safety.”— And taking from her bosom a paper, she handed it to the Queen.
“It is a solemn assurance of safety in life and limb,” said Queen Mary, “with space to come and go, under the hand and seal of the Chamberlain of Kinross, granted to Magdalen Graeme, commonly called Mother Nicneven, in consideration of her consenting to put herself, for the space of twenty-four hours, if required, within the iron gate of the Castle of Lochleven.”
“Knave!” said the Lady, turning to the Chamberlain, “how dared you grant her such a protection?”
“It was by your Ladyship’s orders, transmitted by Randal, as he can bear witness,” replied Doctor Lundin; “nay, I am only like the pharmacopolist, who compounds the drugs after the order of the mediciner.”
“I remember — I remember,” answered the Lady; “but I meant the assurance only to be used in case, by residing in another jurisdiction, she could not have been apprehended under our warrant.”
“Nevertheless,” said the Queen, “the Lady of Lochleven is bound by the action of her deputy in granting the assurance.”
“Madam,” replied the Lady, “the house of Douglas have never broken their safe-conduct, and never will — too deeply did they suffer by such a breach of trust, exercised on themselves, when your Grace’s ancestor, the second James, in defiance of the rights of hospitality, and of his own written assurance of safety, poniarded the brave Earl of Douglas with his own hand, and within two yards of the social board, at which he had just before sat the King of Scotland’s honoured guest.”
“Methinks,” said the Queen, carelessly, “in consideration of so very recent and enormous a tragedy, which I think only chanced some six-score years agone, the Douglasses should have shown themselves less tenacious of the company of their sovereigns, than you, Lady of Lochleven, seem to be of mine.”
“Let Randal,” said the Lady, “take the hag back to Kinross, and set her at full liberty, discharging her from our bounds in future, on peril of her head.— And let your wisdom,” to the Chamberlain, “keep her company. And fear not for your character, though I send you in such company; for, granting her to be a witch, it would be a waste of fagots to burn you for a wizard.”
The crest-fallen Chamberlain was preparing to depart; but Magdalen Graeme, collecting herself, was about to reply, when the Queen interposed, saying, “Good mother, we heartily thank you for your unfeigned zeal towards our person, and pray you, as our liege-woman, that you abstain from whatever may lead you into personal danger; and, farther, it is our will that you depart without a word of farther parley with any one in this castle. For thy present guerdon, take this small reliquary — it was given to us by our uncle the Cardinal, and hath had the benediction of the Holy Father himself;— and now depart in peace and in silence.— For you, learned sir,” continued the Queen, advancing to the Doctor, who made his reverence in a manner doubly embarrassed by the awe of the Queen’s presence, which made him fear to do too little, and by the apprehension of his lady’s displeasure, in case he should chance to do too much —“for you, learned sir, as it was not your fault, though surely our own good fortune, that we did not need your skill at this time, it would not become us, however circumstanced, to suffer our leech to leave us without such guerdon as we can offer.”
With these words, and with the grace which never forsook her, though, in the present case, there might lurk under it a little gentle ridicule, she offered a small embroidered purse to the Chamberlain, who, with extended hand and arched back, his learned face stooping until a physiognomist might have practised the metoposcopical science upon it, as seen from behind betwixt his gambadoes, was about to accept of the professional recompense offered by so fair as well as illustrious a hand. But the Lady interposed, and, regarding the Chamberlain, said aloud, “No servant of our house, without instantly relinquishing that character, and incurring withal our highest displeasure, shall dare receive any gratuity at the hand of the Lady Mary.”
Sadly and slowly the Chamberlain raised his depressed stature into the perpendicular attitude, and left the apartment dejectedly, followed by Magdalen Graeme, after, with mute but expressive gesture, she had kissed the reliquary with which the Queen had presented her, and, raising her clasped hands and uplifted eyes towards Heaven, had seemed to entreat a benediction upon the royal dame. As she left the castle, and went towards the quay where the boat lay, Roland Graeme, anxious to communicate with her if possible, threw himself in her way, and might have succeeded in exchanging a few words with her, as she was guarded only by the dejected Chamberlain and his halberdiers, but she seemed to have taken, in its most strict and literal acceptation, the command to be silent which she had received from the Queen; for, to the repeated signs of her grandson, she only replied by laying her finger on her lip. Dr. Lundin was not so reserved. Regret for the handsome gratuity, and for the compulsory task of self-denial imposed on him, had grieved the spirit of that worthy officer and learned mediciner —“Even thus, my friend,” said he, squeezing the page’s hand as he bade him farewell, “is merit rewarded. I came to cure this unhappy Lady — and I profess she well deserves the trouble, for, say what they will of her, she hath a most winning manner, a sweet voice, a gracious smile, and a most majestic wave of her hand. If she was not poisoned, say, my dear Master Roland, was that fault of mine, I being ready to cure her if she had?— and now I am denied the permission to accept my well-earned honorarium — O Galen! O Hippocrates! is the graduate’s cap and doctor’s scarlet brought to this pass! Frustra fatigamus remediis aegros! ”
He wiped his eyes, stepped on the gunwale, and the boat pushed off from the shore, and went merrily across the lake, which was dimpled by the summer wind.
Death distant?— No, alas! he’s ever with us,
And shakes the dart at us in all our actings:
He lurks within our cup, while we’re in health;
Sits by our sick-bed, mocks our medicines;
We cannot walk, or sit, or ride, or travel,
But Death is by to seize us when he lists.
The Spanish Father .
From the agitating scene in the Queen’s presence-chamber, the Lady of Lochleven retreated to her own apartment, and ordered the steward to be called before her.
“Have they not disarmed thee, Dryfesdale?” she said, on seeing him enter, accoutred, as usual, with sword and dagger.
“No!” replied the old man; “how should they?— Your ladyship, when you commanded me to ward, said nought of laying down my arms; and, I think none of your menials, without your order, or your son’s, dare approach Jasper Dryfesdale for such a purpose.— Shall I now give up my sword to you?— it is worth little now, for it has fought for your house till it is worn down to old iron, like the pantler’s old chipping knife.”
“You have attempted a deadly crime — poison under trust.”
“Under trust?— hem!— I know not what your ladyship thinks of it, but the world without thinks the trust was given you even for that very end; and you would have been well off had it been so ended as I proposed, and you neither the worse nor the wiser.”
“Wretch!” exclaimed the lady, “and fool as well as villain, who could not even execute the crime he had planned!”
“I bid as fair for it as man could,” replied Dryfesdale; “I went to a woman — a witch and a Papist — If I found not poison, it was because it was otherwise predestined. I tried fair for it; but the half-done job may be clouted, if you will.”
“Villain! I am even now about to send off an express messenger to my son, to take order how thou shouldst be disposed of. Prepare thyself for death, if thou canst.”
“He that looks on death, Lady,” answered Dryfesdale, “as that which he may not shun, and which has its own fixed and certain hour, is ever prepared for it. He that is hanged in May will eat no flaunes 33 in midsummer — so there is the moan made for the old serving-man. But whom, pray I, send you on so fair an errand?”
“There will be no lack of messengers,” answered his mistress.
“By my hand, but there will,” replied the old man; “your castle is but poorly manned, considering the watches that you must keep, having this charge — There is the warder, and two others, whom you discarded for tampering with Master George; then for the warder’s tower, the bailie, the donjon — five men mount each guard, and the rest must sleep for the most part in their clothes. To send away another man, were to harass the sentinels to death — unthrifty misuse for a household. To take in new soldiers were dangerous, the charge requiring tried men. I see but one thing for it — I will do your errand to Sir William Douglas myself.”
“That were indeed a resource!— And on what day within twenty years would it be done?” said the Lady.
“Even with the speed of man and horse,” said Dryfesdale; “for though I care not much about the latter days of an old serving-man’s life, yet I would like to know as soon as may be, whether my neck is mine own or the hangman’s.”
“Holdest thou thy own life so lightly?” said the Lady.
“Else I had reckoned more of that of others,” said the predestinarian —“What is death?— it is but ceasing to live — And what is living?— a weary return of light and darkness, sleeping and waking, being hungered and eating. Your dead man needs neither candle nor can, neither fire nor feather-bed; and the joiner’s chest serves him for an eternal frieze-jerkin.”
“Wretched man! believest thou not that after death comes the judgment?”
“Lady,” answered Dryfesdale, “as my mistress, I may not dispute your words; but, as spiritually speaking, you are still but a burner of bricks in Egypt, ignorant of the freedom of the saints; for, as was well shown to me by that gifted man, Nicolaus Schoefferbach, who was martyred by the bloody Bishop of Munster, he cannot sin who doth but execute that which is predestined, since —”
“Silence!” said the Lady, interrupting him,—“Answer me not with thy bold and presumptuous blasphemy, but hear me. Thou hast been long the servant of our house —”
“The born servant of the Douglas — they have had the best of me — I served them since I left Lockerbie: I was then ten years old, and you may soon add the threescore to it.”
“Thy foul attempt has miscarried, so thou art guilty only in intention. It were a deserved deed to hang thee on the warder’s tower; and yet in thy present mind, it were but giving a soul to Satan. I take thine offer, then — Go hence — here is my packet — I will add to it but a line, to desire him to send me a faithful servant or two to complete the garrison. Let my son deal with you as he will. If thou art wise, thou wilt make for Lockerbie so soon as thy foot touches dry land, and let the packet find another bearer; at all rates, look it miscarries not.”
“Nay, madam,” replied he —“I was born, as I said, the Douglas’s servant, and I will be no corbie-messenger in mine old age — your message to your son shall be done as truly by me as if it concerned another man’s neck. I take my leave of your honour.”
The Lady issued her commands, and the old man was ferried over to the shore, to proceed on his extraordinary pilgrimage. It is necessary the reader should accompany him on his journey, which Providence had determined should not be of long duration.
On arriving at the village, the steward, although his disgrace had transpired, was readily accommodated with a horse, by the Chamberlain’s authority; and the roads being by no means esteemed safe, he associated himself with Auchtermuchty, the common carrier, in order to travel in his company to Edinburgh.
The worthy waggoner, according to the established customs of all carriers, stage-coachmen, and other persons in public authority, from the earliest days to the present, never wanted good reasons for stopping upon the road, as often as he would; and the place which had most captivation for him as a resting-place was a change-house, as it was termed, not very distant from a romantic dell, well known by the name of Keirie Craigs. Attractions of a kind very different from those which arrested the progress of John Auchtermuchty and his wains, still continue to hover round this romantic spot, and none has visited its vicinity without a desire to remain long and to return soon.
Arrived near his favourite howss , not all the authority of Dryfesdale (much diminished indeed by the rumours of his disgrace) could prevail on the carrier, obstinate as the brutes which he drove, to pass on without his accustomed halt, for which the distance he had travelled furnished little or no pretence. Old Keltie, the landlord, who had bestowed his name on a bridge in the neighbourhood of his quondam dwelling, received the carrier with his usual festive cordiality, and adjourned with him into the house, under pretence of important business, which, I believe, consisted in their emptying together a mutchkin stoup of usquebaugh. While the worthy host and his guest were thus employed, the discarded steward, with a double portion of moroseness in his gesture and look, walked discontentedly into the kitchen of the place, which was occupied but by one guest. The stranger was a slight figure, scarce above the age of boyhood, and in the dress of a page, but bearing an air of haughty aristocratic boldness and even insolence in his look and manner, that might have made Dryfesdale conclude he had pretensions to superior rank, had not his experience taught him how frequently these airs of superiority were assumed by the domestics and military retainers of the Scottish nobility.—“The pilgrim’s morning to you, old sir,” said the youth; “you come, as I think, from Lochleven Castle — What news of our bonny Queen?— a fairer dove was never pent up in so wretched a dovecot.”
“They that speak of Lochleven, and of those whom its walls contain,’ answered Dryfesdale,” speak of what concerns the Douglas; and they who speak of what concerns the Douglas, do it at their peril.”
“Do you speak from fear of them, old man, or would you make a quarrel for them?— I should have deemed your age might have cooled your blood.”
“Never, while there are empty-pated coxcombs at each corner to keep it warm.”
“The sight of thy gray hairs keeps mine cold,” said the boy, who had risen up and now sat down again.
“It is well for thee, or I had cooled it with this holly-rod,” replied the steward. “I think thou be’st one of those swash-bucklers, who brawl in alehouses and taverns; and who, if words were pikes, and oaths were Andrew Ferraras, would soon place the religion of Babylon in the land once more, and the woman of Moab upon the throne.”
“Now, by Saint Bennet of Seyton,” said the youth, “I will strike thee on the face, thou foul-mouthed old railing heretic!”
“Saint Bennet of Seyton,” echoed the steward; “a proper warrant is Saint Bennet’s, and for a proper nest of wolf-birds like the Seytons!— I will arrest thee as a traitor to King James and the good Regent.— Ho! John Auchtermuchty, raise aid against the King’s traitor!”
So saying, he laid his hand on the youth’s collar, and drew his sword. John Auchtermuchty looked in, but, seeing the naked weapon, ran faster out than he entered. Keltie, the landlord, stood by and helped neither party, only exclaiming, “Gentlemen! gentlemen! for the love of Heaven!” and so forth. A struggle ensued, in which the young man, chafed at Dryfesdale’s boldness, and unable, with the ease he expected, to extricate himself from the old man’s determined grasp, drew his dagger, and with the speed of light, dealt him three wounds in the breast and body, the least of which was mortal. The old man sunk on the ground with a deep groan, and the host set up a piteous exclamation of surprise.
“Peace, ye brawling hound!” said the wounded steward; “are dagger-stabs and dying men such rarities in Scotland, that you should cry as if the house were falling?— Youth, I do not forgive thee, for there is nought betwixt us to forgive. Thou hast done what I have done to more than one — And I suffer what I have seen them suffer — it was all ordained to be thus and not otherwise. But if thou wouldst do me right, thou wilt send this packet safely to the hands of Sir William Douglas; and see that my memory suffer not, as if I would have loitered on mine errand for fear of my life.”
The youth, whose passion had subsided the instant he had done the deed, listened with sympathy and attention, when another person, muffled in his cloak, entered the apartment, and exclaimed —“Good God! Dryfesdale, and expiring!”
“Ay, and Dryfesdale would that he had been dead,” answered the wounded man, “rather than that his ears had heard the words of the only Douglas that ever was false — but yet it is better as it is. Good my murderer, and the rest of you, stand back a little, and let me speak with this unhappy apostate.— Kneel down by me, Master George — You have heard that I failed in my attempt to take away that Moabitish stumbling-block and her retinue — I gave them that which I thought would have removed the temptation out of thy path — and this, though I had other reasons to show to thy mother and others, I did chiefly purpose for love of thee.”
“For the love of me, base poisoner!” answered Douglas, “wouldst thou have committed so horrible, so unprovoked a murder, and mentioned my name with it?”
“And wherefore not, George of Douglas?” answered Dryfesdale. “Breath is now scarce with me, but I would spend my last gasp on this argument. Hast thou not, despite the honour thou owest to thy parents, the faith that is due to thy religion, the truth that is due to thy king, been so carried away by the charms of this beautiful sorceress, that thou wouldst have helped her to escape from her prison-house, and lent her thine arm again to ascend the throne, which she had made a place of abomination?— Nay, stir not from me — my hand, though fast stiffening, has yet force enough to hold thee — What dost thou aim at?— to wed this witch of Scotland?— I warrant thee, thou mayest succeed — her heart and hand have been oft won at a cheaper rate, than thou, fool that thou art, would think thyself happy to pay. But, should a servant of thy father’s house have seen thee embrace the fate of the idiot Darnley, or of the villain Bothwell — the fate of the murdered fool, or of the living pirate — while an ounce of ratsbane would have saved thee?”
“Think on God, Dryfesdale,” said George Douglas, “and leave the utterance of those horrors — Repent, if thou canst — if not, at least be silent.— Seyton, aid me to support this dying wretch, that he may compose himself to better thoughts, if it be possible.”
“Seyton!” answered the dying man; “Seyton! Is it by a Seyton’s hand that I fall at last?— There is something of retribution in that — since the house had nigh lost a sister by my deed.” Fixing his fading eyes on the youth, he added, “He hath her very features and presence!— Stoop down, youth, and let me see thee closer — I would know thee when we meet in yonder world, for homicides will herd together there, and I have been one.” He pulled Seyton’s face, in spite of some resistance, closer to his own, looked at him fixedly, and added, “Thou hast begun young — thy career will be the briefer — ay, thou wilt be met with, and that anon — a young plant never throve that was watered with an old man’s blood.— Yet why blame I thee? Strange turns of fate,” he muttered, ceasing to address Seyton; “I designed what I could not do, and he has done what he did not perchance design.— Wondrous, that our will should ever oppose itself to the strong and uncontrollable tide of destiny — that we should strive with the stream when we might drift with the current! My brain will serve me to question it no farther — I would Schoefferbach were here — yet why?— I am on a course which the vessel can hold without a pilot.— Farewell, George of Douglas — I die true to thy father’s house.” He fell into convulsions at these words, and shortly after expired.
Seyton and Douglas stood looking on the dying man, and when the scene was closed, the former was the first to speak. “As I live, Douglas, I meant not this, and am sorry; but he laid hands on me, and compelled me to defend my freedom, as I best might, with my dagger. If he were ten times thy friend and follower, I can but say that I am sorry.”
“I blame thee not, Seyton,” said Douglas, “though I lament the chance. There is an overruling destiny above us, though not in the sense in which it was viewed by that wretched man, who, beguiled by some foreign mystagogue, used the awful word as the ready apology for whatever he chose to do — we must examine the packet.”
They withdrew into an inner room, and remained deep in consultation, until they were disturbed by the entrance of Keltie, who, with an embarrassed countenance, asked Master George Douglas’s pleasure respecting the disposal of the body. “Your honour knows,” he added, “that I make my bread by living men, not by dead corpses; and old Mr. Dryfesdale, who was but a sorry customer while he was alive, occupies my public room now that he is deceased, and can neither call for ale nor brandy.”
“Tie a stone round his neck,” said Seyton, “and when the sun is down, have him to the Loch of Ore, heave him in, and let him alone for finding out the bottom.”
“Under your favour, sir,” said George Douglas, “it shall not be so.— Keltie, thou art a true fellow to me, and thy having been so shall advantage thee. Send or take the body to the chapel at Scotland’s wall, or to the church of Ballanry, and tell what tale thou wilt of his having fallen in a brawl with some unruly guests of thine. Auchtermuchty knows nought else, nor are the times so peaceful as to admit close-looking into such accounts.”
“Nay, let him tell the truth,” said Seyton, “so far as it harms not our scheme.— Say that Henry Seyton met with him, my good fellow;— I care not a brass bodle for the feud.”
“A feud with the Douglas was ever to be feared, however,” said George, displeasure mingling with his natural deep gravity of manner.
“Not when the best of the name is on my side,” replied Seyton.
“Alas! Henry, if thou meanest me, I am but half a Douglas in this emprize — half head, half heart, and half hand.— But I will think on one who can never be forgotten, and be all, or more, than any of my ancestors was ever.— Keltie, say it was Henry Seyton did the deed; but beware, not a word of me!— Let Auchtermuchty carry this packet” (which he had resealed with his own signet) “to my father at Edinburgh; and here is to pay for the funeral expenses, and thy loss of custom.”
“And the washing of the floor,” said the landlord, “which will be an extraordinary job; for blood they say, will scarcely ever cleanse out.”
“But as for your plan,” said George of Douglas, addressing Seyton, as if in continuation of what they had been before treating of, “it has a good face; but, under your favour, you are yourself too hot and too young, besides other reasons which are much against your playing the part you propose.”
“We will consult the Father Abbot upon it,” said the youth. “Do you ride to Kinross to-night?”
“Ay — so I purpose,” answered Douglas; “the night will be dark, and suits a muffled man. 34 — Keltie, I forgot, there should be a stone laid on that man’s grave, recording his name, and his only merit, which was being a faithful servant to the Douglas.”
“What religion was the man of?” said Seyton; “he used words, which make me fear I have sent Satan a subject before his time.”
“I can tell you little of that,” said George Douglas; “he was noted for disliking both Rome and Geneva, and spoke of lights he had learned among the fierce sectaries of Lower Germany — an evil doctrine it was, if we judge by the fruits. God keep us from presumptuously judging of Heaven’s secrets!”
“Amen!” said the young Seyton, “and from meeting any encounter this evening.”
“It is not thy wont to pray so,” said George Douglas.
“No! I leave that to you,” replied the youth, “when you are seized with scruples of engaging with your father’s vassals. But I would fain have this old man’s blood off these hands of mine ere I shed more — I will confess to the Abbot to-night, and I trust to have light penance for ridding the earth of such a miscreant. All I sorrow for is, that he was not a score of years younger — He drew steel first, however, that is one comfort.”
Ay, Pedro,— Come you here with mask and lantern.
Ladder of ropes and other moonshine tools —
Why, youngster, thou mayst cheat the old Duenna,
Flatter the waiting-woman, bribe the valet;
But know, that I her father play the Gryphon,
Tameless and sleepless, proof to fraud or bribe,
And guard the hidden, treasure of her beauty.
The Spanish Father .
The tenor of our tale carries us back to the Castle of Lochleven, where we take up the order of events on the same remarkable day on which Dryfesdale had been dismissed from the castle. It was past noon, the usual hour of dinner, yet no preparations seemed made for the Queen’s entertainment. Mary herself had retired into her own apartment, where she was closely engaged in writing. Her attendants were together in the presence-chamber, and much disposed to speculate on the delay of the dinner; for it may be recollected that their breakfast had been interrupted. “I believe in my conscience,” said the page, “that having found the poisoning scheme miscarry, by having gone to the wrong merchant for their deadly wares, they are now about to try how famine will work upon us.”
Lady Fleming was somewhat alarmed at this surmise, but comforted herself by observing that the chimney of the kitchen had reeked that whole day in a manner which contradicted the supposition.— Catherine Seyton presently exclaimed, “They were bearing the dishes across the court, marshalled by the Lady Lochleven herself, dressed out in her highest and stiffest ruff, with her partlet and sleeves of cyprus, and her huge old-fashioned farthingale of crimson velvet.”
“I believe on my word,” said the page, approaching the window also, “it was in that very farthingale that she captivated the heart of gentle King Jamie, which procured our poor Queen her precious bargain of a brother.”
“That may hardly be, Master Roland,” answered the Lady Fleming, who was a great recorder of the changes of fashion, “since the farthingales came first in when the Queen Regent went to Saint Andrews, after the battle of Pinkie, and were then called Vertugardins —”
She would have proceeded farther in this important discussion, but was interrupted by the entrance of the Lady of Lochleven, who preceded the servants bearing the dishes, and formally discharged the duty of tasting each of them. Lady Fleming regretted, in courtly phrase, that the Lady of Lochleven should have undertaken so troublesome an office.”
“After the strange incident of this day, madam,” said the Lady, “it is necessary for my honour and that of my son, that I partake whatever is offered to my involuntary guest. Please to inform the Lady Mary that I attend her commands.”
“Her Majesty,” replied Lady Fleming, with due emphasis on the word, “shall be informed that the Lady Lochleven waits.”
Mary appeared instantly, and addressed her hostess with courtesy, which even approached to something more cordial. “This is nobly done, Lady Lochleven,” she said; “for though we ourselves apprehend no danger under your roof, our ladies have been much alarmed by this morning’s chance, and our meal will be the more cheerful for your presence and assurance. Please you to sit down.”
The Lady Lochleven obeyed the Queen’s commands, and Roland performed the office of carver and attendant as usual. But, notwithstanding what the Queen had said, the meal was silent and unsocial; and every effort which Mary made to excite some conversation, died away under the solemn and chill replies of the Lady of Lochleven. At length it became plain that the Queen, who had considered these advances as a condescension on her part, and who piqued herself justly on her powers of pleasing, became offended at the repulsive conduct of her hostess. After looking with a significant glance at Lady Fleming and Catherine, she slightly shrugged her shoulders, and remained silent. A pause ensued, at the end of which the Lady Douglas spoke:—“I perceive, madam, I am a check on the mirth of this fair company. I pray you to excuse me — I am a widow — alone here in a most perilous charge —— deserted by my grandson — betrayed by my servant — I am little worthy of the grace you do me in offering me a seat at your table, where I am aware that wit and pastime are usually expected from the guests.”
“If the Lady Lochleven is serious,” said the Queen, “we wonder by what simplicity she expects our present meals to be seasoned with mirth. If she is a widow, she lives honoured and uncontrolled, at the head of her late husband’s household. But I know at least of one widowed woman in the world, before whom the words desertion and betrayal ought never to be mentioned, since no one has been made so bitterly acquainted with their import.”
“I meant not, madam, to remind you of your misfortunes, by the mention of mine,” answered the Lady Lochleven, and there was again a deep silence.
Mary at length addressed Lady Fleming. “We can commit no deadly sins here, ma bonne , where we are so well warded and looked to; but if we could, this Carthusian silence might be useful as a kind of penance. If thou hast adjusted my wimple amiss, my Fleming, or if Catherine hath made a wry stitch in her broidery, when she was thinking of something else than her work, or if Roland Graeme hath missed a wild-duck on the wing, and broke a quarrel-pane 35 of glass in the turret window, as chanced to him a week since, now is the time to think on your sins and to repent of them.”
“Madam, I speak with all reverence,” said the Lady Lochleven; “but I am old, and claim the privilege of age. Methinks your followers might find fitter subjects for repentance than the trifles you mention, and so mention — once more, I crave your pardon — as if you jested with sin and repentance both.”
“You have been our taster, Lady Lochleven,” said the Queen, “I perceive you would eke out your duty with that of our Father Confessor — and since you choose that our conversation should be serious, may I ask you why the Regent’s promise — since your son so styles himself — has not been kept to me in that respect? From time to time this promise has been renewed, and as constantly broken. Methinks those who pretend themselves to so much gravity and sanctity, should not debar from others the religious succours which their consciences require.”
“Madam, the Earl of Murray was indeed weak enough,” said the Lady Lochleven, “to give so far way to your unhappy prejudices, and a religioner of the Pope presented himself on his part at our town of Kinross. But the Douglass is Lord of his own castle, and will not permit his threshold to be darkened, no not for a single moment, by an emissary belonging to the Bishop of Rome.”
“Methinks it were well, then,” said Mary, “that my Lord Regent would send me where there is less scruple and more charity.”
“In this, madam,” answered the Lady Lochleven, “you mistake the nature both of charity and of religion. Charity giveth to those who are in delirium the medicaments which may avail their health, but refuses those enticing cates and liquors which please the palate, but augment the disease.”
“This your charity, Lady Lochleven, is pure cruelty, under the hypocritical disguise of friendly care. I am oppressed amongst you as if you meant the destruction both of my body and soul; but Heaven will not endure such iniquity for ever, and they who are the most active agents in it may speedily expect their reward.”
At this moment Randal entered the apartment, with a look so much perturbed, that the Lady Fleming uttered a faint scream, the Queen was obviously startled, and the Lady of Lochleven, though too bold and proud to evince any marked signs of alarm, asked hastily what was the matter?
“Dryfesdale has been slain, madam,” was the reply; “murdered as soon as he gained the dry land by young Master Henry Seyton.”
It was now Catherine’s turn to start and grow pale —“Has the murderer of the Douglas’s vassal escaped?” was the Lady’s hasty question.
“There was none to challenge him but old Keltie, and the carrier Auchtermuchty,” replied Randal; “unlikely men to stay one of the frackest 36 youths in Scotland of his years, and who was sure to have friends and partakers at no great distance.”
“Was the deed completed?” said the Lady.
“Done, and done thoroughly,” said Randal; “a Seyton seldom strikes twice — But the body was not despoiled, and your honour’s packet goes forward to Edinburgh by Auchtermuchty, who leaves Keltie-Bridge early tomorrow — marry, he has drunk two bottles of aquavitae to put the fright out of his head, and now sleeps them off beside his cart-avers.” 37
There was a pause when this fatal tale was told. The Queen and Lady Douglas looked on each other, as if each thought how she could best turn the incident to her own advantage in the controversy, which was continually kept alive betwixt them — Catherine Seyton kept her kerchief at her eyes and wept.
“You see, madam, the bloody maxims and practice of the deluded Papists,” said Lady Lochleven.
“Nay, madam,” replied the Queen, “say rather you see the deserved judgment of Heaven upon a Calvinistical poisoner.”
“Dryfesdale was not of the Church of Geneva, or of Scotland,” said the Lady of Lochleven, hastily.
“He was a heretic, however,” replied Mary; “there is but one true and unerring guide; the others lead alike into error.”
“Well, madam, I trust it will reconcile you to your retreat, that this deed shows the temper of those who might wish you at liberty. Blood-thirsty tyrants, and cruel men-quellers are they all, from the Clan-Ranald and Clan-Tosach in the north, to the Ferniherst and Buccleuch in the south — the murdering Seytons in the east, and —”
“Methinks, madam, you forget that I am a Seyton?” said Catherine, withdrawing her kerchief from her face, which was now coloured with indignation.
“If I had forgot it, fair mistress, your forward bearing would have reminded me,” said Lady Lochleven.
“If my brother has slain the villain that would have poisoned his Sovereign, and his sister,” said Catherine, “I am only so far sorry that he should have spared the hangman his proper task. For aught farther, had it been the best Douglas in the land, he would have been honoured in falling by the Seyton’s sword.”
“Farewell, gay mistress,” said the Lady of Lochleven, rising to withdraw; “it is such maidens as you, who make giddy-fashioned revellers and deadly brawlers. Boys must needs rise, forsooth, in the grace of some sprightly damsel, who thinks to dance through life as through a French galliard.” She then made her reverence to the Queen, and added, “Do you also, madam, fare you well, till curfew time, when I will make, perchance, more bold than welcome in attending upon your supper board.— Come with me, Randal, and tell me more of this cruel fact.”
“’Tis an extraordinary chance,” said the Queen, when she had departed; “and, villain as he was, I would this man had been spared time for repentance. We will cause something to be done for his soul, if we ever attain our liberty, and the Church will permit such grace to a heretic.— But, tell me, Catherine, ma mignóne — this brother of thine, who is so frack , as the fellow called him, bears he the same wonderful likeness to thee as formerly?”
“If your Grace means in temper, you know whether I am so frack as the serving-man spoke him.”
“Nay, thou art prompt enough in all reasonable conscience,” replied the Queen; “but thou art my own darling notwithstanding — But I meant, is this thy twin-brother as like thee in form and features as formerly? I remember thy dear mother alleged it as a reason for destining thee to the veil, that, were ye both to go at large, thou wouldst surely get the credit of some of thy brother’s mad pranks.”
“I believe, madam,” said Catherine, “there are some unusually simple people even yet, who can hardly distinguish betwixt us, especially when, for diversion’s sake, my brother hath taken a female dress,”— and as she spoke, she gave a quick glance at Roland Graeme, to whom this conversation conveyed a ray of light, welcome as ever streamed into the dungeon of a captive through the door which opened to give him freedom.
“He must be a handsome cavalier this brother of thine, if he be so like you,” replied Mary. “He was in France, I think, for these late years, so that I saw him not at Holyrood.”
“His looks, madam, have never been much found fault with,” answered Catherine Seyton; “but I would he had less of that angry and heady spirit which evil times have encouraged amongst our young nobles. God knows, I grudge not his life in your Grace’s quarrel; and love him for the willingness with which he labours for your rescue. But wherefore should he brawl with an old ruffianly serving-man, and stain at once his name with such a broil, and his hands with the blood of an old and ignoble wretch?”
“Nay, be patient, Catherine; I will not have thee traduce my gallant young knight. With Henry for my knight, and Roland Graeme for my trusty squire, methinks I am like a princess of romance, who may shortly set at defiance the dungeons and the weapons of all wicked sorcerers.— But my head aches with the agitation of the day. Take me La Mer Des Histoires , and resume where we left off on Wednesday.— Our Lady help thy head, girl, or rather may she help thy heart!— I asked thee for the Sea of Histories, and thou hast brought La Cronique d’Amour .”
Once embarked upon the Sea of Histories, the Queen continued her labours with her needle, while Lady Fleming and Catherine read to her alternately for two hours.
As to Roland Graeme, it is probable that he continued in secret intent upon the Chronicle of Love, notwithstanding the censure which the Queen seemed to pass upon that branch of study. He now remembered a thousand circumstances of voice and manner, which, had his own prepossession been less, must surely have discriminated the brother from the sister; and he felt ashamed, that, having as it were by heart every particular of Catherine’s gestures, words, and manners, he should have thought her, notwithstanding her spirits and levity, capable of assuming the bold step, loud tones, and forward assurance, which accorded well enough with her brother’s hasty and masculine character. He endeavoured repeatedly to catch a glance of Catherine’s eye, that he might judge how she was disposed to look upon him since he had made the discovery, but he was unsuccessful; for Catherine, when she was not reading herself, seemed to take so much interest in the exploits of the Teutonic knights against the Heathens of Esthonia and Livonia, that he could not surprise her eye even for a second. But when, closing the book, the Queen commanded their attendance in the garden, Mary, perhaps of set purpose, (for Roland’s anxiety could not escape so practised an observer,) afforded him a favourable opportunity of accosting his mistress. The Queen commanded them to a little distance, while she engaged Lady Fleming in a particular and private conversation; the subject whereof we learn, from another authority, to have been the comparative excellence of the high standing ruff and the falling band. Roland must have been duller, and more sheepish than ever was youthful lover, if he had not endeavoured to avail himself of this opportunity.
“I have been longing this whole evening to ask of you, fair Catherine,” said the page, “how foolish and unapprehensive you must have thought me, in being capable to mistake betwixt your brother and you?”
“The circumstance does indeed little honour to my rustic manners,” said Catherine, “since those of a wild young man were so readily mistaken for mine. But I shall grow wiser in time; and with that view I am determined not to think of your follies, but to correct my own.”
“It will be the lighter subject of meditation of the two,” said Roland.
“I know not that,” said Catherine, very gravely; “I fear we have been both unpardonably foolish.”
“I have been mad,” said Roland, “unpardonably mad. But you, lovely Catherine —”
“I,” said Catherine, in the same tone of unusual gravity, “have too long suffered you to use such expressions towards me — I fear I can permit it no longer, and I blame myself for the pain it may give you.”
“And what can have happened so suddenly to change our relation to each other, or alter, with such sudden cruelty, your whole deportment to me?”
“I can hardly tell,” replied Catherine, “unless it is that the events of the day have impressed on my mind the necessity of our observing more distance to each other. A chance similar to that which betrayed to you the existence of my brother, may make known to Henry the terms you have used to me; and, alas! his whole conduct, as well as his deed, this day, makes me too justly apprehensive of the consequences.”
“Fear nothing for that, fair Catherine,” answered the page; “I am well able to protect myself against risks of that nature.”
“That is to say,” replied she, “that you would fight with my twin-brother to show your regard for his sister? I have heard the Queen say, in her sad hours, that men are, in love or in hate, the most selfish animals of creation; and your carelessness in this matter looks very like it. But be not so much abashed — you are no worse than others.”
“You do me injustice, Catherine,” replied the page, “I thought but of being threatened with a sword, and did not remember in whose hand your fancy had placed it. If your brother stood before me, with his drawn weapon in his hand, so like as he is to you in word, person, and favour, he might shed my life’s blood ere I could find in my heart to resist him to his injury.”
“Alas!” said she, “it is not my brother alone. But you remember only the singular circumstances in which we have met in equality, and I may say in intimacy. You think not, that whenever I re-enter my father’s house, there is a gulf between us you may not pass, but with peril of your life.— Your only known relative is of wild and singular habits, of a hostile and broken clan 38 — the rest of your lineage unknown — forgive me that I speak what is the undeniable truth.”
“Love, my beautiful Catherine, despises genealogies,” answered Roland Graeme.
“Love may, but so will not the Lord Seyton,” rejoined the damsel.
“The Queen, thy mistress and mine, she will intercede. Oh! drive me not from you at the moment I thought myself most happy!— and if I shall aid her deliverance, said not yourself that you and she would become my debtors?”
“All Scotland will become your debtors,” said Catherine; “but for the active effects you might hope from our gratitude, you must remember I am wholly subjected to my father; and the poor Queen is, for a long time, more likely to be dependant on the pleasure of the nobles of her party, than possessed of power to control them.”
“Be it so,” replied Roland; “my deeds shall control prejudice itself — it is a bustling world, and I will have my share. The Knight of Avenel, high as he now stands, rose from as obscure an origin as mine.”
“Ay!” said Catherine, “there spoke the doughty knight of romance, that will cut his way to the imprisoned princess, through fiends and fiery dragons!”
“But if I can set the princess at large, and procure her the freedom of her own choice,” said the page, “where, dearest Catherine, will that choice alight?”
“Release the princess from duresse, and she will tell you,” said the damsel; and breaking off the conversation abruptly, she joined the Queen so suddenly, that Mary exclaimed, half aloud —
“No more tidings of evil import — no dissension, I trust, in my limited household?”— Then looking on Catherine’s blushing cheek, and Roland’s expanded brow and glancing eye —“No — no,” she said, “I see all is well — Ma petite mignone , go to my apartment and fetch me down — let me see — ay, fetch my pomander box.”
And having thus disposed of her attendant in the manner best qualified to hide her confusion, the Queen added, speaking apart to Roland, “I should at least have two grateful subjects of Catherine and you; for what sovereign but Mary would aid true love so willingly?— Ay, you lay your hand on your sword — your petite flamberge à rien there — Well, short time will show if all the good be true that is protested to us — I hear them toll curfew from Kinross. To our chamber — this old dame hath promised to be with us again at our evening meal. Were it not for the hope of speedy deliverance, her presence would drive me distracted. But I will be patient.”
“I profess,” said Catherine, who just then entered, “I would I could be Henry, with all a man’s privileges, for one moment — I long to throw my plate at that confect of pride and formality, and ill-nature.”
The Lady Fleming reprimanded her young companion for this explosion of impatience; the Queen laughed, and they went to the presence-chamber, where almost immediately entered supper, and the Lady of the castle. The Queen, strong in her prudent resolutions, endured her presence with great fortitude and equanimity, until her patience was disturbed by a new form, which had hitherto made no part of the ceremonial of the castle. When the other attendant had retired, Randal entered, bearing the keys of the castle fastened upon a chain, and, announcing that the watch was set, and the gates locked, delivered the keys with all reverence to the Lady of Lochleven.
The Queen and her ladies exchanged with each other a look of disappointment, anger, and vexation; and Mary said aloud, “We cannot regret the smallness of our court, when we see our hostess discharge in person so many of its offices. In addition to her charges of principal steward of our household and grand almoner, she has to-night done duty as captain of our guard.”
“And will continue to do so in future, madam,” answered the Lady Lochleven, with much gravity; “the history of Scotland may teach me how ill the duty is performed, which is done by an accredited deputy — We have heard, madam, of favourites of later date, and as little merit, as Oliver Sinclair.” 39
“Oh, madam,” replied the Queen, “my father had his female as well as his male favourites — there were the Ladies Sandilands and Olifaunt, 40 and some others, methinks; but their names cannot survive in the memory of so grave a person as you.”
The Lady Lochleven looked as if she could have slain the Queen on the spot, but commanded her temper and retired from the apartment, bearing in her hand the ponderous bunch of keys.
“Now God be praised for that woman’s youthful frailty!” said the Queen. “Had she not that weak point in her character, I might waste my words on her in vain — But that stain is the very reverse of what is said of the witch’s mark — I can make her feel there, though she is otherwise insensible all over.— But how say you, girls — here is a new difficulty — How are these keys to be come by?— there is no deceiving or bribing this dragon, I trow.”
“May I crave to know,” said Roland, “whether, if your Grace were beyond the walls of the castle, you could find means of conveyance to the firm land, and protection when you are there?”
“Trust us for that, Roland,” said the Queen; “for to that point our scheme is indifferent well laid.”
“Then if your Grace will permit me to speak my mind, I think I could be of some use in this matter.”
“As how, my good youth?— speak on,” said the Queen, “and fearlessly.”
“My patron the Knight of Avenel used to compel the youth educated in his household to learn the use of axe and hammer, and working in wood and iron — he used to speak of old northern champions, who forged their own weapons, and of the Highland Captain, Donald nan Ord, or Donald of the Hammer, whom he himself knew, and who used to work at the anvil with a sledge-hammer in each hand. Some said he praised this art, because he was himself of churl’s blood. However, I gained some practice in it, as the Lady Catherine Seyton partly knows; for since we were here, I wrought her a silver brooch.”
“Ay,” replied Catharine, “but you should tell her Grace that your workmanship was so indifferent that it broke to pieces next day, and I flung it away.”
“Believe her not, Roland,” said the Queen; “she wept when it was broken, and put the fragments into her bosom. But for your scheme — could your skill avail to forge a second set of keys?”
“No, madam, because I know not the wards. But I am convinced I could make a set so like that hateful bunch which the Lady bore off even now, that could they be exchanged against them by any means, she would never dream she was possessed of the wrong.”
“And the good dame, thank Heaven, is somewhat blind,” said the Queen; “but then for a forge, my boy, and the means of labouring unobserved?”
“The armourer’s forge, at which I used sometimes to work with him, is the round vault at the bottom of the turret — he was dismissed with the warder for being supposed too much attached to George Douglas. The people are accustomed to see me work there, and I warrant I shall find some excuse that will pass current with them for putting bellows and anvil to work.”
“The scheme has a promising face,” said the Queen; “about it, my lad, with all speed, and beware the nature of your work is not discovered.”
“Nay, I will take the liberty to draw the bolt against chance visitors, so that I will have time to put away what I am working upon, before I undo the door.”
“Will not that of itself attract suspicion, in a place where it is so current already?” said Catherine.
“Not a whit,” replied Roland; “Gregory the armourer, and every good hammerman, locks himself in when he is about some master piece of craft. Besides, something must be risked.”
“Part we then to-night,” said the Queen, “and God bless you my children!— If Mary’s head ever rises above water, you shall all rise along with her.”
It is a time of danger, not of revel,
When churchmen turn to masquers.
The Spanish Father .
The enterprise of Roland Graeme appeared to prosper. A trinket or two, of which the work did not surpass the substance, (for the materials were silver, supplied by the Queen,) were judiciously presented to those most likely to be inquisitive into the labours of the forge and anvil, which they thus were induced to reckon profitable to others and harmless in itself. Openly, the page was seen working about such trifles. In private, he forged a number of keys resembling so nearly in weight and in form those which were presented every evening to the Lady Lochleven, that, on a slight inspection, it would have been difficult to perceive the difference. He brought them to the dark rusty colour by the use of salt and water; and, in the triumph of his art, presented them at length to Queen Mary in her presence-chamber, about an hour before the tolling of the curfew. She looked at them with pleasure, but at the same time with doubt.—“I allow,” she said, “that the Lady Lochleven’s eyes, which are not of the clearest, may be well deceived, could we pass those keys on her in place of the real implements of her tyranny. But how is this to be done, and which of my little court dare attempt this tour de jongleur with any chance of success? Could we but engage her in some earnest matter of argument — but those which I hold with her, always have been of a kind which make her grasp her keys the faster, as if she said to herself — Here I hold what sets me above your taunts and reproaches — And even for her liberty, Mary Stuart could not stoop to speak the proud heretic fair.— What shall we do? Shall Lady Fleming try her eloquence in describing the last new head-tire from Paris?— alas! the good dame has not changed the fashion of her head-gear since Pinkie-field for aught that I know. Shall my mignóne Catherine sing to her one of those touching airs, which draw the very souls out of me and Roland Graeme?— Alas! Dame Margaret Douglas would rather hear a Huguenot psalm of Clement Marrot, sung to the tune of Reveillez vous, belle endormie. — Cousins and liege counsellors, what is to be done, for our wits are really astray in this matter?— Must our man-at-arms and the champion of our body, Roland Graeme, manfully assault the old lady, and take the keys from her par voie du fait? ”
“Nay! with your Grace’s permission.” said Roland, “I do not doubt being able to manage the matter with more discretion; for though, in your Grace’s service, I do not fear —”
“A host of old women,” interrupted Catherine, “each armed with rock and spindle, yet he has no fancy for pikes and partisans, which might rise at the cry of Help! a Douglas, a Douglas! ”
“They that do not fear fair ladies’ tongues,” continued the page, “need dread nothing else.— But, gracious Liege, I am well-nigh satisfied that I could pass the exchange of these keys on the Lady Lochleven; but I dread the sentinel who is now planted nightly in the garden, which, by necessity, we must traverse.”
“Our last advices from our friends on the shore have promised us assistance in that matter,” replied the Queen.
“And is your Grace well assured of the fidelity and watchfulness of those without?”
“For their fidelity, I will answer with my life, and for their vigilance, I will answer with my life — I will give thee instant proof, my faithful Roland, that they are ingenuous and trusty as thyself. Come hither — Nay, Catherine, attend us; we carry not so deft a page into our private chamber alone. Make fast the door of the parlour, Fleming, and warn us if you hear the least step — or stay, go thou to the door, Catherine,” (in a whisper, “thy ears and thy wits are both sharper.)— Good Fleming, attend us thyself”—(and again she whispered, “her reverend presence will be as safe a watch on Roland as thine can — so be not jealous, mignone .”)
Thus speaking, they were lighted by the Lady Fleming into the Queen’s bedroom, a small apartment enlightened by a projecting window.
“Look from that window, Roland,” she said; “see you amongst the several lights which begin to kindle, and to glimmer palely through the gray of the evening from the village of Kinross-seest thou, I say, one solitary spark apart from the others, and nearer it seems to the verge of the water?— It is no brighter at this distance than the torch of the poor glowworm, and yet, my good youth, that light is more dear to Mary Stuart, than every star that twinkles in the blue vault of heaven. By that signal, I know that more than one true heart is plotting my deliverance; and without that consciousness, and the hope of freedom it gives me, I had long since stooped to my fate, and died of a broken heart. Plan after plan has been formed and abandoned, but still the light glimmers; and while it glimmers, my hope lives.— Oh! how many evenings have I sat musing in despair over our ruined schemes, and scarce hoping that I should again see that blessed signal; when it has suddenly kindled, and, like the lights of Saint Elmo in a tempest, brought hope and consolation, where there, was only dejection and despair!”
“If I mistake not,” answered Roland, “the candle shines from the house of Blinkhoolie, the mail-gardener.”
“Thou hast a good eye,” said the Queen; “it is there where my trusty lieges — God and the saints pour blessings on them!— hold consultation for my deliverance. The voice of a wretched captive would die on these blue waters, long ere it could mingle in their councils; and yet I can hold communication — I will confide the whole to thee — I am about to ask those faithful friends if the moment for the great attempt is nigh.— Place the lamp in the window, Fleming.”
She obeyed, and immediately withdrew it. No sooner had she done so, than the light in the cottage of the gardener disappeared.
“Now count,” said Queen Mary, “for my heart beats so thick that I cannot count myself.”
The Lady Fleming began deliberately to count one, two, three, and when she had arrived at ten, the light on the shore showed its pale twinkle.
“Now, our Lady be praised!” said the Queen; “it was but two nights since, that the absence of the light remained while I could tell thirty. The hour of deliverance approaches. May God bless those who labour in it with such truth to me!— alas! with such hazard to themselves — and bless you, too, my children!— Come, we must to the audience-chamber again. Our absence might excite suspicion, should they serve supper.”
They returned to the presence-chamber, and the evening concluded as usual.
The next morning, at dinner-time, an unusual incident occurred. While Lady Douglas of Lochleven performed her daily duty of assistant and taster at the Queen’s table, she was told a man-at-arms had arrived, recommended by her son, but without any letter or other token than what he brought by word of mouth.
“Hath he given you that token?” demanded the Lady.
“He reserved it, as I think, for your Ladyship’s ear,” replied Randal.
“He doth well,” said the Lady; “tell him to wait in the hall — But no — with your permission, madam,” (to the Queen) “let him attend me here.”
“Since you are pleased to receive your domestics in my presence,” said the Queen, “I cannot choose —”
“My infirmities must plead my excuse, madam,” replied the Lady; “the life I must lead here ill suits with the years which have passed over my head, and compels me to waive ceremonial.”
“Oh, my good Lady,” replied the Queen, “I would there were nought in this your castle more strongly compulsive than the cobweb chains of ceremony; but bolts and bars are harder matters to contend with.”
As she spoke, the person announced by Randal entered the room, and Roland Graeme at once recognized in him the Abbot Ambrosius.
“What is your name, good fellow?” said the Lady.
“Edward Glendinning,” answered the Abbot, with a suitable reverence.
“Art thou of the blood of the Knight of Avenel?” said the Lady of Lochleven.
“Ay, madam, and that nearly,” replied the pretended soldier.
“It is likely enough,” said the Lady, “for the Knight is the son of his own good works, and has risen from obscure lineage to his present high rank in the Estate — But he is of sure truth and approved worth, and his kinsman is welcome to us. You hold, unquestionably, the true faith?”
“Do not doubt of it, madam,” said the disguised churchman.
“Hast thou a token to me from Sir William Douglas?” said the Lady.
“I have, madam,” replied he; “but it must be said in private.”
“Thou art right,” said the Lady, moving towards the recess of a window; “say in what does it consist?”
“In the words of an old bard,” replied the Abbot.
“Repeat them,” answered the Lady; and he uttered, in a low tone, the lines from an old poem, called The Howlet,—
“O Douglas! Douglas!
Tender and true.”
“Trusty Sir John Holland!” 41 said the Lady Douglas, apostrophizing the poet, “a kinder heart never inspired a rhyme, and the Douglas’s honour was ever on thy heart-string! We receive you among our followers, Glendinning — But, Randal, see that he keep the outer ward only, till we shall hear more touching him from our son.— Thou fearest not the night air. Glendinning?”
“In the cause of the Lady before whom I stand, I fear nothing, madam,” answered the disguised Abbot.
“Our garrison, then, is stronger by one trustworthy soldier,” said the matron —“Go to the buttery, and let them make much of thee.”
When the Lady Lochleven had retired, the Queen said to Roland Graeme, who was now almost constantly in her company, “I spy comfort in that stranger’s countenance; I know not why it should be so, but I am well persuaded he is a friend.”
“Your Grace’s penetration does not deceive you,” answered the page; and he informed her that the Abbot of St. Mary’s himself played the part of the newly arrived soldier.
The Queen crossed herself and looked upwards. “Unworthy sinner that I am,” she said, “that for my sake a man so holy, and so high in spiritual office, should wear the garb of a base sworder, and run the risk of dying the death of a traitor!”
“Heaven will protect its own servant, madam,” said Catherine Seyton; “his aid would bring a blessing on our undertaking, were it not already blest for its own sake.”
“What I admire in my spiritual father,” said Roland, “was the steady front with which he looked on me, without giving the least sign of former acquaintance. I did not think the like was possible, since I have ceased to believe that Henry was the same person with Catherine.”
“But marked you not how astuciously the good father,” said the Queen, “eluded the questions of the woman Lochleven, telling her the very truth, which yet she received not as such?”
Roland thought in his heart, that when the truth was spoken for the purpose of deceiving, it was little better than a lie in disguise. But it was no time to agitate such questions of conscience.
“And now for the signal from the shore,” exclaimed Catherine; “my bosom tells me we shall see this night two lights instead of one gleam from that garden of Eden — And then, Roland, do you play your part manfully, and we will dance on the greensward like midnight fairies!”
Catherine’s conjecture misgave not, nor deceived her. In the evening two beams twinkled from the cottage, instead of one; and the page heard, with beating heart, that the new retainer was ordered to stand sentinel on the outside of the castle. When he intimated this news to the Queen, she held her hand out to him — he knelt, and when he raised it to his lips in all dutiful homage, he found it was damp and cold as marble. “For God’s sake, madam, droop not now,— sink not now!”
“Call upon our Lady, my Liege,” said the Lady Fleming —“call upon your tutelar saint.”
“Call the spirits of the hundred kings you are descended from,” exclaimed the page; “in this hour of need, the resolution of a monarch were worth the aid of a hundred saints.”
“Oh! Roland Graeme,” said Mary, in a tone of deep despondency, “be true to me — many have been false to me. Alas! I have not always been true to myself. My mind misgives me that I shall die in bondage, and that this bold attempt will cost all our lives. It was foretold me by a soothsayer in France, that I should die in prison, and by a violent death, and here comes the hour — Oh, would to God it found me prepared!”
“Madam,” said Catherine Seyton, “remember you are a Queen. Better we all died in bravely attempting to gain our freedom, than remained here to be poisoned, as men rid them of the noxious vermin that haunt old houses.”
“You are right, Catherine,” said the Queen; “and Mary will bear her like herself. But alas! your young and buoyant spirit can ill spell the causes which have broken mine. Forgive me, my children, and farewell for a while — I will prepare both mind and body for this awful venture.”
They separated, till again called together by the tolling of the curfew. The Queen appeared grave, but firm and resolved; the Lady Fleming, with the art of an experienced courtier, knew perfectly how to disguise her inward tremors; Catherine’s eye was fired, as if with the boldness of the project, and the half smile which dwelt upon her beautiful mouth seemed to contemn all the risk and all the consequences of discovery; Roland, who felt how much success depended on his own address and boldness, summoned together his whole presence of mind, and if he found his spirits flag for a moment, cast his eye upon Catherine, whom he thought he had never seen look so beautiful.—“I may be foiled,” he thought, “but with this reward in prospect, they must bring the devil to aid them ere they cross me.” Thus resolved, he stood like a greyhound in the slips, with hand, heart, and eye intent upon making and seizing opportunity for the execution of their project.
The keys had, with the wonted ceremonial, been presented to the Lady Lochleven. She stood with her back to the casement, which, like that of the Queen’s apartment, commanded a view of Kinross, with the church, which stands at some distance from the town, and nearer to the lake, then connected with the town by straggling cottages. With her back to this casement, then, and her face to the table, on which the keys lay for an instant while she tasted the various dishes which were placed there, stood the Lady of Lochleven, more provokingly intent than usual — so at least it seemed to her prisoners — upon the huge and heavy bunch of iron, the implements of their restraint. Just when, having finished her ceremony as taster of the Queen’s table, she was about to take up the keys, the page, who stood beside her, and had handed her the dishes in succession, looked sideways to the churchyard, and exclaimed he saw corpse-candles in the churchyard. The Lady of Lochleven was not without a touch, though a slight one, of the superstitions of the time; the fate of her sons made her alive to omens, and a corpse-light, as it was called, in the family burial-place boded death. She turned her head towards the casement — saw a distant glimmering — forgot her charge for one second, and in that second were lost the whole fruits of her former vigilance. The page held the forged keys under his cloak, and with great dexterity exchanged them for the real ones. His utmost address could not prevent a slight clash as he took up the latter bunch. “Who touches the keys?” said the Lady; and while the page answered that the sleeve of his cloak had stirred them, she looked round, possessed herself of the bunch which now occupied the place of the genuine keys, and again turned to gaze on the supposed corpse-candles.
“I hold these gleams,” she said, after a moment’s consideration, “to come, not from the churchyard, but from the hut of the old gardener Blinkhoolie. I wonder what thrift that churl drives, that of late he hath ever had light in his house till the night grew deep. I thought him an industrious, peaceful man — If he turns resetter of idle companions and night-walkers, the place must be rid of him.”
“He may work his baskets perchance,” said the page, desirous to stop the train of her suspicion.
“Or nets, may he not?” answered the Lady.
“Ay, madam,” said Roland, “for trout and salmon.”
“Or for fools and knaves,” replied the Lady: “but this shall be looked after tomorrow.— I wish your Grace and your company a good evening.— Randal, attend us.” And Randal, who waited in the antechamber after having surrendered his bunch of keys, gave his escort to his mistress as usual, while, leaving the Queen’s apartments, she retired to her own [End of paragraph missing in original]
“To-morrow” said the page, rubbing his hands with glee as he repeated the Lady’s last words, “fools look tomorrow, and wise folk use to-night.— May I pray you, my gracious Liege, to retire for one half hour, until all the castle is composed to rest? I must go and rub with oil these blessed implements of our freedom. Courage and constancy, and all will go well, provided our friends on the shore fail not to send the boat you spoke of.”
“Fear them not,” said Catherine, “they are true as steel — if our dear mistress do but maintain her noble and royal courage.”42
“Doubt not me, Catherine,” replied the Queen; “a while since I was overborne, but I have recalled the spirit of my earlier and more sprightly days, when I used to accompany my armed nobles, and wish to be myself a man, to know what life it was to be in the fields with sword and buckler, jack, and knapscap.”
“Oh, the lark lives not a gayer life, nor sings a lighter and gayer song than the merry soldier,” answered Catherine. “Your Grace shall be in the midst of them soon, and the look of such a liege Sovereign will make each of your host worth three in the hour of need:— but I must to my task.”
“We have but brief time,” said Queen Mary; “one of the two lights in the cottage is extinguished — that shows the boat is put off.”
“They will row very slow,” said the page, “or kent where depth permits, to avoid noise.— To our several tasks — I will communicate with the good Father.”
At the dead hour of midnight, when all was silent in the castle, the page put the key into the lock of the wicket which opened into the garden, and which was at the bottom of a staircase which descended from the Queen’s apartment. “Now, turn smooth and softly, thou good bolt,” said he, “if ever oil softened rust!” and his precautions had been so effectual, that the bolt revolved with little or no sound of resistance. He ventured not to cross the threshold, but exchanging a word with the disguised Abbot, asked if the boat were ready?
“This half hour,” said the sentinel. “She lies beneath the wall, too close under the islet to be seen by the warder, but I fear she will hardly escape his notice in putting off again.”
“The darkness,” said the page, “and our profound silence, may take her off unobserved, as she came in. Hildebrand has the watch on the tower — a heavy-headed knave, who holds a can of ale to be the best headpiece upon a night-watch. He sleeps, for a wager.”
“Then bring the Queen,” said the Abbot, “and I will call Henry Seyton to assist them to the boat.”
On tiptoe, with noiseless step and suppressed breath, trembling at every rustle of their own apparel, one after another the fair prisoners glided down the winding stair, under the guidance of Roland Graeme, and were received at the wicket-gate by Henry Seyton and the churchman. The former seemed instantly to take upon himself the whole direction of the enterprise. “My Lord Abbot,” he said, “give my sister your arm — I will conduct the Queen — and that youth will have the honour to guide Lady Fleming.”
This was no time to dispute the arrangement, although it was not that which Roland Graeme would have chosen. Catherine Seyton, who well knew the garden path, tripped on before like a sylph, rather leading the Abbot than receiving assistance — the Queen, her native spirit prevailing over female fear, and a thousand painful reflections, moved steadily forward, by the assistance of Henry Seyton — while the Lady Fleming, encumbered with her fears and her helplessness Roland Graeme, who followed in the rear, and who bore under the other arm a packet of necessaries belonging to the Queen. The door of the garden, which communicated with the shore of the islet, yielded to one of the keys of which Roland had possessed himself, although not until he had tried several,— a moment of anxious terror and expectation. The ladies were then partly led, partly carried, to the side of the lake, where a boat with six rowers attended them, the men couched along the bottom to secure them from observation. Henry Seyton placed the Queen in the stern; the Abbot offered to assist Catherine, but she was seated by the Queen’s side before he could utter his proffer of help; and Roland Graeme was just lifting Lady Fleming over the boat-side, when a thought suddenly occurred to him, and exclaiming, “Forgotten, forgotten! wait for me but one half-minute,” he replaced on the shore the helpless Lady of the bed-chamber, threw the Queen’s packet into the boat, and sped back through the garden with the noiseless speed of a bird on the wing.
“By Heaven, he is false at last!” said Seyton; “I ever feared it!”
“He is as true,” said Catherine, “as Heaven itself, and that I will maintain.”
“Be silent, minion,” said her brother, “for shame, if not for fear — Fellows, put off, and row for your lives!”
“Help me, help me on board!” said the deserted Lady Fleming, and that louder than prudence warranted.
“Put off — put off!” cried Henry Seyton; “leave all behind, so the Queen is safe.”
“Will you permit this, madam?” said Catherine, imploringly; “you leave your deliverer to death.”
“I will not,” said the Queen.—“Seyton I command you to stay at every risk.”
“Pardon me, madam, if I disobey,” said the intractable young man; and with one hand lifting in Lady Fleming, he began himself to push off the boat.
She was two fathoms’ length from the shore, and the rowers were getting her head round, when Roland Graeme, arriving, bounded from the beach, and attained the boat, overturning Seyton, on whom he lighted. The youth swore a deep but suppressed oath, and stopping Graeme as he stepped towards the stern, said, “Your place is not with high-born dames — keep at the head and trim the vessel — Now give way — give way — Row, for God and the Queen!”
The rowers obeyed, and began to pull vigorously.
“Why did ye not muffle the oars?” said Roland Graeme; “the dash must awaken the sentinel — Row, lads, and get out of reach of shot; for had not old Hildebrand, the warder, supped upon poppy-porridge, this whispering must have waked him.”
“It was all thine own delay,” said Seyton; “thou shalt reckon, with me hereafter for that and other matters.”
But Roland’s apprehension was verified too instantly to permit him to reply. The sentinel, whose slumbering had withstood the whispering, was alarmed by the dash of the oars. His challenge was instantly heard. “A boat —— a boat!— bring to, or I shoot!” And, as they continued to ply their oars, he called aloud, “Treason! treason!” rung the bell of the castle, and discharged his harquebuss at the boat. The ladies crowded on each other like startled wild foul, at the flash and report of the piece, while the men urged the rowers to the utmost speed. They heard more than one ball whiz along the surface of the lake, at no great distance from their little bark; and from the lights, which glanced like meteors from window to window, it was evident the whole castle was alarmed, and their escape discovered.
“Pull!” again exclaimed Seyton; “stretch to your oars, or I will spur you to the task with my dagger — they will launch a boat immediately.”
“That is cared for,” said Roland; “I locked gate and wicket on them when I went back, and no boat will stir from the island this night, if doors of good oak and bolts of iron can keep men within stone-walls.— And now I resign my office of porter of Lochleven, and give the keys to the Kelpie’s keeping.”
As the heavy keys plunged in the lake, the Abbot,— who till then had been repeating his prayers, exclaimed, “Now, bless thee, my son! for thy ready prudence puts shame on us all.”43
“I knew,” said Mary, drawing her breath more freely, as they were now out of reach of the musketry —“I knew my squire’s truth, promptitude, and sagacity.— I must have him my dear friends — with my no less true knights, Douglas and Seyton — but where, then, is Douglas?”
“Here, madam,” answered the deep and melancholy voice of the boatman who sat next her, and who acted as steersman.
“Alas! was it you who stretched your body before me,” said the Queen, “when the balls were raining around us?”
“Believe you,” said he, in a low tone, “that Douglas would have resigned to any one the chance of protecting his Queen’s life with his own?”
The dialogue was here interrupted by a shot or two from one of those small pieces of artillery called falconets, then used in defending castles. The shot was too vague to have any effect, but the broader flash, the deeper sound, the louder return which was made by the midnight echoes of Bennarty, terrified and imposed silence on the liberated prisoners. The boat was alongside of a rude quay or landing place, running out from a garden of considerable extent, ere any of them again attempted to speak. They landed, and while the Abbot returned thanks aloud to Heaven,— which had thus far favoured their enterprise, Douglas enjoyed the best reward of his desperate undertaking, in conducting the Queen to the house of the gardener.
Yet, not unmindful of Roland Graeme even in that moment of terror and exhaustion, Mary expressly commanded Seyton to give his assistance to Fleming, while Catherine voluntarily, and without bidding, took the arm of the page. Seyton presently resigned Lady Fleming to the care of the Abbot, alleging, he must look after their horses; and his attendants, disencumbering themselves of their boat-cloaks, hastened to assist him.
While Mary spent in the gardener’s cottage the few minutes which were necessary to prepare the steeds for their departure, she perceived, in a corner, the old man to whom the garden belonged, and called him to approach. He came as it were with reluctance.
“How, brother,” said the Abbot, “so slow to welcome thy royal Queen and mistress to liberty and to her kingdom!”
The old man, thus admonished, came forward, and, in good terms of speech, gave her Grace joy of her deliverance. The Queen returned him thanks in the most gracious manner, and added, “It will remain to us to offer some immediate reward for your fidelity, for we wot well your house has been long the refuge in which our trusty servants have met to concert measures for our freedom.” So saying, she offered gold, and added, “We will consider your services more fully hereafter.”
“Kneel, brother,” said the Abbot, “kneel instantly, and thank her Grace’s kindness,”
“Good brother, that wert once a few steps under me, and art still many years younger,” replied the gardener, pettishly, “let me do mine acknowledgments in my own way. Queens have knelt to me ere now, and in truth my knees are too old and stiff to bend even to this lovely-faced lady. May it please your Grace, if your Grace’s servants have occupied my house, so that I could not call it mine own — if they have trodden down my flowers in the zeal of their midnight comings and goings, and destroyed the hope of the fruit season, by bringing their war-horses into my garden, I do but crave of your Grace in requital, that you will choose your residence as far from me as possible. I am an old man who would willingly creep to my grave as easily as I can, in peace, good-will, and quiet labour.”
“I promise you fairly, good man,” said the Queen, “I will not make yonder castle my residence again, if I can help it. But let me press on you this money — it will make some amends for the havoc we have made in your little garden and orchard.”
“I thank your Grace, but it will make me not the least amends,” said the old man. “The ruined labours of a whole year are not so easily replaced to him who has perchance but that one year to live; and besides, they tell me I must leave this place and become a wanderer in mine old age — I that have nothing on earth saving these fruit-trees, and a few old parchments and family secrets not worth knowing. As for gold, if I had loved it, I might have remained Lord Abbot of St. Mary’s — and yet, I wot not — for, if Abbot Boniface be but the poor peasant Blinkhoolie, his successor, the Abbot Ambrosius, is still transmuted for the worse into the guise of a sword-and-buckler-man.”
“Is this indeed the Abbot Boniface of whom I have heard?” said the Queen. “It is indeed I who should have bent the knee for your blessing, good Father.”
“Bend no knee to me, Lady! The blessing of an old man, who is no longer an Abbot, go with you over dale and down — I hear the trampling of your horses.”
“Farewell, Father,” said the Queen. “When we are once more seated at Holyrood, we will neither forget thee nor thine injured garden.”
“Forget us both,” said the Ex-Abbot Boniface, “and may God be with you!”
As they hurried out of the house, they heard the old man talking and muttering to himself, as he hastily drew bolt and bar behind them.
“The revenge of the Douglasses will reach the poor old man,” said the Queen. “God help me, I ruin every one whom I approach!”
“His safety is cared for,” said Seyton; “he must not remain here, but will be privately conducted to a place of greater security. But I would your Grace were in the saddle.— To horse! to horse!”
The party of Seyton and of Douglas were increased to about ten by those attendants who had remained with the horses. The Queen and her ladies, with all the rest who came from the boat, were instantly mounted; and holding aloof from the village, which was already alarmed by the firing from the castle, with Douglas acting as their guide, they soon reached the open ground and began to ride as fast as was consistent with keeping together in good order.
He mounted himself on a coal-black steed,
And her on a freckled gray,
With a bugelet horn hung down from his side,
And roundly they rode away.
Old ballad.
The influence of the free air, the rushing of the horses over high and low, the ringing of the bridles, the excitation at once arising from a sense of freedom and of rapid motion, gradually dispelled the confused and dejected sort of stupefaction by which Queen Mary was at first overwhelmed. She could not at last conceal the change of her feelings to the person who rode at her rein, and who she doubted not was the Father Ambrosius; for Seyton, with all the heady impetuosity of a youth, proud, and justly so, of his first successful adventure, assumed all the bustle and importance of commander of the little party, which escorted, in the language of the time, the Fortune of Scotland. He now led the van, now checked his bounding steed till the rear had come up, exhorted the leaders to keep a steady, though rapid pace, and commanded those who were hindmost of the party to use their spurs, and allow no interval to take place in their line of march; and anon he was beside the Queen, or her ladies, inquiring how they brooked the hasty journey, and whether they had any commands for him. But while Seyton thus busied himself in the general cause with some advantage to the regular order of the march, and a good deal of personal ostentation, the horseman who rode beside the Queen gave her his full and undivided attention, as if he had been waiting upon some superior being. When the road was rugged and dangerous, he abandoned almost entirely the care of his own horse, and kept his hand constantly upon the Queen’s bridle; if a river or larger brook traversed their course, his left arm retained her in the saddle, while his right held her palfrey’s rein.
“I had not thought, reverend Father,” said the Queen, when they reached the other bank, “that the convent bred such good horsemen.”— The person she addressed sighed, but made no other answer.—“I know not how it is,” said Queen Mary, “but either the sense of freedom, or the pleasure of my favourite exercise, from which I have been so long debarred, or both combined, seem to have given wings to me — no fish ever shot through the water, no bird through the air, with the hurried feeling of liberty and rapture with which I sweep through, this night-wind, and over these wolds. Nay, such is the magic of feeling myself once more in the saddle, that I could almost swear I am at this moment mounted on my own favourite Rosabelle, who was never matched in Scotland for swiftness, for ease of motion, and for sureness of foot.”
“And if the horse which bears so dear a burden could speak,” answered the deep voice of the melancholy George of Douglas, “would she not reply, who but Rosabelle ought at such an emergence as this to serve her beloved mistress, or who but Douglas ought to hold her bridle-rein?”
Queen Mary started; she foresaw at once all the evils like to arise to herself and him from the deep enthusiastic passion of this youth; but her feelings as a woman, grateful at once and compassionate, prevented her assuming the dignity of a Queen, and she endeavoured to continue the conversation in an indifferent tone.
“Methought,” she said, “I heard that, at the division of my spoils, Rosabelle had become the property of Lord Morton’s paramour and ladye-love Alice.”
“The noble palfrey had indeed been destined to so base a lot,” answered Douglas; “she was kept under four keys, and under the charge of a numerous crew of grooms and domestics — but Queen Mary needed Rosabelle, and Rosabelle is here.”
“And was it well, Douglas,” said Queen Mary, “when such fearful risks of various kinds must needs be encountered, that you should augment their perils to yourself for a subject of so little moment as a palfrey?”
“Do you call that of little moment,” answered Douglas, “which has afforded you a moment’s pleasure?— Did you not start with joy when I first said you were mounted on Rosabelle?— And to purchase you that pleasure, though it were to last no longer than the flash of lightning doth, would not Douglas have risked his life a thousand times?”
“Oh, peace, Douglas, peace,” said the Queen, “this is unfitting language; and, besides, I would speak,” said she, recollecting herself, “with the Abbot of Saint Mary’s — Nay, Douglas, I will not let you quit my rein in displeasure.”
“Displeasure, lady!” answered Douglas: “alas! sorrow is all that I can feel for your well-warranted contempt — I should be as soon displeased with Heaven for refusing the wildest wish which mortal can form.”
“Abide by my rein, however,” said Mary, “there is room for my Lord Abbot on the other side; and, besides, I doubt if his assistance would be so useful to Rosabelle and me as yours has been, should the road again require it.”
The Abbot came up on the other side, and she immediately opened a conversation with him on the topic of the state of parties, and the plan fittest for her to pursue inconsequence of her deliverance. In this conversation Douglas took little share, and never but when directly applied to by the Queen, while, as before, his attention seemed entirely engrossed by the care of Mary’s personal safety. She learned, however, she had a new obligation to him, since, by his contrivance, the Abbot, whom he had furnished with the family pass-word, was introduced into the castle as one of the garrison.
Long before daybreak they ended their hasty and perilous journey before the gates of Niddrie, a castle in West Lothian, belonging to Lord Seyton. When the Queen was about to alight, Henry Seyton, preventing Douglas, received her in his arms, and, kneeling down, prayed her Majesty to enter the house of his father, her faithful servant.
“Your Grace,” he added, “may repose yourself here in perfect safety — it is already garrisoned with good men for your protection; and I have sent a post to my father, whose instant arrival, at the head of five hundred men, may be looked for. Do not dismay yourself, therefore, should your sleep be broken by the trampling of horse; but only think that here are some scores more of the saucy Seytons come to attend you.”
“And by better friends than the Saucy Seytons, a Scottish Queen cannot be guarded,” replied Mary. “Rosabelle went fleet as the summer breeze, and well-nigh as easy; but it is long since I have been a traveller, and I feel that repose will be welcome.— Catherine, ma mignone , you must sleep in my apartment to-night, and bid me welcome to your noble father’s castle.— Thanks, thanks to all my kind deliverers — thanks, and a good night is all I can now offer; but if I climb once more to the upper side of Fortune’s wheel, I will not have her bandage. Mary Stewart will keep her eyes open, and distinguish her friends.— Seyton, I need scarcely recommend the venerable Abbot, the Douglas, and my page, to your honour able care and hospitality.”
Henry Seyton bowed, and Catherine and Lady Fleming attended the Queen to her apartment; where, acknowledging to them that she should have found it difficult in that moment to keep her promise of holding her eyes open, she resigned herself to repose, and awakened not till the morning was advanced.
Mary’s first feeling when she awoke, was the doubt of her freedom; and the impulse prompted her to start from bed, and hastily throwing her mantle over her shoulders, to look out at the casement of her apartment. Oh, sight of joy! instead of the crystal sheet of Lochleven, unaltered save by the influence of the wind, a landscape of wood and moorland lay before her, and the park around the castle was occupied by the troops of her most faithful and most favourite nobles.
“Rise, rise, Catherine,” cried the enraptured Princess; “arise and come hither!— here are swords and spears in true hands, and glittering armour on loyal breasts. Here are banners, my girl, floating in the wind, as lightly as summer clouds — Great God! what pleasure to my weary eyes to trace their devices — thine own brave father’s — the princely Hamilton’s — the faithful Fleming’s — See — see — they have caught a glimpse of me, and throng towards the window!”
She flung the casement open, and with her bare head, from which the tresses flew back loose and dishevelled, her fair arm slenderly veiled by her mantle, returned by motion and sign the exulting shouts of the warriors, which echoed for many a furlong around. When the first burst of ecstatic joy was over, she recollected how lightly she was dressed, and, putting her hands to her face, which was covered with blushes at the recollection, withdrew abruptly from the window. The cause of her retreat was easily conjectured, and increased the general enthusiasm for a Princess, who had forgotten her rank in her haste to acknowledge the services of her subjects. The unadorned beauties of the lovely woman, too, moved the military spectators more than the highest display of her regal state might; and what might have seemed too free in her mode of appearing before them, was more than atoned for by the enthusiasm of the moment and by the delicacy evinced in her hasty retreat. Often as the shouts died away, as often were they renewed, till wood and hill rung again; and many a deep path was made that morning on the cross of the sword, that the hand should not part with the weapon, till Mary Stewart was restored to her rights. But what are promises, what the hopes of mortals? In ten days, these gallant and devoted votaries were slain, were captives, or had fled.
Mary flung herself into the nearest seat, and still blushing, yet half smiling, exclaimed, “Ma mignone , what will they think of me?— to show myself to them with my bare feet hastily thrust into the slippers — only this loose mantle about me — my hair loose on my shoulders — my arms and neck so bare — Oh, the best they can suppose is, that her abode in yonder dungeon has turned their Queen’s brain! But my rebel subjects saw me exposed when I was in the depth of affliction, why should I hold colder ceremony with these faithful and loyal men?— Call Fleming, however — I trust she has not forgotten the little mail with my apparel — We must be as brave as we can, mignóne .”
“Nay, madam, our good Lady Fleming was in no case to remember any thing.”
“You jest, Catherine,” said the Queen, somewhat offended; “it is not in her nature surely, to forget her duty so far as to leave us without a change of apparel?”
“Roland Graeme, madam, took care of that,” answered Catherine; “for he threw the mail, with your highness’s clothes and jewels, into the boat, ere he ran back to lock the gate — I never saw so awkward a page as that youth — the packet well-nigh fell on my head.”
“He shall make thy heart amends, my girl,” said Queen Mary, laughing, “for that and all other offences given. But call Fleming, and let us put ourselves into apparel to meet our faithful lords.”
Such had been the preparations, and such was the skill of Lady Fleming, that the Queen appeared before her assembled nobles in such attire as became, though it could not enhance, her natural dignity. With the most winning courtesy, she expressed to each individual her grateful thanks, and dignified not only every noble, but many of the lesser barons by her particular attention.
“And whither now, my lords?” she said; “what way do your counsels determine for us?”
“To Draphane Castle,” replied Lord Arbroath, “if your Majesty is so pleased; and thence to Dunbarton, to place your Grace’s person in safety, after which we long to prove if these traitors will abide us in the field.”
“And when do we journey?”
“We propose,” said Lord Seyton, “if your Grace’s fatigue will permit, to take horse after the morning’s meal.”
“Your pleasure, my Lords, is mine,” replied the Queen; “we will rule our journey by your wisdom now, and hope hereafter to have the advantage of governing by it our kingdom.— You will permit my ladies and me, my good lords, to break our fasts along with you — We must be half soldiers ourselves, and set state apart.”
Low bowed many a helmeted head at this gracious proffer, when the Queen, glancing her eyes through the assembled leaders, missed both Douglas and Roland Graeme, and inquired for them in a whisper to Catherine Seyton.
“They are in yonder oratory, madam, sad enough,” replied Catherine; and the Queen observed that her favourite’s eyes were red with weeping.
“This must not be,” said the Queen. “Keep the company amused — I will seek them, and introduce them myself.”
She went into the oratory, where the first she met was George Douglas, standing, or rather reclining, in the recess of a window, his back rested against the wall, and his arms folded on his breast. At the sight of the Queen he started, and his countenance showed, for an instant, an expression of intense delight, which was instantly exchanged for his usual deep melancholy.
“What means this?” she said; “Douglas, why does the first deviser and bold executor of the happy scheme for our freedom, shun the company of his fellow-nobles, and of the Sovereign whom he has obliged?”
“Madam,” replied Douglas, “those whom you grace with your presence bring followers to aid your cause, wealth to support your state,— can offer you halls in which to feast, and impregnable castles for your defence. I am a houseless and landless man — disinherited by my mother, and laid under her malediction — disowned by my name and kindred — who bring nothing to your standard but a single sword, and the poor life of its owner.”
“Do you mean to upbraid me, Douglas,” replied the Queen, “by showing what you have lost for my sake?”
“God forbid, madam!” interrupted the young man, eagerly; “were it to do again, and had I ten times as much rank and wealth, and twenty times as many friends to lose, my losses would be overpaid by the first step you made, as a free princess, upon the soil of your native kingdom.”
“And what then ails you, that you will not rejoice with those who rejoice upon the same joyful occasion?” said the Queen.
“Madam,” replied the youth,” though exheridated and disowned, I am yet a Douglas: with most of yonder nobles my family have been in feud for ages — a cold reception amongst them, were an insult, and a kind one yet more humiliating.”
“For shame, Douglas,” replied the Queen, “shake off this unmanly gloom!— I can make thee match for the best of them in title and fortune, and, believe me, I will.— Go then amongst them, I command you.”
“That word,” said Douglas, “is enough — I go. This only let me say, that not for wealth or title would I have done that which I have done — Mary Stewart will not, and the Queen cannot, reward me.”
So saying, he left the oratory, mingled with the nobles, and placed himself at the bottom of the table. The Queen looked after him, and put her kerchief to her eyes.
“Now, Our Lady pity me,” she said, “for no sooner are my prison cares ended, than those which beset me as a woman and a Queen again thicken around me.— Happy Elizabeth! to whom political interest is every thing, and whose heart never betrays thy head.— And now must I seek this other boy, if I would prevent daggers-drawing betwixt him and the young Seyton.”
Roland Graeme was in the same oratory, but at such a distance from Douglas, that he could not overhear what passed betwixt the Queen and him. He also was moody and thoughtful, but cleared his brow at the Queen’s question, “How now, Roland? you are negligent in your attendance this morning. Are you so much overcome with your night’s ride?”
“Not so, gracious madam,” answered Graeme; “but I am told the page of Lochleven is not the page of Niddrie Castle; and so Master Henry Seyton hath in a manner been pleased to supersede my attendance.”
“Now, Heaven forgive me,” said the Queen, “how soon these cock-chickens begin to spar!— with children and boys, at least, I may be a queen.— I will have you friends.— Some one send me Henry Seyton hither.” As she spoke the last words aloud, the youth whom she had named entered the apartment. “Come hither,” she said, “Henry Seyton — I will have you give your hand to this youth, who so well aided in the plan of my escape.”
“Willingly, madam,” answered Seyton, “so that the youth will grant me, as a boon, that he touch not the hand of another Seyton whom he knows of. My hand has passed current for hers with him before now — and to win my friendship, he must give up thoughts of my sister’s love.”
“Henry Seyton,” said the Queen, “does it become you to add any condition to my command?”
“Madam,” said Henry, “I am the servant of your Grace’s throne, son to the most loyal man in Scotland. Our goods, our castles, our blood, are yours: Our honour is in our own keeping. I could say more, but —”
“Nay, speak on, rude boy,” said the Queen; “what avails it that I am released from Lochleven, if I am thus enthralled under the yoke of my pretended deliverers, and prevented from doing justice to one who has deserved as well of me as yourself?”
“Be not in this distemperature for me, sovereign Lady,” said Roland; “this young gentleman, being the faithful servant of your Grace, and the brother of Catherine Seyton, bears that about him which will charm down my passion at the hottest.”
“I warn thee once more,” said Henry Seyton, haughtily, “that you make no speech which may infer that the daughter of Lord Seyton can be aught to thee beyond what she is to every churl’s blood in Scotland.”
The Queen was again about to interfere, for Roland’s complexion rose, and it became somewhat questionable how long his love for Catherine would suppress the natural fire of his temper. But the interposition of another person, hitherto unseen, prevented Mary’s interference, There was in the oratory a separate shrine, enclosed with a high screen of pierced oak, within which was placed an image of Saint Bennet, of peculiar sanctity. From this recess, in which she had been probably engaged in her devotions, issued suddenly Magdalen Graeme, and addressed Henry Seyton, in reply to his last offensive expressions,—“And of what clay, then, are they moulded these Seytons, that the blood of the Graemes may not aspire to mingle with theirs? Know, proud boy, that when I call this youth my daughter’s child, I affirm his descent from Malise Earl of Strathern, called Malise with the Bright Brand; and I trow the blood of your house springs from no higher source.”
“Good mother,” said Seyton, “methinks your sanctity should make you superior to these worldly vanities; and indeed it seems to have rendered you somewhat oblivious touching them, since, to be of gentle descent, the father’s name and lineage must be as well qualified as the mother’s.”
“And if I say he comes of the blood of Avenel by the father’s side,” replied Magdalen Graeme, “name I not blood as richly coloured as thine own?”
“Of Avenel?” said the Queen; “is my page descended of Avenel?”
“Ay, gracious Princess, and the last male heir of that ancient house — Julian Avenel was his father, who fell in battle against the Southron.”
“I have heard the tale of sorrow,” said the Queen; “it was thy daughter, then, who followed that unfortunate baron to the field, and died on his body? Alas! how many ways does woman’s affection find to work out her own misery! The tale has oft been told and sung in hall and bower — And thou, Roland, art that child of misfortune, who was left among the dead and dying? Henry Seyton, he is thine equal in blood and birth.”
“Scarcely so,” said Henry Seyton, “even were he legitimate; but if the tale be told and sung aright, Julian Avenel was a false knight, and his leman a frail and credulous maiden.”
“Now, by Heaven, thou liest!” said Roland Graeme, and laid his hand on his sword. The entrance of Lord Seyton, however, prevented violence.
“Save me, my lord,” said the Queen, “and separate these wild and untamed spirits.”
“How, Henry,” said the Baron, “are my castle, and the Queen’s presence, no checks on thine insolence and impetuosity?— And with whom art thou brawling?— unless my eyes spell that token false, it is with the very youth who aided me so gallantly in the skirmish with the Leslies — Let me look, fair youth, at the medal which thou wearest in thy cap. By Saint Bennet, it is the same!— Henry, I command thee to forbear him, as thou lovest my blessing ——”
“And as you honour my command,” said the Queen; “good service hath he done me.”
“Ay, madam,” replied young Seyton, “as when he carried the billet enclosed in the sword-sheath to Lochleven — marry, the good youth knew no more than a pack-horse what he was carrying.”
“But I who dedicated him to this great work,” said Magdalen Graeme —“I, by whose advice and agency this just heir hath been unloosed from her thraldom — I, who spared not the last remaining hope of a falling house in this great action — I, at least, knew and counselled; and what merit may be mine, let the reward, most gracious Queen, descend upon this youth. My ministry here is ended; you are free — a sovereign Princess, at the head of a gallant army, surrounded by valiant barons — My service could avail you no farther, but might well prejudice you; your fortune now rests upon men’s hearts and men’s swords. May they prove as trusty as the faith of women!”
“You will not leave us, mother,” said the Queen —“you whose practices in our favour were so powerful, who dared so many dangers, and wore so many disguises, to blind our enemies and to confirm our friends — you will not leave us in the dawn of our reviving fortunes, ere we have time to know and to thank you?”
“You cannot know her,” answered Magdalen Graeme, “who knows not herself — there are times, when, in this woman’s frame of mine, there is the strength of him of Gath — in this overtoiled brain, the wisdom of the most sage counsellor — and again the mist is on me, and my strength is weakness, my wisdom folly. I have spoken before princes and cardinals — ay, noble Princess, even before the princes of thine own house of Lorraine; and I know not whence the words of persuasion came which flowed from my lips, and were drunk in by their ears.— And now, even when I most need words of persuasion, there is something which chokes my voice, and robs me of utterance.”
“If there be aught in my power to do thee pleasure,” said the Queen, “the barely naming it shall avail as well as all thine eloquence.”
“Sovereign Lady,” replied the enthusiast, “it shames me that at this high moment something of human frailty should cling to one, whose vows the saints have heard, whose labours in the rightful cause Heaven has prospered. But it will be thus while the living spirit is shrined in the clay of mortality — I will yield to the folly,” she said, weeping as she spoke, “and it shall be the last.” Then seizing Roland’s hand, she led him to the Queen’s feet, kneeling herself upon one knee, and causing him to kneel on both. “Mighty Princess,” she said, “look on this flower — it was found by a kindly stranger on a bloody field of battle, and long it was ere my anxious eyes saw, and my arms pressed, all that was left of my only daughter. For your sake, and for that of the holy faith we both profess, I could leave this plant, while it was yet tender, to the nurture of strangers — ay, of enemies, by whom, perchance, his blood would have been poured forth as wine, had the heretic Glendinning known that he had in his house the heir of Julian Avenel. Since then I have seen him only in a few hours of doubt and dread, and now I part with the child of my love — for ever — for ever!— Oh, for every weary step I have made in your rightful cause, in this and in foreign lands, give protection to the child whom I must no more call mine!”
“I swear to you, mother,” said the Queen, deeply affected, “that, for your sake and his own, his happiness and fortunes shall be our charge!”
“I thank you, daughter of princes,” said Magdalen, and pressed her lips, first to the Queen’s hand, then to the brow of her grandson. “And now,” she said, drying her tears, and rising with dignity, “Earth has had its own, and Heaven claims the rest.— Lioness of Scotland, go forth and conquer! and if the prayers of a devoted votaress can avail thee, they will rise in many a land, and from many a distant shrine. I will glide like a ghost from land to land, from temple to temple; and where the very name of my country is unknown, the priests shall ask who is the Queen of that distant northern land, for whom the aged pilgrim was so fervent in prayer. Farewell! Honour be thine, and earthly prosperity, if it be the will of God — if not, may the penance thou shalt do here ensure thee happiness hereafter!— Let no one speak or follow me — my resolution is taken — my vow cannot be cancelled.”
She glided from their presence as she spoke, and her last look was upon her beloved grandchild. He would have risen and followed, but the Queen and Lord Seyton interfered.
“Press not on her now,” said Lord Seyton, “if you would not lose her for ever. Many a time have we seen the sainted mother, and often at the most needful moment; but to press on her privacy, or to thwart her purpose, is a crime which she cannot pardon. I trust we shall yet see her at her need — a holy woman she is for certain, and dedicated wholly to prayer and penance; and hence the heretics hold her as one distracted, while true Catholics deem her a saint.”
“Let me then hope,” said the Queen, “that you, my lord, will aid me in the execution of her last request.”
“What! in the protection of my young second?— cheerfully — that is, in all that your majesty can think it fitting to ask of me.— Henry, give thy hand upon the instant to Roland Avenel, for so I presume he must now be called.”
“And shall be Lord of the Barony,” said the Queen, “if God prosper our rightful arms.”
“It can only be to restore it to my kind protectress, who now holds it,” said young Avenel. “I would rather be landless, all my life, than she lost a rood of ground by me.”
“Nay,” said the Queen, looking to Lord Seyton, “his mind matches his birth — Henry, thou hast not yet given thy hand.”
“It is his,” said Henry, giving it with some appearance of courtesy, but whispering Roland at the same time,—“For all this, thou hast not my sister’s.”
“May it please your Grace,” said Lord Seyton, “now that these passages are over, to honour our poor meal. Time it were that our banners were reflected in the Clyde. We must to horse with as little delay as may be.”
Ay, sir — our ancient crown, in these wild times,
Oft stood upon a cast — the gamester’s ducat,
So often staked, and lost, and then regain’d,
Scarce knew so many hazards.
The Spanish Father .
It is not our object to enter into the historical part of the reign of the ill-fated Mary, or to recount how, during the week which succeeded her flight from Lochleven, her partisans mustered around her with their followers, forming a gallant army, amounting to six thousand men. So much light has been lately thrown on the most minute details of the period, by Mr. Chalmers, in his valuable history of Queen Mary, that the reader may be safely referred to it for the fullest information which ancient records afford concerning that interesting time. It is sufficient for our purpose to say, that while Mary’s head-quarters were at Hamilton, the Regent and his adherents had, in the King’s name, assembled a host at Glasgow, inferior indeed to that of the Queen in numbers, but formidable from the military talents of Murray, Morton, the Laird of Grange, and others, who had been trained from their youth in foreign and domestic wars.
In these circumstances, it was the obvious policy of Queen Mary to avoid a conflict, secure that were her person once in safety, the number of her adherents must daily increase; whereas, the forces of those opposed to her must, as had frequently happened in the previous history of her reign, have diminished, and their spirits become broken. And so evident was this to her counsellors, that they resolved their first step should be to place the Queen in the strong castle of Dunbarton, there to await the course of events, the arrival of succours from France, and the levies which were made by her adherents in every province of Scotland. Accordingly, orders were given, that all men should be on horseback or on foot, apparelled in their armour, and ready to follow the Queen’s standard in array of battle, the avowed determination being to escort her to the Castle of Dunbarton in defiance of her enemies.
The muster was made upon Hamilton-Moor, and the march commenced in all the pomp of feudal times. Military music sounded, banners and pennons waved, armour glittered far and wide, and spears glanced and twinkled like stars in a frosty sky. The gallant spectacle of warlike parade was on this occasion dignified by the presence of the Queen herself, who, with a fair retinue of ladies and household attendants, and a special guard of gentlemen, amongst whom young Seyton and Roland were distinguished, gave grace at once and confidence to the army, which spread its ample files before, around, and behind her. Many churchmen also joined the cavalcade, most of whom did not scruple to assume arms, and declare their intention of wielding them in defence of Mary and the Catholic faith. Not so the Abbot of Saint Mary’s. Roland had not seen this prelate since the night of their escape from Lochleven, and he now beheld him, robed in the dress of his order, assume his station near the Queen’s person. Roland hastened to pull off his basnet, and beseech the Abbot’s blessing.
“Thou hast it, my son!” said the priest; “I see thee now under thy true name, and in thy rightful garb. The helmet with the holly branch befits your brows well — I have long waited for the hour thou shouldst assume it.”
“Then you knew of my descent, my good father?” said Roland.
“I did so, but it was under seal of confession from thy grandmother; nor was I at liberty to tell the secret, till she herself should make it known.”
“Her reason for such secrecy, my father?” said Roland Avenel.
“Fear, perchance of my brother — a mistaken fear, for Halbert would not, to ensure himself a kingdom, have offered wrong to an orphan; besides that, your title, in quiet times, even had your father done your mother that justice which I well hope he did, could not have competed with that of my brother’s wife, the child of Julian’s elder brother.”
“They need fear no competition from me,” said Avenel. “Scotland is wide enough, and there are many manors to win, without plundering my benefactor. But prove to me, my reverend father, that my father was just to my mother — show me that I may call myself a legitimate Avenel, and make me your bounden slave for ever.”
“Ay,” replied the Abbot, “I hear the Seytons hold thee cheap for that stain on thy shield. Something, however, I have learnt from the late Abbot Boniface, which, if it prove sooth, may redeem that reproach.”
“Tell me that blessed news,” said Roland, “and the future service of my life —”
“Rash boy!” said the Abbot, “I should but madden thine impatient temper, by exciting hopes that may never be fulfilled — and is this a time for them? Think on what perilous march we are bound, and if thou hast a sin unconfessed, neglect not the only leisure which Heaven may perchance afford thee for confession and absolution.”
“There will be time enough for both, I trust, when we reach Dunbarton,” answered the page.
“Ay,” said the Abbot, “thou crowest as loudly as the rest — but we are not yet at Dunbarton, and there is a lion in the path.”
“Mean you Murray, Morton, and the other rebels at Glasgow, my reverend father? Tush! they dare not look on the royal banner.”
“Even so,” replied the Abbot, “speak many of those who are older, and should be wiser, than thou.— I have returned from the southern shires, where I left many a chief of name arming in the Queen’s interest — I left the lords here wise and considerate men — I find them madmen on my return — they are willing, for mere pride and vain-glory, to brave the enemy, and to carry the Queen, as it were in triumph, past the walls of Glasgow, and under the beards of the adverse army.— Seldom does Heaven smile on such mistimed confidence. We shall be encountered, and that to the purpose.”
“And so much the better,” replied Roland; “the field of battle was my cradle.”
“Beware it be not thy dying bed,” said the Abbot. “But what avails it whispering to young wolves the dangers of the chase? You will know, perchance, ere this day is out, what yonder men are, whom you hold in rash contempt.”
“Why, what are they?” said Henry Seyton, who now joined them: “have they sinews of wire, and flesh of iron?— Will lead pierce and steel cut them?— If so, reverend father, we have little to fear.”
“They are evil men,” said the Abbot, “but the trade of war demands no saints.— Murray and Morton are known to be the best generals in Scotland. No one ever saw Lindesay’s or Ruthven’s back — Kirkaldy of Grange was named by the Constable Montmorency the first soldier in Europe — My brother, too good a name for such a cause, has been far and wide known for a soldier.”
“The better, the better!” said Seyton, triumphantly; “we shall have all these traitors of rank and name in a fair field before us. Our cause is the best, our numbers are the strongest, our hearts and limbs match theirs — Saint Bennet, and set on!”
The Abbot made no reply, but seemed lost in reflection; and his anxiety in some measure communicated itself to Roland Avenel, who ever, as their line of march led over a ridge or an eminence, cast an anxious look towards the towers of Glasgow, as if he expected to see symptoms of the enemy issuing forth. It was not that he feared the fight, but the issue was of such deep import to his country, and to himself, that the natural fire of his spirit burned with a less lively, though with a more intense glow. Love, honour, fame, fortune, all seemed to depend on the issue of one field, rashly hazarded perhaps, but now likely to become unavoidable and decisive.
When, at length, their march came to be nearly parallel with the city of Glasgow, Roland became sensible that the high grounds before them were already in part occupied by a force, showing, like their own, the royal banner of Scotland, and on the point of being supported by columns of infantry and squadrons of horse, which the city gates had poured forth, and which hastily advanced to sustain those troops who already possessed the ground in front of the Queen’s forces. Horseman after horseman galloped in from the advanced guard, with tidings that Murray had taken the field with his whole army; that his object was to intercept the Queen’s march, and his purpose unquestionable to hazard a battle. It was now that the tempers of men were subjected to a sudden and a severe trial; and that those who had too presumptuously concluded that they would pass without combat, were something disconcerted, when, at once, and with little time to deliberate, they found themselves placed in front of a resolute enemy.— Their chiefs immediately assembled around the Queen, and held a hasty council of war. Mary’s quivering lip confessed the fear which she endeavoured to conceal under a bold and dignified demeanour. But her efforts were overcome by painful recollections of the disastrous issue of her last appearance in arms at Carberry-hill; and when she meant to have asked them their advice for ordering the battle, she involuntarily inquired whether there were no means of escaping without an engagement?
“Escaping?” answered the Lord Seyton; “when I stand as one to ten of your Highness’s enemies, I may think of escape — but never while I stand with three to two!”
“Battle! battle!” exclaimed the assembled lords; “we will drive the rebels from their vantage ground, as the hound turns the hare on the hill side.”
“Methinks, my noble lords,” said the Abbot, “it were as well to prevent his gaining that advantage.— Our road lies through yonder hamlet on the brow, and whichever party hath the luck to possess it, with its little gardens and enclosures, will attain a post of great defence.”
“The reverend father is right,” said the Queen. “Oh, haste thee, Seyton, haste, and get thither before them — they are marching like the wind.”
Seyton bowed low, and turned his horse’s head.—“Your Highness honours me,” he said; “I will instantly press forward, and seize the pass.”
“Not before me, my lord, whose charge is the command of the vanguard,” said the Lord of Arbroath.
“Before you, or any Hamilton in Scotland,” said the Seyton, “having the Queen’s command — Follow me, gentlemen, my vassals and kinsmen — Saint Bennet, and set on!”
“And follow me,” said Arbroath, “my noble kinsmen, and brave men-tenants, we will see which will first reach the post of danger. For God and Queen Mary!”
“Ill-omened haste, and most unhappy strife,” said the Abbot, who saw them and their followers rush hastily and emulously to ascend the height without waiting till their men were placed in order.—“And you, gentlemen,” he continued, addressing Roland and Seyton, who were each about to follow those who hastened thus disorderly to the conflict, “will you leave the Queen’s person unguarded?”
“Oh, leave me not, gentlemen!” said the Queen —“Roland and Seyton, do not leave me — there are enough of arms to strike in this fell combat — withdraw not those to whom I trust for my safety.”
“We may not leave her Grace,” said Roland, looking at Seyton, and turning his horse.
“I ever looked when thou wouldst find out that,” rejoined the fiery youth.
Roland made no answer, but bit his lip till the blood came, and spurring his horse up to the side of Catherine Seyton’s palfrey, he whispered in a low voice, “I never thought to have done aught to deserve you; but this day I have heard myself upbraided with cowardice, and my sword remained still sheathed, and all for the love of you.”
“There is madness among us all,” said the damsel; “my father, my brother, and you, are all alike bereft of reason. Ye should think only of this poor Queen, and you are all inspired by your own absurd jealousies — The monk is the only soldier and man of sense amongst you all.— My lord Abbot,” she cried aloud, “were it not better we should draw to the westward, and wait the event that God shall send us, instead of remaining here in the highway, endangering the Queen’s person, and cumbering the troops in their advance?”
“You say well, my daughter,” replied the Abbot; “had we but one to guide us where the Queen’s person may be in safety — Our nobles hurry to the conflict, without casting a thought on the very cause of the war.”
“Follow me,” said a knight, or man-at-arms, well mounted, and attired completely in black armour, but having the visor of his helmet closed, and bearing no crest on his helmet, or device upon his shield.
“We will follow no stranger,” said the Abbot, “without some warrant of his truth.”
“I am a stranger and in your hands,” said the horseman; “if you wish to know more of me, the Queen herself will be your warrant.”
The Queen had remained fixed to the spot, as if disabled by fear, yet mechanically smiling, bowing, and waving her hand, as banners were lowered and spears depressed before her, while, emulating the strife betwixt Seyton and Arbroath, band on band pressed forward their march towards the enemy. Scarce, however, had the black rider whispered something in her ear, than she assented to what he said; and when he spoke aloud, and with an air of command, “Gentlemen, it is the Queen’s pleasure that you should follow me,” Mary uttered, with something like eagerness, the word “Yes.”
All were in motion in an instant; for the black horseman, throwing off a sort of apathy of manner, which his first appearance indicated, spurred his horse to and fro, making him take such active bounds and short turns, as showed the rider master of the animal; and getting the Queen’s little retinue in some order for marching, he led them to the left, directing his course towards a castle, which, crowning a gentle yet commanding eminence, presented an extensive view over the country beneath, and in particular, commanded a view of those heights which both armies hastened to occupy, and which it was now apparent must almost instantly be the scene of struggle and dispute.
“Yonder towers,” said the Abbot, questioning the sable horseman, “to whom do they belong?— and are they in the hands of friends?”
“They are untenanted,” replied the stranger, “or, at least, they have no hostile inmates.— But urge these youths. Sir Abbot, to make more haste — this is but an evil time to satisfy their idle curiosity, by peering out upon the battle in which they are to take no share.”
“The worse luck mine,” said Henry Seyton, who overheard him —“I would rather be under my father’s banner at this moment than be made Chamberlain of Holyrood, for this my present duty of peaceful ward well and patiently discharged.”
“Your place under your father’s banner will shortly be right dangerous,” said Roland Avenel, who, pressing his horse towards the westward, had still his look reverted to the armies; “for I see yonder body of cavalry, which presses from the eastward, will reach the village ere Lord Seyton can gain it.”
“They are but cavalry,” said Seyton, looking attentively; “they cannot hold the village without shot of harquebuss.”
“Look more closely,” said Roland; “you will see that each of these horseman who advance so rapidly from Glasgow, carries a footman behind him.”
“Now, by Heaven, he speaks well!” said the black cavalier; “one of you two must go carry the news to Lord Seyton and Lord Arbroath, that they hasten not their horsemen on before the foot, but advance more regularly.”
“Be that my errand,” said Roland, “for I first marked the stratagem of the enemy.”
“But, by your leave,” said Seyton, “yonder is my father’s banner engaged, and it best becomes me to go to the rescue.”
“I will stand by the Queen’s decision,” said Roland Avenel.
“What new appeal?— what new quarrel?” said Queen Mary —“Are there not in yonder dark host enemies enough to Mary Stewart, but must her very friends turn enemies to each other?”
“Nay, madam,” said Roland, “the young master of Seyton and I did but dispute who should leave your person to do a most needful message to the host. He thought his rank entitled him, and I deemed that the person of least consequence, being myself, were better perilled —”
“Not so,” said the Queen; “if one must leave me, be it Seyton.”
Henry Seyton bowed till the white plumes on his helmet mixed with the flowing mane of his gallant war-horse, then placed himself firm in the saddle, shook his lance aloft with an air of triumph and determination, and striking his horse with the spurs, made towards his father’s banner, which was still advancing up the hill, and dashed his steed over every obstacle that occurred in his headlong path.
“My brother! my father!” exclaimed Catherine, with an expression of agonized apprehension —“they are in the midst of peril, and I in safety!”
“Would to God,” said Roland, “that I were with them, and could ransom every drop of their blood by two of mine!”
“Do I not know thou dost wish it?” said Catherine —“Can a woman say to a man what I have well-nigh said to thee, and yet think that he could harbour fear or faintness of heart?— There is that in yon distant sound of approaching battle that pleases me even while it affrights me. I would I were a man, that I might feel that stern delight, without the mixture of terror!”
“Ride up, ride up, Lady Catherine Seyton,” cried the Abbot, as they still swept on at a rapid pace, and were now close beneath the walls of the castle —“ride up, and aid Lady Fleming to support the Queen — she gives way more and more.”
They halted and lifted Mary from the saddle, and were about to support her towards the castle, when she said faintly, “Not there — not there — these walls will I never enter more!”
“Be a Queen, madam,” said the Abbot, “and forget that you are a woman.”
“Oh, I must forget much, much more,” answered the unfortunate Mary, in an under tone, “ere I can look with steady eyes on these well-known scenes!— I must forget the days which I spent here as the bride of the lost — the murdered ——”
“This is the Castle of Crookstone,” said the Lady Fleming, “in which the Queen held her first court after she was married to Darnley.”
“Heaven,” said the Abbot, “thy hand is upon us!— Bear yet up, madam — your foes are the foes of Holy Church, and God will this day decide whether Scotland shall be Catholic or heretic.”
A heavy and continued fire of cannon and musketry, bore a tremendous burden to his words, and seemed far more than they to recall the spirits of the Queen.
“To yonder tree,” she said, pointing to a yew-tree which grew on a small mount close to the castle; “I know it well — from thence you may see a prospect wide as from the peaks of Schehallion.”
And freeing herself from her assistants, she walked with a determined, yet somewhat wild step, up to the stem of the noble yew. The Abbot, Catherine, and Roland Avenel followed her, while Lady Fleming kept back the inferior persons of her train. The black horseman also followed the Queen, waiting on her as closely as the shadow upon the light, but ever remaining at the distance of two or three yards —— he folded his arms on his bosom, turned his back to the battle, and seemed solely occupied by gazing on Mary, through the bars of his closed visor. The Queen regarded him not, but fixed her eyes upon the spreading yew.”
“Ay, fair and stately tree,” she said, as if at the sight of it she had been rapt away from the present scene, and had overcome the horror which had oppressed her at the first approach to Crookstone, “there thou standest, gay and goodly as ever, though thou hearest the sounds of war, instead of the vows of love. All is gone since I last greeted thee — love and lover — vows and vower — king and kingdom.— How goes the field, my Lord Abbot?— with us, I trust — yet what but evil can Mary’s eyes witness from this spot?”
Her attendants eagerly bent their eyes on the field of battle, but could discover nothing more than that it was obstinately contested. The small enclosures and cottage gardens in the village, of which they had a full and commanding view, and which shortly before lay, with their lines of sycamore and ash-trees, so still and quiet in the mild light of a May sun, were now each converted into a line of fire, canopied by smoke; and the sustained and constant report of the musketry and cannon, mingled with the shouts of meeting combatants, showed that as yet neither party had given ground.
“Many a soul finds its final departure to heaven or hell, in these awful thunders,” said the Abbot; “let those that believe in the Holy Church, join me in orisons for victory in this dreadful combat.”
“Not here — not here,” said the unfortunate Queen; “pray not here, father, or pray in silence — my mind is too much torn between the past and the present, to dare to approach the heavenly throne — Or, if we will pray, be it for one whose fondest affections have been her greatest crimes, and who has ceased to be a queen, only because she was a deceived and a tender-hearted woman.”
“Were it not well,” said Roland, “that I rode somewhat nearer the hosts, and saw the fate of the day?”
“Do so, in the name of God,” said the Abbot; “for if our friends are scattered, our flight must be hasty — but beware thou approach not too nigh the conflict; there is more than thine own life depends on thy safe return.”
“Oh, go not too nigh,” said Catherine; “but fail not to see how the Seytons fight, and how they bear themselves.”
“Fear nothing, I will be on my guard,” said Roland Avenel; and without waiting farther answer, rode towards the scene of conflict, keeping, as he rode, the higher and unenclosed ground, and ever looking cautiously around him, for fear of involving himself in some hostile party. As he approached, the shots rung sharp and more sharply on his ear, the shouts came wilder and wilder, and he felt that thick beating of the heart, that mixture of natural apprehension, intense curiosity, and anxiety for the dubious event, which even the bravest experience when they approach alone to a scene of interest and of danger.
At length he drew so close, that from a bank, screened by bushes and underwood, he could distinctly see where the struggle was most keenly maintained. This was in a hollow way, leading to the village, up which the Queen’s vanguard had marched, with more hasty courage than well-advised conduct, for the purpose of possessing themselves of that post of advantage. They found their scheme anticipated, and the hedges and enclosures already occupied by the enemy, led by the celebrated Kirkaldy of Grange and the Earl of Morton; and not small was the loss which they sustained while struggling forward to come to close with the men-at-arms on the other side. But, as the Queen’s followers were chiefly noblemen and barons, with their kinsmen and followers, they had pressed onward, contemning obstacles and danger, and had, when Roland arrived on the ground, met hand to hand at the gorge of the pass with the Regent’s vanguard, and endeavoured to bear them out of the village at the spear-point; while their foes, equally determined to keep the advantage which they had attained, struggled with the like obstinacy to drive back the assailants. Both parties were on foot, and armed in proof; so that, when the long lances of the front ranks were fixed in each other’s shields, corslets, and breastplates, the struggle resembled that of two bulls, who fixing their frontlets hard against each other, remain in that posture for hours, until the superior strength or obstinacy of the one compels the other to take to flight, or bears him down to the earth. Thus locked together in the deadly struggle, which swayed slowly to and fro, as one or other party gained the advantage, those who fell were trampled on alike by friends and foes; those whose weapons were broken, retired from the front rank, and had their place supplied by others; while the rearward ranks, unable otherwise to share in the combat, fired their pistols, and hurled their daggers, and the points and truncheons of the broken weapons, like javelins against the enemy.
“God and the Queen!” resounded from the one party; “God and the King!” thundered from the other; while, in the name of their sovereign, fellow-subjects on both sides shed each other’s blood, and, in the name of their Creator, defaced his image. Amid the tumult was often heard the voices of the captains, shouting their commands; of leaders and chiefs, crying their gathering words; of groans and shrieks from the falling and the dying.
The strife had lasted nearly an hour. The strength of both parties seemed exhausted; but their rage was unabated, and their obstinacy unsubdued, when Roland, who turned eye and ear to all around him, saw a column of infantry, headed by a few horsemen, wheel round the base of the bank where he had stationed himself, and, levelling their long lances, attack the Queen’s vanguard, closely engaged as they were in conflict on their front. The very first glance showed him that the leader who directed this movement was the Knight of Avenel, his ancient master; and the next convinced him, that its effects would be decisive. The result of the attack of fresh and unbroken forces upon the flank of those already wearied with a long and obstinate struggle, was, indeed, instantaneous.
The column of the assailants, which had hitherto shown one dark, dense, and united line of helmets, surmounted with plumage, was at once broken and hurled in confusion down the hill, which they had so long endeavoured to gain. In vain were the leaders heard calling upon their followers to stand to the combat, and seen personally resisting when all resistance was evidently vain. They were slain, or felled to the earth, or hurried backwards by the mingled tide of flight and pursuit. What were Roland’s feelings on beholding the rout, and feeling that all that remained for him was to turn bridle, and endeavour to ensure the safety of the Queen’s person! Yet, keen as his grief and shame might be, they were both forgotten, when, almost close beneath the bank which he occupied, he saw Henry Seyton forced away from his own party in the tumult, covered with dust and blood, and defending himself desperately against several of the enemy who had gathered around him, attracted by his gay armour. Roland paused not a moment, but pushing his steed down the bank, leaped him amongst the hostile party, dealt three or four blows amongst them, which struck down two, and made the rest stand aloof; then reaching Seyton his hand, he exhorted him to seize fast on his horse’s mane.
“We live or die together this day,” said he; “keep but fast hold till we are out of the press, and then my horse is yours.”
Seyton heard and exerted his remaining strength, and, by their joint efforts, Roland brought him out of danger, and behind the spot from whence he had witnessed the disastrous conclusion of the fight. But no sooner were they under shelter of the trees, than Seyton let go his hold, and, in spite of Roland’s efforts to support him, fell at length on the turf. “Trouble yourself no more with me,” he said; “this is my first and my last battle — and I have already seen too much to wish to see the close. Hasten to save the Queen — and commend me to Catherine — she will never more be mistaken for me nor I for her — the last sword-stroke has made an eternal distinction.”
“Let me aid you to mount my horse,” said Roland, eagerly, “and you may yet be saved — I can find my own way on foot — turn but my horse’s head westward, and he will carry you fleet and easy as the wind.”
“I will never mount steed more,” said the youth; “farewell — I love thee better dying, than ever I thought to have done while in life — I would that old man’s blood were not on my hand!— Sancte Benedicte, ora pro me — Stand not to look on a dying man, but haste to save the Queen!”
These words were spoken with the last effort of his voice, and scarce were they uttered ere the speaker was no more. They recalled Roland to a sense of the duty which he had well-nigh forgotten, but they did not reach his ears only.
“The Queen — where is the Queen?” said Halbert Glendinning, who, followed by two or three horsemen, appeared at this instant. Roland made no answer, but, turning his horse, and confiding in his speed, gave him at once rein and spur, and rode over height and hollow towards the Castle of Crookstone. More heavily armed, and mounted upon a horse of less speed, Sir Halbert Glendinning followed with couched lance, calling out as he rode, “Sir, with the holly-branch, halt, and show your right to bear that badge — fly not thus cowardly, nor dishonour the cognizance thou deservest not to wear!— Halt, sir coward, or by Heaven, I will strike thee with my lance on the back, and slay thee like a dastard — I am the Knight of Avenel — I am Halbert Glendinning.”
But Roland, who had no purpose of encountering his old master, and who, besides, knew the Queen’s safety depended on his making the best speed he could, answered not a word to the defiances and reproaches which Sir Halbert continued to throw out against him; but making the best use of his spurs, rode yet harder than before, and had gained about a hundred yards upon his pursuer, when, coming near to the yew-tree where he had left the Queen, he saw them already getting to horse, and cried out as loud as he could, “Foes! foes!— Ride for it, fair ladies — Brave gentlemen, do your devoir to protect them!”
So saying, he wheeled his horse, and avoiding the shock of Sir Halbert Glendinning, charged one of that Knight’s followers, who was nearly on a line with him, so rudely with his lance, that he overthrew horse and man. He then drew his sword and attacked the second, while the black man-at-arms, throwing himself in the way of Glendinning, they rushed on each other so fiercely, that both horses were overthrown, and the riders lay rolling on the plain. Neither was able to arise, for the black horseman was pierced through with Glendinning’s lance, and the Knight of Avenel, oppressed with the weight of his own horse and sorely bruised besides, seemed in little better plight than he whom he had mortally wounded.
“Yield thee, Sir Knight of Avenel, rescue or no rescue,” said Roland, who had put a second antagonist out of condition to combat, and hastened to prevent Glendinning from renewing the conflict.
“I may not choose but yield,” said Sir Halbert, “since I can no longer fight; but it shames me to speak such a word to a coward like thee!”
“Call me not coward,” said Roland, lifting his visor, and helping his prisoner to rise, “since but for old kindness at thy hands, and yet more at thy lady’s, I had met thee as a brave man should.”
“The favourite page of my wife!” said Sir Halbert, astonished; “Ah! wretched boy, I have heard of thy treason at Lochleven.”
“Reproach him not, my brother,” said the Abbot, “he was but an agent in the hands of Heaven.”
“To horse, to horse!” said Catherine Seyton; “mount and begone, or we are all lost. I see our gallant army flying for many a league — To horse, my Lord Abbot — To horse, Roland — my gracious Liege, to horse! Ere this, we should have ridden many a mile.”
“Look on these features,” said Mary, pointing to the dying knight, who had been unhelmed by some compassionate hand; “look there, and tell me if she who ruins all who love her, ought to fly a foot farther to save her wretched life!”
The reader must have long anticipated the discovery which the Queen’s feelings had made before her eyes confirmed it. It was the features of the unhappy George Douglas, on which death was stamping his mark.
“Look — look at him well,” said the Queen, “thus has it been with all who loved Mary Stewart!— The royalty of Francis, the wit of Chastelar, the power and gallantry of the gay Gordon, the melody of Rizzio, the portly form and youthful grace of Darnley, the bold address and courtly manners of Bothwell — and now the deep-devoted passion of the noble Douglas — nought could save them!— they looked on the wretched Mary, and to have loved her was crime enough to deserve early death! No sooner had the victim formed a kind thought of me, than the poisoned cup, the axe and block, the dagger, the mine, were ready to punish them for casting away affection on such a wretch as I am!— Importune me not — I will fly no farther — I can die but once, and I will die here.”
While she spoke, her tears fell fast on the face of the dying man, who continued to fix his eyes on her with an eagerness of passion, which death itself could hardly subdue.—“Mourn not for me,” he said faintly, “but care for your own safety — I die in mine armour as a Douglas should, and I die pitied by Mary Stewart!”
He expired with these words, and without withdrawing his eyes from her face; and the Queen, whose heart was of that soft and gentle mould, which in domestic life, and with a more suitable partner than Darnley, might have made her happy, remained weeping by the dead man, until recalled to herself by the Abbot, who found it necessary to use a style of unusual remonstrance. “We also, madam,” he said, “we, your Grace’s devoted followers, have friends and relatives to weep for. I leave a brother in imminent jeopardy — the husband of the Lady Fleming — the father and brothers of the Lady Catherine, are all in yonder bloody field, slain, it is to be feared, or prisoners. We forget the fate of our nearest and dearest, to wait on our Queen, and she is too much occupied with her own sorrows to give one thought to ours.”
“I deserve not your reproach, father,” said the Queen, checking her tears; “but I am docile to it — where must we go — what must we do?”
“We must fly, and that instantly,” said the Abbot; “whither is not so easily answered, but we may dispute it upon the road — Lift her to her saddle, and set forward.”44
They set off accordingly — Roland lingered a moment to command the attendants of the Knight of Avenel to convey their master to the Castle of Crookstone, and to say that he demanded from him no other condition of liberty, than his word, that he and his followers would keep secret the direction in which the Queen fled. As he turned his rein to depart, the honest countenance of Adam Woodcock stared upon him with an expression of surprise, which, at another time, would have excited his hearty mirth. He had been one of the followers who had experienced the weight of Roland’s arm, and they now knew each other, Roland having put up his visor, and the good yeoman having thrown away his barret-cap, with the iron bars in front, that he might the more readily assist his master. Into this barret-cap, as it lay on the ground, Roland forgot not to drop a few gold pieces, (fruits of the Queen’s liberality,) and with a signal of kind recollection and enduring friendship, he departed at full gallop to overtake the Queen, the dust raised by her train being already far down the hill.
“It is not fairy-money,” said honest Adam, weighing and handling the gold —“And it was Master Roland himself, that is a certain thing — the same open hand, and, by our Lady!” (shrugging his shoulders)—“the same ready fist!— My Lady will hear of this gladly, for she mourns for him as if he were her son. And to see how gay he is! But these light lads are as sure to be uppermost as the froth to be on the top of the quart-pot — Your man of solid parts remains ever a falconer.” So saying, he went to aid his comrades, who had now come up in greater numbers, to carry his master into the Castle of Crookstone.
My native land, good night!
Byron.
Many a bitter tear was shed, during the hasty flight of Queen Mary, over fallen hopes, future prospects, and slaughtered friends. The deaths of the brave Douglas, and of the fiery but gallant young Seyton, seemed to affect the Queen as much as the fall from the throne, on which she had so nearly been again seated. Catherine Seyton devoured in secret her own grief, anxious to support the broken spirits of her mistress; and the Abbot, bending his troubled thoughts upon futurity, endeavoured in vain to form some plan which had a shadow of hope. The spirit of young Roland — for he also mingled in the hasty debates held by the companions of the Queen’s flight — continued unchecked and unbroken.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “has lost a battle — Your ancestor, Bruce, lost seven successively, ere he sat triumphant on the Scottish throne, and proclaimed with the voice of a victor, in the field of Bannockburn, the independence of his country. Are not these heaths, which we may traverse at will, better than the locked, guarded, and lake-moated Castle of Lochleven?— We are free — in that one word there is comfort for all our losses.”
He struck a bold note, but the heart of Mary made no response.
“Better,” she said, “I had still been in Lochleven, than seen the slaughter made by rebels among the subjects who offered themselves to death for my sake. Speak not to me of farther efforts — they would only cost the lives of you, the friends who recommend them! I would not again undergo what I felt, when I saw from yonder mount the swords of the fell horsemen of Morton raging among the faithful Seytons and Hamiltons, for their loyalty to their Queen — I would not again feel what I felt when Douglas’s life-blood stained my mantle for his love to Mary Stewart — not to be empress of all that Britain’s seas enclose. Find for me some place where I can hide my unhappy head, which brings destruction on all who love it — it is the last favour that Mary asks of her faithful followers.”
In this dejected mood, but still pursuing her flight with unabated rapidity, the unfortunate Mary, after having been joined by Lord Herries and a few followers, at length halted, for the first time, at the Abbey of Dundrennan, nearly sixty miles distant from the field of battle. In this remote quarter of Galloway, the Reformation not having yet been strictly enforced against the monks, a few still lingered in their cells unmolested; and the Prior, with tears and reverence, received the fugitive Queen at the gate of his convent.
“I bring you ruin, my good father,” said the Queen, as she was lifted from her palfrey.
“It is welcome,” said the Prior, “if it comes in the train of duty.”
Placed on the ground, and supported by her ladies, the Queen looked for an instant at her palfrey, which, jaded and drooping its head, seemed as if it mourned the distresses of its mistress.
“Good Roland,” said the Queen, whispering, “let Rosabelle be cared for — ask thy heart, and it will tell thee why I make this trifling request even in this awful hour.”
She was conducted to her apartment, and in the hurried consultation of her attendants, the fatal resolution of the retreat to England was finally adopted. In the morning it received her approbation, and a messenger was despatched to the English warden, to pray him for safe-conduct and hospitality, on the part of the Queen of Scotland. On the next day the Abbot Ambrose walked in the garden of the Abbey with Roland, to whom he expressed his disapprobation of the course pursued. “It is madness and ruin,” he said; “better commit herself to the savage Highlanders or wild Bordermen, than to the faith of Elizabeth. A woman to a rival woman — a presumptive successor to the keeping of a jealous and childless Queen!— Roland, Herries is true and loyal, but his counsel has ruined his mistress.”
“Ay, ruin follows us every where,” said an old man, with a spade in his hand, and dressed like a lay-brother, of whose presence, in the vehemence of his exclamation, the Abbot had not been aware —“Gaze not on me with such wonder!— I am he who was the Abbot Boniface at Kennaquhair, who was the gardener Blinkhoolie at Lochleven, hunted round to the place in which I served my noviciate, and now ye are come to rouse me up again!— A weary life I have had for one to whom peace was ever the dearest blessing!”
“We will soon rid you of our company, good father,” said the Abbot; “and the Queen will, I fear, trouble your retreat no more.”
“Nay, you said as much before,” said the querulous old man, “and yet I was put forth from Kinross, and pillaged by troopers on the road.— They took from me the certificate that you wot of — that of the Baron — ay, he was a moss-trooper like themselves — You asked me of it, and I could never find it, but they found it — it showed the marriage of — of — my memory fails me — Now see how men differ! Father Nicholas would have told you an hundred tales of the Abbot Ingelram, on whose soul God have mercy!— He was, I warrant you, fourscore and six, and I am not more than — let me see ——”
“Was not Avenel the name you seek, my good father?” said Roland, impatiently, yet moderating his tone for fear of alarming or offending the infirm old man.
“Ay, right — Avenel, Julian Avenel — You are perfect in the name — I kept all the special confessions, judging it held with my vow to do so — I could not find it when my successor, Ambrosius, spoke on’t — but the troopers found it, and the Knight who commanded the party struck his breast, till the target clattered like an empty watering-can.”
“Saint Mary!” said the Abbot, “in whom could such a paper excite such interest! What was the appearance of the knight, his arms, his colours?”
“Ye distract me with your questions — I dared hardly look at him — they charged me with bearing letters for the Queen, and searched my mail — This was all along of your doings at Lochleven.”
“I trust in God,” said the Abbot to Roland, who stood beside him, shivering and trembling “with impatience,” the paper has fallen into the hands of my brother — I heard he had been with his followers on the scout betwixt Stirling and Glasgow.— Bore not the Knight a holly-bough on his helmet?— Canst thou not remember?”
“Oh, remember — remember,” said the old man pettishly; “count as many years as I do, if your plots will let you, and see what, and how much, you remember.— Why, I scarce remember the pear-mains which I graffed here with my own hands some fifty years since.”
At this moment a bugle sounded loudly from the beach.
“It is the death-blast to Queen Mary’s royalty,” said Ambrosius; “the English warden’s answer has been received, favourable doubtless, for when was the door of the trap closed against the prey which it was set for?— Droop not, Roland — this matter shall be sifted to the bottom — but we must not now leave the Queen — follow me — let us do our duty, and trust the issue with God — Farewell, good Father — I will visit thee again soon.”
He was about to leave the garden, followed by Roland, with half-reluctant steps. The Ex-Abbot resumed his spade.
“I could be sorry for these men,” he said, “ay, and for that poor Queen, but what avail earthly sorrows to a man of fourscore?— and it is a rare dropping morning for the early colewort.”
“He is stricken with age,” said Ambrosius, as he dragged Roland down to the sea-beach; “we must let him take his time to collect himself — nothing now can be thought on but the fate of the Queen.”
They soon arrived where she stood, surrounded by her little train, and by her side the sheriff of Cumberland, a gentleman of the house of Lowther, richly dressed and accompanied by soldiers. The aspect of the Queen exhibited a singular mixture of alacrity and reluctance to depart. Her language and gestures spoke hope and consolation to her attendants, and she seemed desirous to persuade even herself that the step she adopted was secure, and that the assurance she had received of kind reception was altogether satisfactory; but her quivering lip, and unsettled eye, betrayed at once her anguish at departing from Scotland, and her fears of confiding herself to the doubtful faith of England.
“Welcome, my Lord Abbot,” she said, speaking to Ambrosius, “and you, Roland Avenel, we have joyful news for you — our loving sister’s officer proffers us, in her name, a safe asylum from the rebels who have driven us from our home — only it grieves me we must here part from you for a short space.”
“Part from us, madam!” said the Abbot. “Is your welcome in England, then, to commence with the abridgment of your train, and dismissal of your counsellors?”
“Take it not thus, good Father,” said Mary; “the Warden and the Sheriff, faithful servants of our Royal Sister, deem it necessary to obey her instructions in the present case, even to the letter, and can only take upon them to admit me with my female attendants. An express will instantly be despatched from London, assigning me a place of residence; and I will speedily send to all of you whenever my Court shall be formed.”
“Your Court formed in England! and while Elizabeth lives and reigns?” said the Abbot —“that will be when we shall see two suns in one heaven!”
“Do not think so,” replied the Queen; “we are well assured of our sister’s good faith. Elizabeth loves fame — and not all that she has won by her power and her wisdom will equal that which she will acquire by extending her hospitality to a distressed sister!— not all that she may hereafter do of good, wise, and great, would blot out the reproach of abusing our confidence.— Farewell, my page — now my knight — farewell for a brief season. I will dry the tears of Catherine, or I will weep with her till neither of us can weep longer.”— She held out her hand to Roland, who flinging himself on his knees, kissed it with much emotion. He was about to render the same homage to Catherine, when the Queen, assuming an air of sprightliness, said, “Her lips, thou foolish boy! and, Catherine, coy it not — these English gentlemen should see, that, even in our cold clime, Beauty knows how to reward Bravery and Fidelity!”
“We are not now to learn the force of Scottish beauty, or the mettle of Scottish valour,” said the Sheriff of Cumberland, courteously —“I would it were in my power to bid these attendants upon her who is herself the mistress of Scottish beauty, as welcome to England as my poor cares would make them. But our Queen’s orders are positive in case of such an emergence, and they must not be disputed by her subject.— May I remind your Majesty that the tide ebbs fast?”
The Sheriff took the Queen’s hand, and she had already placed her foot on the gangway, by which she was to enter the skiff, when the Abbot, starting from a trance of grief and astonishment at the words of the Sheriff, rushed into the water, and seized upon her mantle.
“She foresaw it!— She foresaw it!”— he exclaimed —“she foresaw your flight into her realm; and, foreseeing it, gave orders you should be thus received. Blinded, deceived, doomed — Princess! your fate is sealed when you quit this strand.— Queen of Scotland, thou shalt not leave thine heritage!” he continued, holding a still firmer grasp upon her mantle; “true men shall turn rebels to thy will, that they may save thee from captivity or death. Fear not the bills and bows whom that gay man has at his beck — we will withstand him by force. Oh, for the arm of my warlike brother!— Roland Avenel, draw thy sword.”
The Queen stood irresolute and frightened; one foot upon the plank, the other on the sand of her native shore, which she was quitting for ever.
“What needs this violence, Sir Priest?” said the Sheriff of Cumberland; “I came hither at your Queen’s command, to do her service; and I will depart at her least order, if she rejects such aid as I can offer. No marvel is it if our Queen’s wisdom foresaw that such chance as this might happen amidst the turmoils of your unsettled State; and, while willing to afford fair hospitality to her Royal Sister, deemed it wise to prohibit the entrance of a broken army of her followers into the English frontier.”
“You hear,” said Queen Mary, gently unloosing her robe from the Abbot’s grasp, “that we exercise full liberty of choice in leaving this shore; and, questionless, the choice will remain free to us in going to France, or returning to our own dominions, as we shall determine — Besides, it is too late — Your blessing, Father, and God speed thee!”
“May He have mercy on thee, Princess, and speed thee also!” said the Abbot, retreating. “But my soul tells me I look on thee for the last time!” The sails were hoisted, the oars were plied, the vessel went freshly on her way through the firth, which divides the shores of Cumberland from those of Galloway; but not till the vessel diminished to the size of a child’s frigate, did the doubtful, and dejected, and dismissed followers of the Queen cease to linger on the sands; and long, long could they discern the kerchief of Mary, as she waved the oft-repeated signal of adieu to her faithful adherents, and to the shores of Scotland.
If good tidings of a private nature could have consoled Roland for parting with his mistress, and for the distresses of his sovereign, he received such comfort some days subsequent to the Queen’s leaving Dundrennan. A breathless post — no other than Adam Woodcock — brought despatches from Sir Halbert Glendinning to the Abbot, whom he found with Roland, still residing at Dundrennan, and in vain torturing Boniface with fresh interrogations. The packet bore an earnest invitation to his brother to make Avenel Castle for a time his residence. “The clemency of the Regent,” said the writer, “has extended pardon both to Roland and to you, upon condition of your remaining a time under my wardship. And I have that to communicate respecting the parentage of Roland, which not only you will willingly listen to, but which will be also found to afford me, as the husband of his nearest relative, some interest in the future course of his life.”
The Abbot read this letter, and paused, as if considering what were best for him to do. Meanwhile, Woodcock took Roland side, and addressed him as follows:—“Now, look, Mr. Roland, that you do not let any papestrie nonsense lure either the priest or you from the right quarry. See you, you ever bore yourself as a bit of a gentleman. Read that, and thank God that threw old Abbot Boniface in our way, as two of the Seyton’s men were conveying him towards Dundrennan here.— We searched him for intelligence concerning that fair exploit of yours at Lochleven, that has cost many a man his life, and me a set of sore bones — and we found what is better for your purpose than ours.”
The paper which he gave, was, indeed, an attestation by Father Philip, subscribing himself unworthy Sacristan, and brother of the House of Saint Mary’s, stating, “that under a vow of secrecy he had united, in the holy sacrament of marriage, Julian Avenel and Catherine Graeme; but that Julian having repented of his union, he, Father Philip, had been sinfully prevailed on by him to conceal and disguise the same, according to a complot devised betwixt him and the said Julian Avenel, whereby the poor damsel was induced to believe that the ceremony had been performed by one not in holy orders, and having no authority to that effect. Which sinful concealment the undersigned conceived to be the cause why he was abandoned to the misguiding of a water-fiend, whereby he had been under a spell, which obliged him to answer every question, even touching the most solemn matters, with idle snatches of old songs, besides being sorely afflicted with rheumatic pains ever after. Wherefore he had deposited this testificate and confession with the day and date of the said marriage, with his lawful superior Boniface, Abbot of Saint Mary’s, sub sigillo confessionis .”
It appeared by a letter from Julian, folded carefully up with the certificate, that the Abbot Boniface had, in effect, bestirred himself in the affair, and obtained from the Baron a promise to avow his marriage; but the death of both Julian and his injured bride, together with the Abbot’s resignation, his ignorance of the fate of their unhappy offspring, and above all, the good father’s listless and inactive disposition, had suffered the matter to become totally forgotten, until it was recalled by some accidental conversation with the Abbot Ambrosius concerning the fortunes of the Avenel family. At the request of his successor, the quondam Abbot made search for it; but as he would receive no assistance in looking among the few records of spiritual experiences and important confessions, which he had conscientiously treasured, it might have remained for ever hidden amongst them, but for the more active researches of Sir Halbert Glendinning.
“So that you are like to be heir of Avenel at last, Master Roland, after my lord and lady have gone to their place,” said Adam; “and as I have but one boon to ask, I trust you will not nick me with nay.”
“Not if it be in my power to say yes, my trusty friend.”
“Why then, I must needs, if I live to see that day, keep on feeding the eyases with unwashed flesh,” said Woodcock sturdily, as if doubting the reception that his request might meet with.
“Thou shalt feed them with what you list for me,” said Roland, laughing; “I am not many months older than when I left the Castle, but I trust I have gathered wit enough to cross no man of skill in his own vocation.”
“Then I would not change places with the King’s falconer,” said Adam Woodcock, “nor with the Queen’s neither — but they say she will be mewed up and never need one.— I see it grieves you to think of it, and I could grieve for company; but what help for it?— Fortune will fly her own flight, let a man hollo himself hoarse.”
The Abbot and Roland journeyed to Avenel, where the former was tenderly received by his brother, while the lady wept for joy to find that in her favourite orphan she had protected the sole surviving branch of her own family. Sir Halbert Glendinning and his household were not a little surprised at the change which a brief acquaintance with the world had produced in their former inmate, and rejoiced to find, in the pettish, spoiled, and presuming page, a modest and unassuming young man, too much acquainted with his own expectations and character, to be hot or petulant in demanding the consideration which was readily and voluntarily yielded to him. The old Major Domo Wingate was the first to sing his praises, to which Mistress Lilias bore a loud echo, always hoping that God would teach him the true gospel.
To the true gospel the heart of Roland had secretly long inclined, and the departure of the good Abbot for France, with the purpose of entering into some house of his order in that kingdom, removed his chief objection to renouncing the Catholic faith. Another might have existed in the duty which he owed to Magdalen Graeme, both by birth and from gratitude. But he learned, ere he had been long a resident in Avenel, that his grandmother had died at Cologne, in the performance of a penance too severe for her age, which she had taken upon herself in behalf of the Queen and Church of Scotland, as soon as she heard of the defeat at Langside. The zeal of the Abbot Ambrosius was more regulated; but he retired into the Scottish convent of ———, and so lived there, that the fraternity were inclined to claim for him the honours of canonization. But he guessed their purpose, and prayed them, on his death-bed, to do no honours to the body of one as sinful as themselves; but to send his body and his heart to be buried in Avenel burial-aisle, in the monastery of Saint Mary’s, that the last Abbot of that celebrated house of devotion might sleep among its ruins.45
Long before that period arrived, Roland Avenel was wedded to Catherine Seyton, who, after two years’ residence with her unhappy mistress, was dismissed upon her being subjected to closer restraint than had been at first exercised. She returned to her father’s house, and as Roland was acknowledged for the successor and lawful heir of the ancient house of Avenel, greatly increased as the estate was by the providence of Sir Halbert Gleninning, there occurred no objections to the match on the part of her family. Her mother was recently dead when she first entered the convent; and her father, in the unsettled times which followed Queen Mary’s flight to England, was not averse to an alliance with a youth, who, himself loyal to Queen Mary, still held some influence, through means of Sir Halbert Glendinning, with the party in power.
Roland and Catherine, therefore, were united, spite of their differing faiths; and the White Lady, whose apparition had been infrequent when the house of Avenel seemed verging to extinction, was seen to sport by her haunted well, with a zone of gold around her bosom as broad as the baldrick of an Earl.
The End