The shades of advancing night had already appeared to have enwrapped the
earth some hours, when Nigel Bruce was startled from an uneasy slumber
by the creaking sounds of bolts and bars announcing the entrance of some
one within the dungeon. The name of his beloved, his devoted Agnes,
trembled on his lips, but fearful of betraying her to unfriendly ears,
ho checked himself, and started up, exclaiming, "Who comes?" No answer
was vouchsafed, but the dim light of a lamp, placed by the intruder on
the floor, disclosed a figure wrapped from head to foot in the shrouding
mantle of the time, not tall, but appearing a stout muscular person,
banishing on the instant Nigel's scarcely-formed hope that it was the
only one he longed to see.
"What wouldst thou?" he said, after a brief pause. "Doth Edward practise
midnight murder? Speak, who art thou?"
"Midnight murder, thou boasting fool; I love thee not well enough to
cheat the hangman of his prey," replied a harsh and grating voice,
which, even without the removal of the cloak, would have revealed to
Nigel's astonished ears the Earl of Buchan. "Ha! I have startled
thee--thou didst not know the deadly enemy of thy accursed race!"
"I know thee now, my Lord of Buchan," replied the young man, calmly;
"yet know I not wherefore thou art here, save to triumph over the fallen
fortunes of thy foe; if so, scorn on--I care not. A few brief hours, and
all of earth and earthly feeling is at rest."
"To triumph--scorn! I had scarce travelled for petty satisfaction such
as that, when to-morrow sees thee in the hangman's hands, the scorn of
thousands! Hath Buchan no other work with thee, thinkest thou? dost thou
affirm thou knowest naught for which he hath good cause to seek thee?"
"Earl of Buchan, I dare affirm it," answered Nigel, proudly; "I know of
naught to call for words or tones as these, save, perchance, that the
love and deep respect in which I hold thine injured countess, my
friendship for thy murdered son, hath widened yet more the breach
between thy house and mine--it may be so; yet deem not, cruel as thou
art, I will deny feelings in which I glory, at thy bidding. An thou
comest to reproach me with these things, rail on, they affect me as
little as thy scorn."
"Hadst thou said love for her they call my daughter, thou hadst been
nearer the mark," retorted the earl, fury rapidly gaining possession of
heart and voice; "but thou art too wise, too politic for that."
"Aye," retorted Nigel, after a fearful struggle with himself, "aye, thou
mayest well add love for Agnes of Buchan, as well as friendship for her
brother. Thinkest thou I would deny it--hide it? little dost thou know
its thrilling, its inspiring power; little canst thou know how I glory
in it, cherish, linger on it still. But wherefore speak thus to thee,
thou man of wickedness and blood. I love thy pure and spotless child,
rejoice that thou didst so desert, so utterly neglect her, that thou
couldst no more leave a shadow on her innocent heart than a cloud upon
her way. I love her, glory in that love, and what is it to thee?"
"What is it to me? that a child of the house of Comyn dare hold commune
with a Bruce; that thou hast dared to love a daughter of my house, aye,
to retain her by thy side a willing mistress, when all others of her sex
forsook thee--what is it to me? Did not to-morrow give thee to a
traitor's doom, thy blood should answer thee; but as it is, villain and
slave, give her to me--where is her hiding-place? speak, or the torture
shall wring it from thee."
"Thinkest thou such threats will in aught avail thee?" calmly replied
Nigel. "Thou knowest not the Bruce. Agnes is no longer a Comyn, no
longer a subject to thy guardianship. The voice of God, the rites at the
altar's foot, have broken every link, save that which binds her to her
husband. She is mine, before God and man is mine--mine own faithful and
lawful wife!"
"Thou liest, false villain!" furiously retorted Buchan. "The church
shall undo these bonds, shall give her back to the father she has thus
insulted. She shall repent, repent with tears of blood, her desertion of
her race. Canst thou protect her in death, thou fool--canst thou still
cherish and save her, thinkest thou, when the hangman hath done his
work?"
"Aye, even then she will be cherished, loved for Nigel's sake, and for
her own; there will be faithful friends around her to protect her from
thee still, tyrant! Thou canst not break the bonds that bind us; thou
hast done no father's part. Forsaken and forgotten, thy children owe
thee no duty, no obedience; thou canst bring forward no plea to
persecute thy child. In life and in death she is mine, mine alone; the
power and authority thou hast spurned so long can no longer be assumed;
the love, the obedience thou didst never heed, nay, trampled on, hath
been transferred to one who glories in them both. She is in
safety--slay, torture as thou wilt, I tell thee no more." Fettered,
unarmed, firm, undauntedly erect, stood Nigel Bruce, gazing with curling
lip and flashing eyes upon his foe. The foam had gathered on the earl's
lip, his hand, clenching his sword, had trembled with passion as Nigel
spoke, He sought to suppress that rage, to remember a public execution
would revenge him infinitely more than a blow of his sword, but he had
been too long unused to control; lashed into ungovernable fury by the
demeanor of Nigel, even more than by his words, the sword flashed from
its scabbard, was raised, and fell--but not upon his foe, for the Earl
of Gloucester suddenly stood between them.
"Art thou mad, or tired of life, my Lord of Buchan?" he said. "Knowest
thou not thou art amenable to the law, an thou thus deprivest justice of
her victim? Shame, shame, my lord; I deemed thee not a midnight
murderer."
"Darest thou so speak to me?" replied Buchan, fiercely; "by every fiend
in hell, thou shalt answer this! Begone, and meddle not with that which
concerneth thee nothing."
"It doth concern me, proud earl," replied Gloucester, standing
immediately before Nigel, whose emotion at observing the page by whom he
was accompanied, though momentary, must otherwise have been observed.
"The person of the prisoner is sacred to the laws of his country, the
mandate of his sovereign; on thy life thou darest not injure him--thou
knowest that thou darest not. Do thou begone, ere I summon those who, at
the mere mention of assault on one condemned, will keep thee in ward
till thou canst wreak thy vengeance on naught but clay; begone, I say!"
"I will not," sullenly answered the earl, unwillingly conscious of the
truth of his words; "I will not, till he hath answered me. Once more,"
he added, turning to Nigel with a demoniac scowl, "where is she whom
thou hast dared to call thy wife? answer me, or as there is a hell
beneath us, the torture shall wring it from thee!"
"In safety, where thine arm shall never reach her," haughtily answered
the young nobleman. "Torture! what wilt thou torture--the senseless
clay? Hence--I defy thee! Death will protect me from thy lawless power;
death will set his seal upon me ere we meet again."
The earl muttered a deep and terrible oath, and then he strode away,
coming in such violent contact against the slight and almost paralyzed
form of Gloucester's page as he stood in the doorway, as nearly to throw
him to the ground. Nigel sprung forward, but was held back with a grasp
of iron by the Earl of Gloucester, nor did he relinquish his hold till
Buchan had passed through the doorway, till the heavy hinges had firmly
closed again, and the step of the departing earl had entirely faded in
distance.
"Now, then, we are safe," he said; "thank heaven!" but his words were
scarcely heard, for the page had bounded within the extended arms of
Nigel, had clung so closely to his heart, he could feel nothing, see
nothing, save that slender form; could hear nothing but those deep,
agonized sobs, which are so terrible when unaccompanied by the relief of
tears. For a while Nigel could not speak--he could not utter aught of
comfort, for he felt it not; that moment was the bitterness of death.
"Torture! did he not speak of torture? will he not come again?" were the
words that at length fell, shudderingly, from the lips of Agnes. "Nigel,
Nigel, if it must be, give me up; he cannot inflict aught more of misery
now."
"Fear not, lady; he dare not," hastily rejoined Gloucester. "The torture
dare not be administered without consent of Edward, and that now cannot
be obtained; he will not have sufficient--" time, he was going to say,
but checked himself; for the agonized look of Agnes told him his meaning
was more than sufficiently understood. "Nigel," he added, laying his
hand on the young man's shoulder, "Nigel, my noble, gallant friend--for
so I will call thee, though I sat in judgment on thee, aye, and tacitly
acquiesced in thy sentence--shrink not, oh, shrink not now! I saw not a
quiver on thy lip, a pallor on thy cheek, nay, nor faltering in thy
step, when they read a doom at which I have marked the bravest blench;
oh, let not, that noble spirit fail thee now!"
"Gloucester, it shall not!" he said, with suddenly regained firmness, as
supporting Agnes with his right arm he convulsively wrung the hand of
his friend with the other. "It was but the sight of this beloved one,
the thought--no matter, it is over. Agnes, my beloved, my own, oh, look
on me; speak, tell me all that hath befallen thee since they tore thee
from me, and filled my soul with darker dread for thee than for myself.
To see thee with this noble earl is enough to know how heavy a burden of
gratitude I owe him, which thou, sweetest, must discharge. Yet speak to
me, beloved; tell me all, all."
Emulating his calmness, remembering even at that moment her promise not
to unman him in the moment of trial by vain repinings, Agnes complied
with his request. Her tale was frequently interrupted by those terrible
sobs, which seemed to threaten annihilation; but Nigel could gather from
it so much of tenderness and care on the part of the princess, that the
deepest gratitude filled his heart, and spoke in his impassioned words.
"Tell her, oh, tell her, if the prayers of the dying can in aught avail
her, the blessedness of heaven shall be hers even upon earth!" he
exclaimed, gazing up in the earl's face with eyes that spoke his soul.
"Oh, I knew her not, when in former years I did but return her kindness
with silence and reserve; I saw in her little more than the daughter of
Edward. Tell her, on my knees I beseech her pardon for that wrong; in my
last prayers I shall breathe her name."
"And wherefore didst thou go with her?" he continued, on Agnes narrating
the scene between the princess and the king. "Alas! my gentle one, hadst
thou not endured enough, that thou wouldst harrow up thy soul by hearing
the confirmation of my doom from the tyrant's own ruthless lips--didst
dream of pardon? dearest, no, thou couldst not."
"Nigel, Nigel, I did, even at that moment, though they told me thou wert
condemned, that nothing could save thee; though the princess besought me
almost on her knees to spare myself this useless trial, I would not
listen to her. I would not believe that all was hopeless; I dreamed
still, still of pardon, that Edward would listen to his noble child,
would forgive, and I thought, even if she failed, I would so plead he
must have mercy, he would listen to me and grant my prayer. I did dream
of pardon, but it was vain, vain! Nigel, Nigel, why did my voice fail,
my eye grow dim? I might have won thy pardon yet."
"Beloved, thou couldst not," he answered, mournfully. "Mine own sweet
Agnes, take comfort, 'tis but a brief farewell; we shall meet where war
and blood and death can never enter more."
"I know it, Oh, I know it," she sobbed; "but to part thus, to lose thee,
and by such a death, oh, it is horrible, most horrible!"
"Nay, look not on it thus, beloved; there is no shame even in this
death, if there be no shame in him who dies."
"Shame!" she repeated; "couldst think I could couple aught of shame with
thee, my own? even this dark fate is noble when borne by such as thee."
Nigel held her closer to his heart, and for his sole answer pressed a
quivering kiss upon her cheek. Gloucester, who had been in earnest
commune with the sentinel without the door, now returned, and informed
him that the soldier, who was well known to him and who much disliked
his present watch, had willingly consented that the page (whom
Gloucester had represented as a former attendant of Sir Nigel's, though
now transferred to his service) should remain with his former master, on
condition that the earl would come for him before the priests and others
who were to attend him to the scaffold entered the dungeon, as this
departure from the regular prison discipline, shown as it was to one
against whom the king was unusually irritated, might cost him his head.
Gloucester had promised faithfully, and he offered them the melancholy
option of parting now, or a few sad hours hence.
"Let me, do let me stay; Nigel, my husband, send me not from thee now!"
exclaimed Agnes, sinking at his feet and clasping his knees. "I will not
weep, nor moan, nor in aught afflict thee. Nigel, dearest Nigel, I will
not leave thee now."
"But is it wise, is it well, my best beloved? think, if in the deep
anguish of to-morrow thy disguise be penetrated, thy sex discovered, and
thy cruel father claim thee, dragging thee even from the protection of
the princess--oh, the bitterness of death were doubled then! Thou
thinkest but of me, mine own, but thy safety, thy future peace is all
now left for me."
"Safety, peace--oh, do not, do not mock me, Nigel--where are they for
poor Agnes, save in her husband's grave? What is life now, that thou
shouldst seek to guard it? no, no, I will abide by thee, thou shalt not
send me hence."
"But to-morrow, lady, to-morrow," interposed Gloucester, with deep
commiseration. "I would not, from any selfish fear, shorten by one
minute the few sad hours ye may yet pass together, but bethink ye, I
dare not promise to shield thee from the horrors of to-morrow, for I
cannot. Fearful scenes and sounds may pass before thee; thou mayest come
in contact with men from whom thou wilt shrink in horror, and though
thine own safety be of little worth, remember the betrayal of thy sex
and rank may hurl down the royal vengeance on the head of thy
protectress, daughter of Edward though she be. Canst thou be firm--wilt
thou, canst thou await the morrow?"
"Yes," answered Agnes, the wildness of her former accents subsiding into
almost solemnity; "the safety of thy noble countess shall not be
hazarded through me. Leave me with my husband, add but this last mercy
to the many thou hast showered on me, and the blessing of God will rest
on thee and thy noble wife forever."
She raised his hand to her lips, and Gloucester, much affected, placed
hers in her husband's, and wrung them convulsively together. "We shall
meet again," was all he trusted his voice to utter, and departed.
The hours waned, each one finding no change in the position of those
loving ones. The arm of Agnes twined around the neck of her beloved, her
brow leaned against his bosom, her left hand clasped his right, and his
left arm, though fettered, could yet fold that slender waist, could yet
draw her closer to him, with an almost unconscious pressure; his lips
repeatedly pressed that pale brow, which only moved from its position to
lift up her eyes at his entreaty in his face, and he would look on those
features, lovely still, despite their attenuation and deep sorrow, gaze
at them with an expression that, spite of his words of consoling love,
betrayed that the dream of earth yet lingered; he could not close his
eyes on her without a thrill of agony, sharper than the pang of death.
But the enthusiast and the patriot spoke not at that hour only of
himself, or that dearer self, the only being he had loved. He spoke of
his country, aye, and less deplored the chains which bound her then,
than with that prophetic spirit sometimes granted to the departing,
dilated on her future glory. He conjured Agnes, for his sake, to
struggle on and live; to seek his brother and tell him that, save
herself, Nigel's last thought, last prayer was his; that standing on the
brink of eternity, the mists of the present had rolled away, he saw but
the future--Scotland free, and Robert her beloved and mighty king.
"Bid him not mourn for Nigel," he said; "bid him not waver from his
glorious purpose, because so many of his loved and noble friends must
fall--their blood is their country's ransom; tell him, had I a hundred
lives, I would have laid them down for him and for my country as gladly,
as unhesitatingly as the one I now resign; and tell him, dearest, how I
loved him to the last, how the recollection of his last farewell, his
fervent blessing lingered with me to the end, giving me strength to
strive for him and die, as becomes his brother; tell him I glory in my
death--it has no shame, no terror, for it is for him and Scotland. Wilt
thou remember all this, sweet love? wilt thou speak to him these words?"
"Trust me I will, all, all that thou hast said; they are written here,"
placing her hand on her heart, "here, and they will not leave me, even
if all else fail."
"And thou wilt say to him, mine own, that Nigel besought his love, his
tenderness for thee," he continued, losing the enthusiasm of the patriot
in the tenderness of the husband; "tell him I look to him in part to
discharge the debt of love, of gratitude I owe to thee; to guard thee,
cherish thee as his own child. Alas! alas! I speak as if thou must reach
him, and yet, beset with danger, misery, as thou art, how may this be?"
"Fear not for me; it shall be, my husband. I will do thy bidding, I will
seek my king," she said, for when comfort failed for him, she sought to
give it. "Hast forgotten Dermid's words? He would be near me when I
needed him, and he will be, my beloved, I doubt him not."
"Could I but think so, could I but know that he would be near to shield
thee, oh, life's last care would be at an end, said Nigel, earnestly;
and then for some time that silence, more eloquent, more fraught with
feeling in such an hour than the most impassioned words, fell on them
both. When again he spoke, it was on a yet more holy theme; the
thoughts, the dreams of heaven, which from boyhood had been his, now
found vent in words and tones, which thrilled to the inmost spirit of
his listener, and lingered there, when all other sense had fled. He had
lived in an era of darkness. Revelation in its doctrines belonged to the
priests alone; faith and obedience demanded by the voice of man alone,
were all permitted to the laity, and spirits like Nigel's consequently
formed a natural religion, in which they lived and breathed, hallowing
the rites which they practised, giving scope and glory to their faith.
He pictured the world, on whose threshold he now stood, pictured it, not
with a bold unhallowed hand, but as the completion, the consummation of
all those dim whisperings of joy, and hope, and wisdom, which had
engrossed him below--the perfection of that beauty, that loveliness, in
the material and immaterial, he had yearned for in vain on earth.
"And this world of incomparable unshadowed loveliness awaits me," he
said, the superstition of the age mingling for the moment with thoughts
which seemed to mark him a century beyond his compeers; "purchased by
that single moment of suffering called death. It is mine, my beloved,
and shall be thine; and oh, when we meet there, how trivial will seem
the dark woes and boding cares of earth! I have told thee the vision of
my vigil, Agnes, my beloved; again I have seen that blessed spirit, aye,
and there was no more sadness on his pale brow, naught, naught of
earth--spiritualized, etherealized. He hovered over my sleep, and with a
smile beckoned me to the glorious world he inhabits; he seemed to call
me, to await me, and then the shrouding clouds on which he lay closed
thicker and thicker round him, till naught but his celestial features
beamed on me. Agnes, dearest, best, think of me thus, as blessed
eternally, unchangeably, as awaiting thee to share that blessedness, not
as one lost to thee, beloved; and peace, aye, joy e'en yet shall smile
for thee."
"Nigel, Nigel, are there such things for the desolate, the lone?"
murmured Agnes, raising her pale brow and looking despairingly in his
face. "Oh, I will think on thee, picture thee in thy thrice-glorified
home, but it will be with all of mortal clinging to me still, and the
wild yearnings to come to thee will banish all of peace. Speak not such
words to thy poor weak Agnes, my beloved. I will struggle on to bear thy
message to my sovereign; there lies my path when thou art gone, darkness
envelops it when that goal is gained--I have no future now, save that
which gives me back to thee."
He could not answer, and then again there was silence, broken only by
the low voice of prayer. They knelt together on the cold stones, he
raised her cold hands with his in supplication; he prayed for mercy,
pardon for himself, for comfort, strength for her; he prayed for his
country and her king, her chained and sorrowing sons, and the soft,
liquid star of morning, gloaming forth through heavy masses of murky
clouds directly on them as they knelt, appeared an angel's answer. The
dawn broke; bluer and bluer became the small and heavily-barred
casement, clearer and clearer grew the damp walls of the dungeons, and
morning, in its sunshine and gladness, laughed along the earth. Closer
and closer did Agnes cling to that noble heart, but she spoke no word.
"He tarries long--merciful heaven, grant he be not detained too late!"
she heard her husband murmur, as to himself, as time waned and
Gloucester came not, and she guessed his thoughts.
"I care not," she answered, in a voice so hollow he shuddered; "I will
go with thee, even to the scaffold."
But Gloucester, true to his promise, came at length; he was evidently
anxious and disturbed, and a few hurried words told how the Earl of
Berwick had detained him in idle converse, as if determined to prevent
any private interview with the prisoner; even now the officers and
priests were advancing to the dungeons, their steps already reverberated
through the passages, and struck on the heart of Agnes as a bolt of ice.
"I had much, much I wished to say, but even had I time, what boots it
now? Nigel, worthy brother of him I so dearly loved, aye, even now would
die to serve, fear not for the treasure thou leavest to my care; as
there is a God above us, I will guard her as my sister! They
come--farewell, thou noble heart, thou wilt leave many a foe to mourn
thee!" The voice of the earl quivered with emotion. Nigel convulsively
pressed his extended hand, and then he folded Agnes in his arms; he
kissed her lips, her brow, her cheek, he parted those clustering curls
to look again and yet again upon her face--pale, rigid as sculptured
marble. She uttered no sound, she made no movement, but consciousness
had not departed; the words of Gloucester on the previous night rung in
her ears, demanding control, and mechanically she let her arms unloose
their convulsive grasp of Nigel, and permitted the earl gently to lead
her to the door, but ere it opened, she turned again to look on Nigel.
He stood, his hands clasped in that convulsive pressure of agony, his
every feature working with the mighty effort at control with the last
struggle of the mortal shell. With one faint yet thrilling cry she
bounded back, she threw herself upon his swelling bosom, her lips met
his in one last lingering kiss, and Gloucester tore her from his arms.
They passed the threshold, another minute and the officers, and guard,
and priest stood within the dungeon, and a harsh, rude voice bade the
confessor haste to shrive the prisoner, for the hour of execution was at
hand.
Bearing the slight form of the supposed page in his arms, Gloucester
hastily threaded the passages leading from the dungeon to the postern by
which he had intended to depart. His plan had been to rejoin his
attendants and turn his back upon the city of Berwick ere the execution
could take place; a plan which, from his detention, he already found was
futile. The postern was closed and secured, and he was compelled to
retrace his steps to a gate he had wished most particularly to avoid,
knowing that it opened on a part of the court which, from its commanding
a view of the scaffold, he justly feared would be crowded. He had paused
but to speak one word of encouragement to Agnes, who, with a calmness
appalling from the rigidity of feature which accompanied it, now stood
at his side; he bade her only hold by his cloak, and he hoped speedily
to lead her to a place of safety. She heard him and made a sign of
obedience. They passed the gate unquestioned, traversed an inner court,
and made for the great entrance of the castle; there, unhappily, their
progress was impeded. The scaffold, by order of Edward, had been erected
on the summit of a small green ascent exactly opposite the prison of the
Countess of Buchan, and extending in a direct line about half a quarter
of a mile to the right of the castle gates, which had been flung wide
open, that all the inhabitants of Berwick might witness the death of a
traitor. Already the courts and every vacant space was crowded. A sea of
human heads was alone visible, nay, the very buttresses and some
pinnacles of the castle, which admitted any footing, although of the
most precarious kind, had been appropriated. The youth, the
extraordinary beauty, and daring conduct of the prisoner had excited an
unusual sensation in the town, and the desire to mark how such a spirit
would meet his fate became irresistibly intense. Already it seemed as if
there could be no space for more, yet numbers were still pouring in, not
only most completely frustrating the intentions of the Earl of
Gloucester, but forcing him, by the pressure of multitudes, with them
towards the scaffold. In vain he struggled to free himself a passage;
in vain he haughtily declared his rank and bade the presumptuous serfs
give way. Some, indeed, fell back, but uselessly, for the crowds behind
pushed on those before, and there was no retreating, no possible means
of escaping from that sight of horror which Gloucester had designed so
completely to avoid. In the agony of disappointment, not a little mixed
with terror as to its effects, he looked on his companion. There was not
a particle of change upon her countenance; lips, cheek, brow, were
indeed bloodless as marble, and as coldly still; her eyes were
fascinated on the scaffold, and they moved not, quivered not. Even when
the figure of an aged minstrel, in the garb of Scotland, suddenly stood
between them and the dread object of their gaze, their expression
changed not; she placed her hand in his, she spoke his name to her
conductor, but it was as if a statue was suddenly endowed with voice and
motion, so cold was the touch of that hand, so sepulchral was that
voice; she motioned him aside with a gesture that compelled obedience,
and again she looked upon the scaffold. The earl welcomed the old man
gladly, for the tale of Agnes had already prepared him to receive him,
and to rely on his care to convey her back to Scotland. Engrossed with
his anxiety for her, and whenever that permitted him, speaking earnestly
to the old man, Gloucester remained wholly unconscious of the close
vicinity of one he was at that moment most desirous to avoid.
The Earl of Buchan, in the moment of ungovernable rage, had indeed flung
himself on horseback and galloped from the castle the preceding night,
intending to seek the king, and petition that the execution might be
deferred till the torture had dragged the retreat of Agnes from Nigel's
lips. The cool air of night, however, had had the effect of so far
dissipating the fumes of passion, as to convince him that it would be
well-nigh impossible to reach Carlisle, obtain an interview with Edward
at such an unseasonable hour, and return to Berwick in sufficient time
for the execution of his diabolical scheme. He let the reins fall on his
horse's neck, to ponder, and finally made up his mind it was better to
let things take their course, and the sentence of the prisoner proceed
without interruption; a determination hastened by the thought that
should he die under the torture, all the ignominy and misery of a public
execution would be eluded. The night was very dark and misty, the road
in some parts passing through, woods and morasses, and the earl, too
much engrossed with his own dark thoughts to attend to his path, lost
the track and wandered round and round, instead of going forward. This
heightened not the amiability of his previous mood; but until dawn his
efforts to retrace his steps or even discover where he was were useless.
The morning, however, enabled him to reach Berwick, which he did just as
the crowds were pouring into the castle-yard, and the heavy toll of the
bell announced the commencement of that fatal tragedy. He hastily
dismounted and mingled with the populace, they bore him onward through
another postern to that by which the other crowds had impelled
Gloucester. Finding the space before them already occupied, these two
human streams, of course, met and conjoined in the centre; and the two
earls stood side by side. Gloucester, as we have said, wholly
unconscious of Buchan's vicinity, and Buchan watching his anxious and
sorrowful looks with the satisfaction of a fiend, revelling in his being
thus hemmed in on all sides, and compelled to witness the execution of
his friend. He watched him closely as he spoke with the minstrel, but
tried in vain to distinguish what they said. He looked on the page too,
and with some degree of wonder, though he believed it only mortal terror
which made him look thus, natural in so young a child; but afterwards
that look was only too fatally recalled.
Sleepless and sad had been that long night to another inmate of Berwick
Castle, as well as to Nigel and his Agnes. It was not till the dawn had
broken that the Countess of Buchan had sunk into a deep though troubled
slumber, for it was not till then the confused sounds of the workmen
employed in erecting the scaffold had ceased. She knew not for whom it
was upraised, what noble friend and gallant patriot would there be
sacrificed. She would not, could not believe it was for Nigel; for when
his name arose in her thoughts, it was shudderingly repelled, and with
him came the thought of her child--where, oh, where was she?--what would
be her fate? The tolling of the bell awoke her from the brief trance of
utter unconsciousness into which, from exhaustion, she had fallen. She
glanced once beneath her. The crowds, the executioner at his post, the
guard already round the scaffold, too truly told the hour was at hand,
and though her heart turned sick with apprehension, and she felt as if
to know the worst were preferable to the hour of suspense, she could not
look again, and she would have sought the inner chamber, and endeavor to
close both ears and eyes to all that was passing without, when the Earl
of Berwick suddenly entered, and harshly commanded her to stir not from
the cage.
"It is your sovereign's will, madam, that you witness the fate of the
traitor so daring in your cause," he said, as with a stern grasp he
forced her to the grating and retained his hold upon her arm; "that you
may behold in his deserved fate the type of that which will at length
befall the yet blacker traitor of his name. It is fitting so loyal a
patriot as thyself should look on a patriot's fate, and profit thereby."
"Aye, learn how a patriot can die--how, when his life may no more
benefit his country and his kin, he may serve them in his death," calmly
and proudly she answered. "It is well; perchance, when my turn cometh, I
may thank thy master for the lesson now rudely forced upon me. The hour
will come when the blood that he now so unjustly sheds shall shriek
aloud for vengeance. On me let him work his will--I fear him not."
"Be silent, minion! I listen not to thy foul treason," said the earl,
hoarse with suppressed passion at the little effect his sovereign's
mandate produced, when he had hoped to have enforced it midst sobs and
tears; and she was silent, for her eye had caught one face amidst the
crowd that fascinated its gaze, and sent back the blood, which had
seemed to stagnate when the idea that it was indeed Nigel now about to
suffer had been thus rudely thrust upon her--sent it with such sudden
revulsion through its varied channels, that it was only with a desperate
struggle she retained her outward calmness, and then she stood, to the
eye of Berwick, proud, dignified, collected, seemingly so cold, that he
doubted whether aught of feeling could remain, or marvelled if the
mandate of Edward had indeed power to inflict aught of pain. But
within--oh, the veriest tyrant must have shuddered, could he have known
the torture there; she saw, she recognized her child; she read naught
but madness in that chiselled gaze; she saw at a glance there was no
escaping from beholding, to the dreadful end, the fate of her beloved;
before, behind, on every side, the crowds pressed round, yet from the
slightly elevated position of the scaffold, failing to conceal it from
her gaze. The Earl of Gloucester she perceived close at her side, as if
protecting her; but if indeed she was under his care, how came she on
such a spot, at such a time?--did he know her sex, or only looked on her
as a favored page of Nigel's, and as such protected? Yet would not the
anguish of that hour betray her not alone to him, but to that dark and
cruel man whom she also marked beside her, and who, did he once know
her, would demand the right of a father, to give her to his care? and
oh, how would that right be exercised! would the murderer of his son,
his heir, have pity on a daughter? But it would be a vain effort to
picture the deep anguish of that mother's heart, as in that dread moment
she looked upon her child, knowing, feeling _her_ might of grief, as if
it had been her own; well-nigh suffocated with the wild yearning to fold
her to her maternal bosom, to bid her weep there, to seek to comfort, to
soothe, by mingling her tears with hers, to protect, to hide her misery
from all save her mother's eye--to feel this till every pulse throbbed
as to threaten her with death, and yet to breathe no word, to give no
sign that such things were, lest she should endanger that precious one
yet more. She dared not breathe one question of the many crowding on her
heart, she could but gaze and feel. She had thought, when, they told her
that her boy was dead, that she had caused his death, there was little
more of misery fate could weave, but at that moment even Alan was
forgotten. It was her own wretchedness she had had then to bear, for he
was at rest; but now it was the anguish of that dearer self, her sole
remaining child--and oh, a mother's heart can better bear its individual
woes than those that crash a daughter to the earth.
A sudden rush amidst the crowd, where a movement could take place, the
heavy roll of muffled drums, and the yet deeper, more wailing toll of
the funeral bell, announced that the prisoner had left the dungeon, and
irresistibly the gaze of the countess turned from her child to seek him;
perchance it was well, for the preservation of her composure, that the
intervening crowd prevented her beholding him till he stood upon the
scaffold, for hardly could she have borne unmoved the sight of that
noble and gallant form--beloved alike as the friend of her son, the
betrothed of her daughter, the brother of her king--degraded of all
insignia of rank, chained to the hurdle, and dragged as the commonest,
the vilest criminal, exposed to the mocking gaze of thousands, to the
place of execution. She saw him not thus, and therefore she knew not
wherefore the features of Agnes had become yet more rigid, bore yet more
the semblance of chiselled marble. He stood at length upon the scaffold,
as calmly majestic in his bearing as if he had borne no insult, suffered
no indignity. His beautiful hair had been arranged with care on either
side his face, and still fell in its long, rich curls, about his throat;
and so beautiful, so holy was the expression of his perfect features,
that the assembled crowds hushed their very breath in admiration and in
awe; it seemed as if the heaven, on whose threshold he stood, had
already fixed its impress on his brow. Every eye was upon him, and all
perceived that holy calmness was for one brief minute disturbed; but
none, save three of those who marked it, knew or even guessed the cause.
The countess had watched his glance, as at first composedly it had
wandered over the multitude beneath and around him, and she saw it rest
on that one face, which, in its sculptured misery, stood alone amidst
thousands, and she alone perceived the start of agony that sight
occasioned, but speedily even that emotion passed; he looked from that
loved face up to the heaven on which his hopes were fixed, in whose care
for her he trusted--and that look was prayer. She saw him as he knelt in
prayer, undisturbed by the clang of instruments still kept up around
him; she saw him rise, and then a deadly sickness crept over her every
limb, a thick mist obscured her sight, sense seemed on the point of
deserting her, when it was recalled by a sound of horror--a shriek so
wild, so long, so thrilling, the rudest spirit midst those multitudes
shrunk back appalled, and crossed themselves in terror. On one ear it
fell with a sense of agony almost equal to that from whence it came; the
mother recognized the voice, and feeling, sight, hearing, as by an
electric spell, returned. She looked forth again, and though her eye
caught the noble form of Nigel Bruce yet quivering in the air, she
shrunk not, she sickened not, for its gaze sought her child; she had
disappeared from the place she had occupied. She saw the Earl of
Gloucester making a rapid way through the dispersing crowds, a sudden
gust blew aside his wrapping-cloak, the face of her child was exposed to
her view, there was a look of death upon her brow; and if the Earl of
Berwick had lingered to note whether indeed this scene of horror would
pass unnoticed, unfelt by his prisoner, he was gratified at length, for
Isabella of Buchan lay senseless on her prison floor.