Norham Castle again—The Ancient’s Divination—Sir Walter
Bewitched—The Franciscan Friar to the Rescue.
Sir Walter de Selby, who was enduring all the bitterness of grief that
a father could suffer, whose only child, a daughter too, on whose
disposal hung a whole legion of superstitious hopes and fears, had been
rent from him in a manner so mysterious, broke up his little camp with
as much impatience as Assueton had exhibited. But age did not admit of
his motions being so rapid as those of the younger knight. He moved,
however, with all the celerity he could exert, for he remembered the
warning flame which had appeared on the fatal shield; and the very
thought of his daughter’s disappearance, with the frightful
consequences which might result from her being thus beyond his control,
filled his heart with horror and dismay. He was also exceedingly
perplexed how the wizard, Master Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick, could
have so erred in his divination as to occasion him the fruitless and
mortifying expedition into Scotland; for Sir Walter, in the first fever
of distraction he was thrown into by the discovery of his daughter’s
disappearance, had immediately made his way to the aerial den of the
Ancient. The cunning diviner instantly recollected that he had seen Sir
Patrick Hepborne going towards the rampart, where he had reason to know
the Lady Eleanore de Selby had been walking, from which he was led to
suspect an appointment between them. He was too artful to make Sir
Walter aware of this circumstance, but, proceeding upon it, he enacted
some hasty farce of conjuration, and then with all due solemnity boldly
and confidently pronounced that Sir Patrick Hepborne had secretly
returned, and, obtaining possession of the person of the Lady Eleanore,
had carried her over the Border.
Some time after Sir Walter de Selby had gone into Scotland, however, a
discovery was accidentally made that seemed to throw light on the
disappearance of his daughter. The mantle she usually wore had been
found by a patrole, at several miles’ distance to the south of Norham,
lying by the way-side leading towards Alnwick—a circumstance which left
no doubt remaining that she had been carried off in that direction. But
ere this could be communicated to Sir Walter on his return, his
impatience for an interview with his oracle was so great that, putting
aside all obstructions, he hastened to climb to the den of the monster
on the top of the keep.
“What sayest thou, Master Ancient Fenwick?” said the old man, as he
entered the cap-house door, his breath gone with the steepness of the
ascent and the anxiety of his mind; “for once thy skill seemeth to have
failed thee.”
The Ancient was seated in his usual corner, immersed in his favourite
study: a large circle was delineated on the floor, and in the centre of
it lay the Lady Eleanore’s mantle.
“Blame, then, thine own impatience and haste,” said the Ancient. “The
signs were drawn awry, and no wonder that the calculations were
erroneous; but thou wert not gone half-a-day until I discovered the
error; and now thou shalt thyself behold it remedied. Dost see there
thy daughter’s mantle?”
The old man instantly recognized it; and, looking at it in silence for
some moments, the feelings of a sorrowing and bereft parent came upon
him with all the strength of nature; his heart and his eyes filled, and
burst into a flood of tears. He stepped forward to lift it up and
imprint kisses upon it; but the stern and unfeeling Ancient called out,
in a harsh voice,—
“Touch it not, on thy life, else all my mystic labours have been in
vain. Stand aloof there, and, if thou wilt, be a witness of the power I
possess in diving into secrets that are hid from other men.”
Sir Walter obeyed. The Ancient arose and struck a light; and having
darkened the loophole window, he lighted his lamp and put it into a
corner. He then approached the circle, and squatting down, he with much
labour and difficulty drew his unwieldy limbs within its compass, and,
kneeling over the mantle, he proceeded to mutter to himself, from a
book of necromancy which he held in his hand, turning the pages over
with great rapidity, and making from time to time divers signs with his
forefinger on his face and on the floor. After this he laid his head
down on the pavement, covered it with the mantle, and continued to
mutter uncouthly, and to writhe his body until he seemed to fall into a
swoon. He lay motionless for a considerable time; but at length he
appeared to recover gradually, the writhing and the muttering
recommenced, and raising up his body with the mantle hanging over his
head and shoulders, he exposed his horrid features to view. To the
inexpressible terror of Sir Walter, the forehead blazed with the same
appalling flame which he had seen it bear on the night of his long
interview with the wizard.
“Seek thy daughter in the South,” said the Ancient, in a hollow voice;
“seek her from Sir Rafe Piersie. Remember thy destinies. The balance
now wavers—now it turns against thee and thy destinies. If but an atom
of time be lost, they are sealed, irrecoverably sealed.”
Quick as the lightning of heaven did the ideas shoot through the old
man’s mind, as the Ancient was solemnly pronouncing this terrific
response. He remembered that Sir Rafe Piersie had left Norham, in a
litter, the very day preceding the night his daughter had disappeared;
and it flashed upon him that some of the grooms had remained behind
their master, under pretence of one of his favourite horses having been
taken ill, and had afterwards followed him during the night. That they
must have found means to carry the Lady Eleanore off with them, was, he
thought, but too manifest. The very name of Piersie, when uttered by
the Ancient, had made Sir Walter’s blood run cold, from his
superstitious belief of the impending fate that was connected with it;
and the weight of his feelings operating on a body oppressed with
fatigue and want of sleep, and on a mind worn out with the agitation
and affliction it had undergone, became too much for nature to bear. He
grew deadly pale. He made an effort to speak, but his tongue became dry
and cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and his lips refused their
office; an indistinct, mumbling, moaning sound was all that they could
utter—his cheeks became rapidly convulsed—one corner of his mouth was
drawn up to his ear, and he fell backwards on the floor in a state of
perfect insensibility.
Fenwick became alarmed. He started up with the ghastly look of a
newly-convicted felon, and the fear of being accused of the murder of
Sir Walter came upon him. He crept towards the knight, and raising him
up, made use of what means he could to endeavour to restore him to
life; but all his efforts were unsuccessful. Trembling from the panic
he was in, he then lifted the old knight in his arms, and with great
difficulty conveyed him down the narrow stair to his own apartment.
Horror was depicted in the faces of the domestics when they beheld the
hated but dreaded monster bearing the bulky and apparently lifeless
body of their beloved master. A wild cry of grief and apprehension
burst from them. The Ancient laid Sir Walter on the bed, and, as the
attendants stood aloof and aghast, he took up a small knife that lay
near and pierced the veins of both temples with the point of it. The
blood spouted forth, and the knight began to show faint symptoms of
life. Never negligent of any circumstance that might raise his
reputation for supernatural power, the Ancient now began to employ a
number of strange necromantic signs, and to utter a jargon of
unintelligible words in a low muttering tone, laying his hand at one
time on the face, and at another on the breast, of the semi-animate
body, that he might impress the bystanders with the idea of his magic
having restored Sir Walter to life; for, seeing the blood flow so
freely, he anticipated the immediate and perfect recovery of the
patient. But he was mistaken in the extent of his hopes. Sir Walter
opened his eyes, stared wildly about him, and moved his lips as if
endeavouring to speak; but he continued to lie on his back, altogether
motionless, and quite incapable of uttering a word.
The dismayed Ancient shuffled out of the apartment, and hastily retired
to his lofty citadel. A murmur of disapprobation broke out among the
domestics the moment he was supposed to be beyond hearing. They crowded
about their master’s bedside, every one eager to do something. All
manner of restoratives were tried with him, but in vain. He seemed to
be perfectly unconscious of what they did, and he lay sunk in a
lethargy, from which nothing could rouse him.
Sir Walter was the idol of his people and garrison. By degrees the
melancholy news spread through the keep of the Castle, and thence into
its courts, barracks, stables, guardhouses, and along its very
ramparts, until every soldier and sentinel in the place became aware of
the miserable condition of their beloved Governor, as well as of the
immediate share which Master Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick, the sorcerer,
had had in producing it. General lamentations arose.
“Our good Governor is bewitched!”—“The monster Ancient hath bewitched
him!”—“The villain Fenwick drew his very blood from him to help his
sorcery!”—“What can be done?”—“What shall we do?”—“Let us send
forthwith for some holy man.”—“Let us send for the pious clerk of
Tilmouth Chapel; he hath good lore in sike cases.”
The suggestion was approved by all, and accordingly a horseman was
instantly despatched to bring the clerk with all possible haste. The
messenger speedily returned, unaccompanied, however, by the pious
priest of Tilmouth, who chanced to be sick in bed, but who had sent
them a wayfaring Franciscan monk, of whose potent power against magic
he had largely spoken. The holy man was immediately ushered into the
Governor’s apartment. Having previously taken care to inform himself of
all the particulars of the case, from the horseman behind whom he had
been brought, he approached the bed with a solemn air and surveyed Sir
Walter for some time, as if in deep consideration of his state and
appearance, with intent to discover his malady. He looked into his
eyes, felt him carefully all over, and moved his helpless legs and arms
to and fro. Meanwhile the officers of the garrison, the attendants, and
even some of the soldiers, were awaiting anxiously in the room, about
the door, on the stairs, and on the bridge below, all eager to learn
the issue of his examination.
“Sir Walter de Selby is bewitched,” said the Franciscan at length, “and
no human power can now restore him, so long as the wretch, whoever he
may be, who hath done this foul work on him shall be permitted to live.
If he be known, therefore, let him be forthwith seized and dragged to
the flames.”
An indignant murmur of approbation followed this announcement, and soon
spread to those on the stairs, and from them to the soldiers in the
court-yard below. Fortified by the spiritual aid of a holy friar, the
most superstitious of them lost half of their dread of the Ancient’s
supernatural powers.
“Burn the Ancient!” cried one.—“Burn Haggerstone Fenwick!” cried
another.—“Burn the Wizard Fenwick!” cried a third.—“Faggots
there—faggots in the court-yard!”—“Raise a pile as high as the
keep!”—“Faggots!”—“Fire!”—“Burn the Ancient!”—“Burn the Wizard!” flew
from mouth to mouth. All was instant ferment. Some ran this way, and
others that, to bring billets of wood, and to prepare the pile of
expiation; so that, in a short time, it was built up to a height
sufficient to have burnt the Ancient if his altitude had been double
what it really was.
This being completed, the next cry was—“Seize the Ancient—seize him,
and bring him down!” But this was altogether a different matter; for
although every one most readily joined in the cry, no one seemed
disposed to lead the way in carrying the general wish into effect. The
friar assumed an air of command—
“Let no one move,” said he, “until I shall have communed with the
wretch. I shall myself ascend to his den, and endeavour to bend his
wicked heart to undo the evil he hath wrought on the good Sir Walter.
But let some chosen and determined men be within call, for should I
find him hardened and obdurate, he must forthwith be led out to suffer
for his foul sorcery. Meanwhile let all be quiet, let no sound be
uttered, until I shall be heard to pronounce, in a loud voice, this
terrible malison, ‘Body and soul, to the flames I doom thee!’ Then let
them up without delay on him, and he shall be straightway overcome.”
The Franciscan was listened to with the most profound deference, his
commands were implicitly obeyed, and every sound, both within and
without the Castle, was from that moment hushed.