PRINCE AND VIKING.
"This hand, to tyrants ever sworn the foe,
For freedom only deals the deadly blow;
Then sheathes in calm repose the vengeful blade,
For gentle peace in freedom's hallowed shade."
John Quincy Adams.
My vespers were done, and I was bethinking me of retiring to rest, when
I heard the plaintive voice of Ethel beseeching me to let her come
within my tent. I had scarce time to reply when the poor child came
rushing into my tent, bathed in tears, and in great distress. I soothed
her as best I could. Then I gently inquired as to the cause of her
grief, when, without answering me, she thrust into my hand the letter of
the Prince. "I scarce know what he means," she said, burying her face in
her hands.
I read the letter with a burning sense of shame and indignation, and my
heart ached for this poor child who, in the purity of her patriotism and
her unquenchable love for her country and the Saxon cause, had braved
this rough journey and its exposure, in the hope that her woman's
devotion might nerve the arms of the remnant of Saxon leaders still left
to the cause. But this ghastly unmasking of a Prince who was false,
fickle, shameless, and altogether worthless, was a cruel wound to her--a
wound that would fester and rankle, but was destined never to heal
again. She quietly lifted her tear-stained face, and timidly inquired,
"Is it as I feared, Father?"
"Alas! my child," said I, "'tis a vile, dishonouring missive, and
altogether without excuse. To come from a prince, and from a would-be
king also--'tis sad to think of it."
"My country! my unhappy country! what will become of thee?" was the
heart-broken exclamation as she fell at my feet, her long, fair hair
falling in dishevelled tresses around.
"Comfort thee, my poor child," said I, though I scarce had heart or hope
for anything. I endeavoured to calm her with such soothing, hopeful
words as I had at command; but I saw that words were in vain.
"Father," said she, "my life is a weary burden. My people's woes are
breaking my heart. I had vainly hoped that our scattered and hunted
people might have been rallied by the presence amongst them of their
Prince--that factions would have come together, and a bold stand might
have been made for liberty; but to find my Prince so poor in valour and
so rich in all cowardly and licentious feeling--so bereft of honour and
chivalry as to offer dishonourable proposals to a forlorn and wretched
girl like myself--this is more than I can bear. I have watched and
prayed these two nights, hoping that favouring Heaven would smile upon
us again, and upon this council. But as I watched in lonely vigil, I
could hear no answering voice, saving the soughing of the night-winds in
the passes of these lonely hills; and they seemed to bear no message to
me, saving a message of desolation and death. Is there any rest, any
joy, for one like me in life, Father? Surely the grave is the only hope
for me!"
"My poor child," said I, "let us not think of death until He who gave us
life shall say 'It is enough.' Let us obey, and submit to the chastening
hand of our Father in heaven. Perhaps we err greatly in cherishing
thoughts of resistance and of bloodshed. Let us rejoice that there is a
kingdom which is stable, and which shall know no end; whose Prince is
the Prince of Peace. Angels are its heralds, and saints its warriors.
Love and mercy are the twin pillars of our Prince's throne; and gentle
hands and loving hearts may battle for His supremacy. 'Tis a Kingdom in
which torn and bleeding hearts may find the herb called heartsease, and
sweet content. Into this Kingdom let us press, my child, and for it let
us contend, for the kingdoms of this world are fickle, and built up on
fraud and wrong; and they will ultimately shrivel up and pass away like
the mists of the morning, and be no more."
"I fear me, Father, that the fierce war-spirit of my ancestors reigns in
my heart. I am more than half heathen, it seems to me. I have been
hoping for revenge for a murdered father and brother, and for a ravished
country. They tell me the fair Torfrida, forsaken by her lord, this
Hereward, has taken shelter in the monastery of Crowland. Shall I join
her there? This fierce agitation is more than I can bear."
"What does thy heart say, Ethel?"
"My heart is not to be trusted, Father, for 'tis wayward and wilful, and
there is strong need for some curb, some overmastering restraint, to
crush its fierce revolt."
"Thine, I fear, Ethel, is not the nature to bear easily the constraints
of the cloister, unless it were first schooled by the iron rod of
discipline. Listen to nature's own prompting; I fancy it declares
strongly for the freer life of the camp and the field. There is scope
for activity, and I think a fair measure of protection, where Oswald is.
On his virtue, wisdom, and valour, much depends, and I believe he will
be equal to winning many privileges for us."
"Father, may I confide a maiden's secret to thee? I love him whom thou
hast named. 'Twere heaven, indeed, to share his toils and
privations--nay, even to be near him. But 'tis _agony_, and soon I fear
it will be _sin_. His heart has fallen captive to a Norman lady who
saved his life, and I know he cannot be mine. Advise me, Father, in this
sore strait, I beseech you."
"Thy love is unknown to him, my child, is it not?"
"He knows not; I could not bear it for one hour if he knew it."
"'Tis a hard lesson, my poor child, but thou mayest have to learn that
the _essence_ of love is _sacrifice_. The human heart will not be
hindered here, but will raise its own altar, free of all dictation.
Alas! full oft it must offer itself, and be both priest and victim. Many
are the sad hearts that here have offered sacrifice before thy day.
Alas! many here will offer a hopeless, heart-consuming sacrifice when
thou art gone. If it should be that there is demanded of thee a painful
act of self-renouncement, strength and fortitude are always given us
when we are minded to do a brave deed. I shall be near, my child; let us
await what Providence has in store for us calmly. Lie down upon my
couch, and rest. I will lay this matter before our people, and I will
not be long."
I immediately gathered up the letter, which had fallen at my feet, and
betook myself to the yeoman's dwelling-house, and knocked at the door.
There was immediately a hush of voices, and some one under his breath
said, "Who knocks?" "Adhelm," said I. My voice was well known to many
who were inside, and the door was opened without more ado. Gathered
here, evidently in secret conclave, were Sigurd and a number of the
followers of the Prince. Their lowering brows told me plainly that
mischief was brewing; nevertheless, I determined to execute my purpose,
come what might. The Prince said,--
"What wouldest thou have with us, reverend Father? We are now discussing
purposes of bloodshed, unfitted, I fear, for saintly ears. But if thou
wilt be brief, our royal pleasure shall be at thy service."
"I am afraid my message is one which can scarcely be welcome to your
Highness's ears; nevertheless, it is enjoined upon a bishop that he be
found faithful."
"Well, be faithful an' thou wilt, Bishop; but let not thy exordium be
drawn out any longer than is necessary. So to the point without further
prevarication, an' it please you."
"Well, to the point then, Prince," said I. "I hold in my hands an
epistle, which purports to have come from your Highness, and is
addressed to the Saxon maiden, Ethel. I would fain know if it is indeed
from yourself."
"What have I to do to answer thy impertinent questions, priest?" said
he, snatching the letter from my hands.
"Since it is so, and as I feared, I have to denounce thee, Prince, as
becomes my office; and I say fearlessly that the offering of
dishonouring proposals such as these to a virtuous and gentle maiden, is
an act of unblushing infamy, and I disown thee and thy cause."
"I am a thousand times thy debtor, dog of a priest, if thou wilt rid me
of thy presence, and of all such eavesdropping carrion, who worm
themselves into the secrets of silly wenches, to the annoyance of their
betters."
"Stay a moment, sire," said Sigurd, who was evidently in a towering
rage. "I would know further of this matter. If thou hast offered an
insult to this girl, to this Ethel, _I_ have something to say to thee,
as well as this priest. Let me see that letter," said he, striving to
take it from the Prince's hand; but the Prince hastily drew back, and
attempted to tear it in pieces. Sigurd instantly grasped him with his
iron fists, and wrung the letter from him as though he were a child;
then, handing it to me, he said, "Read it for us, priest. I have no
scholar's gear."
I took the epistle and read it in the hearing of the assembled company.
When I had finished it, Sigurd drew his sword, and stalking up to the
Prince, he said,--
"I will cut thy craven soul from thy craven body for offering this
insult to the daughter of Beowulf."
Half a dozen hands, however, immediately grasped him, and kept him from
his purpose; but, standing like a tiger at bay, his words coming hissing
through his foaming lips with tumultuous rage, he shouted,--
"I disown thee, too, dastardly villain, for I perceive there is not a
drop of honest blood, either Saxon or Skald, in thy craven body! Get
thee gone quickly, for I warn thee to pollute no longer Saxon soil with
thy loathsome, cowardly presence. And beware, too! for if to-morrow's
sun finds thee within reach of my arm, I will avenge this insult in thy
coward's blood."
I confess I could not but look with admiration on this sturdy descendant
of the Viking rovers. Though he was rough and uncouth as the wild hills
of Westmoreland, over which he had hunted and fought from his youth, yet
he loved the beautiful Ethel with a love as deep and pure as a
mother's--a love so utterly unselfish that he would willingly renounce
his hope and his claim, nor murmur if Ethel's love should find its
requital in the love of Oswald. But he was beside himself with rage when
he found that this fair Saxon, whose love was of priceless value to him,
should be deemed a fitting object of this princeling's insults. It is
needless to say that this unprincipled act alienated finally the small
remnant of Saxons who hitherto had hoped to see Edgar occupy the throne,
last filled by the valorous Harold.