We now return to Lord Marmion, who, led by the Palmer, was hastening on
to Holyrood. When the heights of Lammermoor were reached, noon had long
passed, and at early nightfall, old Gifford's towers lay before them.
Here they had expected hospitality, but the lord of the Castle had gone
to Scotland's camp, where were gathered the noblest and bravest of her
sons. No friendly summons called them to the hall, for in her lord's
absence, the lady refused admittance alike to friend and foe.
On through the hamlet rode the train until it drew rein at the inn. Now
down from their seats sprang the horsemen. The courtyard rang with
jingling spurs, horses were led to the stalls, and the bustling host
gave double the orders that could be obeyed. The building was large, and
though rudely built, its cheerful fire and savory food were most welcome
to the weary men. Soon by the wide chimney's roaring blaze, and in the
place of state, sat Marmion. He watched his followers as they mixed the
brown ale, and enjoyed the bountiful repast. Oft the lordly warrior
mingled in the mirth they made.
"For though, with men of high degree,
The proudest of the proud was he,
Yet, trained in camp, he knew the art
To win the soldier's hardy heart.
Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May,
With open hand and brow as free,
Lover of wine and minstrelsy."
Directly opposite, resting on his staff, stood the Palmer, the thin,
dark visage half seen, half hidden by his hood. Steadily he gazed on
Marmion, who by frown and gesture gave evidence that he could ill bear
so close a scrutiny.
As squire and archer looked at the stern, dark face of the Pilgrim,
their bursts of laughter grew less loud, less frequent, and gradually
their mirth declined. They whispered one to another: "Sawest thou ever
such a face? How pale his cheek! How bright his eye! His heart must be
set only on his soul's salvation."
To chase away the gloom gradually stealing over the company, and to draw
from himself the sullen scowl of the Palmer, Marmion called upon his
favorite squire:
"'Fitz-Eustace, knows't thou not some lay
To speed the lingering night away?'"
The youth made an unhappy choice. He had a rich, mellow voice, and chose
the wild, sad ballad often sung to Marmion by the unfortunate Constance
de Beverley. When all was quiet, quiveringly the notes fell upon the
air:
SONG.
"Where shall the lover rest,
Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden's breast,
Parted forever?
Where early violets die
Under the willow.
"There through the summer day,
Cool streams are laving
There while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving;
There thy rest shalt thou take,
Never again to awake,
Never, O never!
"Where shall the traitor rove,
He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's love,
Win and then leave her?
In the lost battle,
Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle
With groans of the dying.
"His warm blood the wolf shall lap,
Ere life be parted.
Shame and dishonor sit
By his grave ever;
Blessing shall hallow it--
Never, O never!"
The melancholy sound ceased. The song was sad, and bitterly it fell on
the false-hearted Marmion. Well he knew that at his request the faithful
but misguided Constance had been taken to Lindisfarne to be punished for
crime committed through her mistaken love for him. As if he already saw
disgrace for himself and death for her, he drew his mantle before his
face, and bent his head upon his hands. Constance de Beverley at that
moment was dying in her cell.
The meanest groom in all the train could scarce have wished to exchange
places with the proud Marmion, could his thoughts have been known.
Controlling himself, and raising his head, he said:
"As you sang, it seemed that I heard a death knell rung in mine ear.
What is the meaning of this weird sound?"
Then for the first time the Palmer broke his silence, and said in reply:
"It foretells the death of a loved friend."
Utterance, for once, failed the haughty Marmion, whose pride heretofore
could scarcely brook a word even from his King. His glance fell, his
brow flushed, for something familiar in the tone or look of the speaker
so struck the false heart that he was speechless.
Before his troubled imagination rose a vision of the lovely Constance,
beautiful and pure as when, trusting his treacherous words, she left the
peaceful walls of her convent. He knew she was now a captive in convent
cell, and the strange words of the Palmer, added to the song of the
squire, had made him unhappy. "Alas!" he thought, "would that I had left
her in purity to live, in holiness to die." Twice he was ready to order,
"To horse," that he might fly to Lindisfarne and command that not one
golden ringlet of her fair head be harmed, and twice he thought, "They
dare not. I gave orders that she should be safe, though not at large."
While thus love and repentance strove in the breast of the lord, the
landlord began a weird tale, suggested by the speech of the Palmer. As
Marmion listened, he gathered from the legend that not far from where
they sat, a knight might learn of future weal or woe. He might,
perchance, meet "in the charmed ring" his deadliest foe, in the form of
a spectre, and with it engage in mortal combat. If victorious over this
supernatural antagonist, the omen was victory in all future
undertakings.
"Marmion longed to prove his chance;
In charmed ring to break a lance."
The yeomen had drunk deep; the ale was strong, and at a sign from their
master, all sought rest on the hostel floor before the now dying embers.
For pillow, under each head, was quiver or targe. The flickering fire
threw fitful shadows on the strange group. Marmion and his squires
retired to other quarters. Where the Palmer had disappeared, none knew
or cared.
Alone, folded in his green mantle and nestling in the hay of a waste
loft, lay Fitz-Eustace, the pale moonlight falling upon his youthful
face and form. He was dreaming happy dreams of hawk and hound, of ring
and glove, of lady's eyes, when suddenly he woke. A tall form, half in
the moonbeams, half in the gloom, stood beside him; but before he could
draw his dagger, he recognized the voice of Marmion, who said:
"Fitz-Eustace, rise, and saddle Bevis! I cannot rest. The air must cool
my brow. I fain would ride to view the elfin scene of chivalry of which
we heard to-night. Rouse none from their slumbers, for I would not have
those prating knaves know that I could credit so wild a tale as our
landlord has told."
Softly down the steps they stole. Eustace led forth the steed arrayed
for the ride, and Marmion, armed to meet the elfin foe, sprang into the
saddle. The young squire listened to the resounding hoof-beats as they
grew more and more faint, and wondered as he fell asleep that one held
to be so wary, so wise, so incredulous, should ride forth at midnight to
meet a ghost in mail and plate.
The moon was bright, and as Marmion reached the elfin camp, halting, he
fearlessly blew his bugle. An answer came, so faint and hollow, that it
might have been an echo; but suddenly he saw a distinct form appear, a
mounted champion. The sight of the unexpected foe made to tremble with
horror him who never had feared knight or noble. His hand so shook, he
could scarce couch spear aright. The combat began; the two horsemen ran
their course; and in the third attack Marmion's steed could not resist
the unearthly shock--he fell, and the flower of England's chivalry
rolled in the dust.
High over the head of the fallen foe, the supposed spectre shook his
sword. Full on his face fell the moonlight, a face never to be mistaken.
It was the wraith of Ralph de Wilton, who had been sent by Marmion to
exile and to death. Thrice over his victim did the grim, ghast spectre
shake his blade, but when Marmion, white with terror, prayed for life,
the seeming vision dashed his sword into its sheath, sprang lightly to
his saddle, and vanished as he came. The moon sank from sight, and the
poor, shivering, wretched English knight lay groveling on the plain.
Could it be his mortal enemy had left the grave to strike down a living
foe, and to stare in derisive hatred from a raised visor? Whether dead
or alive, the elfin foe had little reason to spare the life of so
dastardly an enemy!
Sweetly sleeping, or patiently listening, Eustace waited for the return
of his knight, waited till he heard a horse coming, spurred to its
utmost speed. The rider hastily threw the rein to his squire, but spoke
not a word. In the dim light the youth plainly saw that the armor and
the falcon crest on his lord's helmet were covered with clay, that the
knees and sides of the noble charger were in sad plight. It was evident
the beast and his rider had been overthrown. To broken and brief rest
Eustace returned and never did he more gladly welcome the light of day.
"Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark
The first notes of the morning lark."