I see thee yet, fair France--thou favour'd land
Of art and nature--thou art still before me,
Thy sons, to whom their labour is a sport,
So well thy grateful soil returns its tribute,
Thy sunburnt daughters, with their laughing eyes
And glossy raven locks. But, favour'd France,
Thou hast had many a tale of woe to tell
In ancient times as now.
ANONYMOUS
Avoiding all conversation with any one (for such was his charge),
Quentin Durward proceeded hastily to array himself in a strong but plain
cuirass, with thigh and arm pieces, and placed on his head a good steel
cap without any visor. To these was added a handsome cassock of chamois
leather, finely dressed, and laced down the seams with some embroidery,
such as might become a superior officer in a noble household.
These were brought to his apartment by Oliver, who, with his quiet,
insinuating smile and manner, acquainted him that his uncle had been
summoned to mount guard purposely that he might make no inquiries
concerning these mysterious movements.
“Your excuse will be made to your kinsman,” said Oliver, smiling again,
“and, my dearest son, when you return safe from the execution of this
pleasing trust, I doubt not you will be found worthy of such promotion
as will dispense with your accounting for your motions to any one, while
it will place you at the head of those who must render an account of
theirs to you.”
So spoke Oliver le Diable, calculating, probably, in his own mind,
the great chance there was that the poor youth whose hand he squeezed
affectionately as he spoke, must necessarily encounter death or
captivity in the commission intrusted to his charge. He added to his
fair words a small purse of gold, to defray necessary expenses on the
road, as a gratuity on the King's part.
At a few minutes before twelve at midnight, Quentin, according to his
directions, proceeded to the second courtyard, and paused under the
Dauphin's Tower, which, as the reader knows, was assigned for the
temporary residence of the Countesses of Croye. He found, at this place
of rendezvous, the men and horses appointed to compose the retinue,
leading two sumpter mules already loaded with baggage, and holding three
palfreys for the two Countesses and a faithful waiting woman, with a
stately war horse for himself, whose steel plated saddle glanced in the
pale moonlight. Not a word of recognition was spoken on either side. The
men sat still in their saddles as if they were motionless, and by the
same imperfect light Quentin saw with pleasure that they were all armed,
and held long lances in their hands. They were only three in number, but
one of them whispered to Quentin, in a strong Gascon accent, that their
guide was to join them beyond Tours.
Meantime, lights glanced to and fro at the lattices of the tower, as
if there was bustle and preparation among its inhabitants. At length
a small door, which led from the bottom of the tower to the court, was
unclosed, and three females came forth attended by a man wrapped in a
cloak. They mounted in silence the palfreys which stood prepared for
them, while their attendant on foot led the way, and gave the passwords
and signals to the watchful guards, whose posts they passed in
succession. Thus they at length reached the exterior of these formidable
barriers. Here the man on foot, who had hitherto acted as their guide,
paused, and spoke low and earnestly to the two foremost females.
“May heaven bless you, Sire,” said a voice which thrilled upon
Quentin Durward's ear, “and forgive you, even if your purposes be more
interested than your words express! To be placed in safety under the
protection of the good Bishop of Liege, is the utmost extent of my
desire.”
The person whom she thus addressed muttered an inaudible answer, and
retreated back through the barrier gate, while Quentin thought that, by
the moon glimpse, he recognized in him the King himself, whose anxiety
for the departure of his guests had probably induced him to give his
presence, in case scruples should arise on their part, or difficulties
on that of the guards of the Castle.
When the riders were beyond the Castle, it was necessary for some time
to ride with great precaution, in order to avoid the pitfalls, snares,
and similar contrivances which were placed for the annoyance of
strangers. The Gascon was, however, completely possessed of the clew
to this labyrinth, and in a quarter of an hour's riding they found
themselves beyond the limits of Plessis le Parc, and not far distant
from the city of Tours.
The moon, which had now extricated herself from the clouds through
which she was formerly wading, shed a full sea of glorious light upon
a landscape equally glorious. They saw the princely Loire rolling his
majestic tide through the richest plain in France, and sweeping along
between banks ornamented with towers and terraces, and with olives and
vineyards. They saw the walls of the city of Tours, the ancient capital
of Touraine, raising their portal towers and embattlements white in the
moonlight, while from within their circle rose the immense Gothic mass,
which the devotion of the sainted Bishop Perpetuus erected as early as
the fifth century, and which the zeal of Charlemagne and his successors
had enlarged with such architectural splendour as rendered it the most
magnificent church in France. The towers of the church of Saint Gatien
[the cathedral of Tours] were also visible, and the gloomy strength of
the Castle, which was said to have been, in ancient times, the residence
of the Emperor Valentinian [a Roman emperor who strengthened the
northern frontiers against the barbarians].
Even the circumstances in which he was placed, though of a nature so
engrossing, did not prevent the wonder and delight with which the young
Scottishman, accustomed to the waste though impressive landscape of
his own mountains, and the poverty even of his country's most stately
scenery, looked on a scene which art and nature seemed to have vied
in adorning with their richest splendour. But he was recalled to the
business of the moment by the voice of the elder lady (pitched at least
an octave higher than those soft tones which bade adieu to King Louis),
demanding to speak with the leader of the band. Spurring his horse
forward, Quentin respectfully presented himself to the ladies in that
capacity, and thus underwent the interrogatories of the Lady Hameline.
“What was his name, and what his degree?”
He told both.
“Was he perfectly acquainted with the road?”
“He could not,” he replied, “pretend to much knowledge of the route,
but he was furnished with full instructions, and he was, at their first
resting place, to be provided with a guide, in all respects competent to
the task of directing their farther journey, meanwhile, a horseman, who
had just joined them and made the number of their guard four, was to be
their guide for the first stage.”
“And wherefore were you selected for such a duty, young gentleman?” said
the lady. “I am told you are the same youth who was lately upon guard in
the gallery in which we met the Princess of France. You seem young
and inexperienced for such a charge--a stranger, too, in France, and
speaking the language as a foreigner.”
“I am bound to obey the commands of the King, madam, but am not
qualified to reason on them,” answered the young soldier.
“Are you of noble birth?” demanded the same querist.
“I may safely affirm so, madam,” replied Quentin.
“And are you not,” said the younger lady, addressing him in her turn,
but with a timorous accent, “the same whom I saw when I was called to
wait upon the King at yonder inn?”
Lowering his voice, perhaps from similar feelings of timidity, Quentin
answered in the affirmative.
“Then methinks, my cousin,” said the Lady Isabelle, addressing the Lady
Hameline, “we must be safe under this young gentleman's safeguard,
he looks not, at least, like one to whom the execution of a plan
of treacherous cruelty upon two helpless women could be with safety
intrusted.”
“On my honour,” said Durward, “by the fame of my house, by the bones
of my ancestry, I could not, for France and Scotland laid into one, be
guilty of treachery or cruelty towards you!”
“You speak well, young man,” said the Lady Hameline, “but we are
accustomed to hear fair speeches from the King of France and his agents.
It was by these that we were induced, when the protection of the Bishop
of Liege might have been attained with less risk than now, or when we
might have thrown ourselves on that of Winceslaus of Germany, or
of Edward of England, to seek refuge in France. And in what did the
promises of the King result? In an obscure and shameful concealing of
us, under plebeian names, as a sort of prohibited wares in yonder
paltry hostelry, when we--who, as thou knowest, Marthon” (addressing her
domestic), “never put on our head tire save under a canopy, and upon a
dais of three degrees--were compelled to attire ourselves, standing on
the simple floor, as if we had been two milkmaids.”
Marthon admitted that her lady spoke a most melancholy truth.
“I would that had been the sorest evil, dear kinswoman,” said the Lady
Isabelle, “I could gladly have dispensed with state.”
“But not with society,” said the elder Countess, “that, my sweet cousin,
was impossible.”
“I would have dispensed with all, my dearest kinswoman,” answered
Isabelle, in a voice which penetrated to the very heart of her young
conductor and guard, “with all, for a safe and honourable retirement. I
wish not--God knows, I never wished--to occasion war betwixt France and
my native Burgundy, or that lives should be lost for such as I am. I
only implored permission to retire to the Convent of Marmoutier, or to
any other holy sanctuary.”
“You spoke then like a fool, my cousin,” answered the elder lady, “and
not like a daughter of my noble brother. It is well there is still
one alive who hath some of the spirit of the noble House of Croye. How
should a high born lady be known from a sunburnt milkmaid, save that
spears are broken for the one, and only hazel poles shattered for the
other? I tell you, maiden, that while I was in the very earliest bloom,
scarcely older than yourself, the famous Passage of Arms at Haflinghem
was held in my honour, the challengers were four, the assailants so many
as twelve. It lasted three days, and cost the lives of two adventurous
knights, the fracture of one backbone, one collarbone, three legs, and
two arms, besides flesh wounds and bruises beyond the heralds' counting,
and thus have the ladies of our House ever been honoured. Ah! had you
but half the heart of your noble ancestry, you would find means at some
court where ladies' love and fame in arms are still prized, to maintain
a tournament at which your hand should be the prize, as was that of your
great grandmother of blessed memory, at the spear running of Strasbourg,
and thus should you gain the best lance in Europe, to maintain the
rights of the House of Croye, both against the oppression of Burgundy
and the policy of France.”
“But, fair kinswoman,” answered the younger Countess, “I have been
told by my old nurse, that although the Rhinegrave [formerly a Rhenish
prince] was the best lance at the great tournament at Strasbourg, and so
won the hand of my respected ancestor, yet the match was no happy
one, as he used often to scold, and sometimes even to beat, my great
grandmother of blessed memory.”
“And wherefore not?” said the elder Countess, in her romantic enthusiasm
for the profession of chivalry, “why should those victorious arms,
accustomed to deal blows when abroad, be bound to restrain their
energies at home? A thousand times rather would I be beaten twice a day
by a husband whose arm was as much feared by others as by me, than be
the wife of a coward, who dared neither to lift hand to his wife, nor to
any one else!”
“I should wish you joy of such an active mate, fair aunt,” replied
Isabelle, “without envying you, for if broken bones be lovely in
tourneys, there is nothing less amiable in ladies' bower.”
“Nay, but the beating is no necessary consequence of wedding with a
knight of fame in arms,” said the Lady Hameline, “though it is true that
your ancestor of blessed memory, the Rhinegrave Gottfried, was something
rough tempered, and addicted to the use of Rheinwein.
“The very perfect knight is a lamb among ladies, and a lion among
lances. There was Thibault of Montigni--God be with him!--he was the
kindest soul alive, and not only was he never so discourteous as to lift
hand against his lady, but, by our good dame, he who beat all enemies
without doors, found a fair foe who could belabour him within.--Well,
't was his own fault--he was one of the challengers at the Passage
of Haflinghem, and so well bestirred himself, that, if it had pleased
Heaven, and your grandfather, there might have been a lady of Montigni
who had used his gentle nature more gently.”
The Countess Isabelle, who had some reason to dread this Passage of
Haflinghem, it being a topic upon which her aunt was at all times
very diffuse, suffered the conversation to drop, and Quentin, with the
natural politeness of one who had been gently nurtured dreading lest
his presence might be a restraint on their conversation, rode forward to
join the guide, as if to ask him some questions concerning their route.
Meanwhile the ladies continued their journey in silence, or in such
conversation as is not worth narrating, until day began to break, and as
they had then been on horseback for several hours, Quentin, anxious lest
they should be fatigued, became impatient to know their distance from
the nearest resting place.
“I will show it you,” answered the guide, “in half an hour.”
“And then you leave us to other guidance?” continued Quentin.
“Even so, Seignior Archer,” replied the man, “my journeys are always
short and straight. When you and others, Seignior Archer, go by the bow,
I always go by the cord.”
The moon had by this time long been down, and the lights of dawn were
beginning to spread bright and strong in the east, and to gleam on the
bosom of a small lake, on the verge of which they had been riding for
a short space of time. This lake lay in the midst of a wide plain,
scattered over with single trees, groves and thickets, but which
might be yet termed open, so that objects began to be discerned with
sufficient accuracy. Quentin cast his eye on the person whom he rode
beside, and under the shadow of a slouched overspreading hat, which
resembled the sombrero of a Spanish peasant, he recognised the facetious
features of the same Petit Andre whose fingers, not long since, had, in
concert with those of his lugubrious brother, Trois Eschelles, been
so unpleasantly active about his throat.--Impelled by aversion, not
altogether unmixed with fear (for in his own country the executioner is
regarded with almost superstitious horror), which his late narrow escape
had not diminished, Durward instinctively moved his horse's head to
the right, and pressing him at the same time with the spur, made a
demi-volte, which separated him eight feet from his hateful companion.
“Ho, ho, ho, ho!” exclaimed Petit Andre, “by Our Lady of the Grave, our
young soldier remembers us of old. What! comrade, you bear no malice, I
trust?--every one wins his bread in this country. No man need be ashamed
of having come through my hands, for I will do my work with any that
ever tied a living weight to a dead tree.--And God hath given me grace
to be such a merry fellow withal.--Ha! ha! ha!--I could tell you such
jests I have cracked between the foot of a ladder and the top of the
gallows, that, by my halidome, I have been obliged to do my job rather
hastily, for fear the fellows should die with laughing, and so shame my
mystery!”
As he thus spoke he edged his horse sideways to regain the interval
which the Scot had left between them, saying, at the same time, “Come,
Seignior Archer, let there be no unkindness betwixt us!--For my part,
I always do my duty without malice, and with a light heart, and I never
love a man better than when I have put my scant of wind collar about his
neck, to dub him Knight of the order of Saint Patibularius [patibulum,
a gibbet], as the Provost's Chaplain, the worthy Father Vaconeldiablo
[possibly Baco (Bacchus) el Diablo (the Devil)], is wont to call the
Patron Saint of the Provostry.”
“Keep back, thou wretched object!” exclaimed Quentin, as the finisher of
the law again sought to approach him closer, “or I shall be tempted to
teach you the distance that should be betwixt men of honour and such an
outcast.”
“La you there, how hot you are!” said the fellow, “had you said men
of honesty, there had been some savour of truth in it, but for men of
honour, good lack, I have to deal with them every day, as nearly and
closely as I was about to do business with you.--But peace be with you,
and keep your company to yourself. I would have bestowed a flagon of
Auvernat upon you to wash away every unkindness---but 't is like you
scorn my courtesy.--Well. Be as churlish as you list--I never quarrel
with my customers--my jerry come tumbles, my merry dancers, my little
playfellows, as Jacques Butcher says to his lambs--those in fine,
who, like your seigniorship, have H. E. M. P. written on their
foreheads.--No, no, let them use me as they list, they shall have my
good service at last--and yourself shall see, when you next come under
Petit Andre's hands, that he knows how to forgive an injury.”
So saying, and summing up the whole with a provoking wink, and such an
interjectional tchick as men quicken a dull horse with, Petit Andre
drew off to the other side of the path, and left the youth to digest
the taunts he had treated him with, as his proud Scottish stomach best
might. A strong desire had Quentin to have belaboured him while the
staff of his lance could hold together, but he put a restraint on
his passion, recollecting that a brawl with such a character could be
creditable at no time or place, and that a quarrel of any kind, on the
present occasion, would be a breach of duty, and might involve the most
perilous consequences. He therefore swallowed his wrath at the ill timed
and professional jokes of Mons. Petit Andre, and contented himself with
devoutly hoping that they had not reached the ears of his fair charge,
on which they could not be supposed to make an impression in favour of
himself, as one obnoxious to such sarcasms. But he was speedily roused
from such thoughts by the cry of both the ladies at once, to “Look
back--look back!--For the love of Heaven look yourself, and us--we are
pursued!”
Quentin hastily looked back, and saw that two armed men were in fact
following them, and riding at such a pace as must soon bring them up
with their party. “It can,” he said, “be only some of the Provostry
making their rounds in the forest.--Do thou look,” he said to Petit
Andre, “and see what they may be.”
Petit Andre obeyed, and rolling himself jocosely in the saddle after he
had made his observations, replied, “These, fair sir, are neither your
comrades nor mine--neither Archers nor Marshals men--for I think they
wear helmets, with visors lowered, and gorgets of the same.--A plague
upon these gorgets of all other pieces of armour!--I have fumbled with
them an hour before I could undo the rivets.”
“Do you, gracious ladies,” said Durward, without attending to Petit
Andre, “ride forward--not so fast as to raise an opinion of your being
in flight, and yet fast enough to avail yourself of the impediment which
I shall presently place between you and these men who follow us.”
The Countess Isabelle looked to their guide, and then whispered to her
aunt, who spoke to Quentin thus: “We have confidence in your care, fair
Archer, and will rather abide the risk of whatever may chance in your
company, than we will go onward with that man, whose mien is, we think,
of no good augury.”
“Be it as you will, ladies,” said the youth. “There are but two who come
after us, and though they be knights, as their arms seem to show, they
shall, if they have any evil purpose, learn how a Scottish gentleman can
do his devour in the presence and for the defence of such as you.
“Which of you,” he continued, addressing the guards whom he commanded,
“is willing to be my comrade, and to break a lance with these gallants?”
Two of the men obviously faltered in resolution, but the third, Bertrand
Guyot, swore that cap de diou, were they Knights of King Arthur's Round
Table, he would try their mettle, for the honour of Gascony.
While he spoke, the two knights--for they seemed of no less rank--came
up with the rear of the party, in which Quentin, with his sturdy
adherent, had by this time stationed himself. They were fully accoutred
in excellent armour of polished steel, without any device by which they
could be distinguished.
One of them, as they approached, called out to Quentin, “Sir Squire,
give place--we come to relieve you of a charge which is above your rank
and condition. You will do well to leave these ladies in our care, who
are fitter to wait upon them, especially as we know that in yours they
are little better than captives.”
“In return to your demand, sirs,” replied Durward, “know, in the first
place, that I am discharging the duty imposed upon me by my present
sovereign, and next, that however unworthy I may be, the ladies desire
to abide under my protection.”
“Out, sirrah!” exclaimed one of the champions, “will you, a wandering
beggar, put yourself on terms of resistance against belted knights?”
“They are indeed terms of resistance,” said Quentin, “since they oppose
your insolent and unlawful aggression, and if there be difference of
rank between us, which as yet I know not, your discourtesy has done it
away. Draw your sword, or if you will use the lance, take ground for
your career.”
While the knights turned their horses, and rode back to the distance of
about a hundred and fifty yards, Quentin, looking to the ladies, bent
low on his saddlebow, as if desiring their favourable regard, and as
they streamed towards him their kerchiefs, in token of encouragement,
the two assailants had gained the distance necessary for their charge.
Calling to the Gascon to bear himself like a man, Durward put his steed
into motion, and the four horsemen met in full career in the midst of
the ground which at first separated them. The shock was fatal to the
poor Gascon, for his adversary, aiming at his face, which was undefended
by a visor, ran him through the eye into the brain, so that he fell dead
from his horse.
On the other hand, Quentin, though labouring under the same
disadvantage, swayed himself in the saddle so dexterously, that the
hostile lance, slightly scratching his cheek, passed over his right
shoulder, while his own spear, striking his antagonist fair upon the
breast, hurled him to the ground. Quentin jumped off, to unhelm his
fallen opponent, but the other knight (who had never yet spoken),
seeing the fortune of his companion, dismounted still more speedily than
Durward, and bestriding his friend, who lay senseless, exclaimed, “In
the name of God and Saint Martin, mount, good fellow, and get thee gone
with thy woman's ware--Ventre Saint Gris, they have caused mischief
enough this morning.”
“By your leave, Sir Knight,” said Quentin, who could not brook the
menacing tone in which this advice was given, “I will first see whom
I have had to do with, and learn who is to answer for the death of my
comrade.”
“That shalt thou never live to know or to tell,” answered the knight.
“Get thee back in peace, good fellow. If we were fools for interrupting
your passage, we have had the worst, for thou hast done more evil than
the lives of thee and thy whole hand could repay.--Nay, if thou wilt
have it” (for Quentin now drew his sword, and advanced on him), “take it
with a vengeance!”
So saying, he dealt the Scot such a blow on the helmet, as, till that
moment (though bred where good blows were plenty), he had only read
of in romance. It descended like a thunderbolt, beating down the guard
which the young soldier had raised to protect his head, and, reaching
his helmet of proof, cut it through so far as to touch his hair, but
without farther injury while Durward, dizzy, stunned, and beaten down on
one knee, was for an instant at the mercy of the knight, had it
pleased him to second his blow. But compassion for Quentin's youth, or
admiration of his courage, or a generous love of fair play, made him
withhold from taking such advantage: while Durward, collecting himself,
sprang up and attacked his antagonist with the energy of one determined
to conquer or die, and at the same time with the presence of mind
necessary for fighting the quarrel out to the best advantage. Resolved
not again to expose himself to such dreadful blows as he had just
obtained, he employed the advantage of superior agility, increased by
the comparative lightness of his armour, to harass his antagonist by
traversing on all sides, with a suddenness of motion and rapidity
of attack against which the knight--in his heavy panoply--found it
difficult to defend himself without much fatigue.
It was in vain that this generous antagonist called aloud to Quentin
that there now remained no cause of fight betwixt them, and that he
was loath to be constrained to do him injury. Listening only to the
suggestions of a passionate wish to redeem the shame of his temporary
defeat, Durward continued to assail him with the rapidity of
lightning--now menacing him with the edge, now with the point of his
sword, and ever keeping such an eye on the motions of his opponent, of
whose superior strength he had had terrible proof, that he was ready
to spring backward, or aside, from under the blows of his tremendous
weapon.
“Now the devil be with thee for an obstinate and presumptuous fool,”
muttered the knight, “that cannot be quiet till thou art knocked on the
head!”
So saying, he changed his mode of fighting, collected himself, as if to
stand on the defensive, and seemed contented with parrying, instead of
returning, the blows which Quentin unceasingly aimed at him, with the
internal resolution that the instant when either loss of breath or any
false or careless pass of the young soldier should give an opening, he
would put an end to the fight by a single blow. It is likely he might
have succeeded in this artful policy, but Fate had ordered it otherwise.
The duel was still at the hottest, when a large party of horse rode up,
crying, “Hold, in the King's name!”
Both champions stepped back--and Quentin saw, with surprise, that
his Captain, Lord Crawford, was at the head of the party who had thus
interrupted their combat. There was also Tristan l'Hermite, with two or
three of his followers, making, in all, perhaps twenty horse.