Go to--thou art made, if thou desirest to be so.--
If not, let me see thee still the fellow of servants,
and not fit to touch Fortune's fingers.--
TWELFTH NIGHT
When the tables were drawn, the Chaplain, who seemed to have taken a
sort of attachment to Quentin Durward's society, or who perhaps desired
to extract from him farther information concerning the meeting of the
morning, led him into a withdrawing apartment, the windows of which, on
one side, projected into the garden, and as he saw his companion's eye
gaze rather eagerly upon the spot, he proposed to Quentin to go down
and take a view of the curious foreign shrubs with which the Bishop had
enriched its parterres.
Quentin excused himself as unwilling to intrude, and therewithal
communicated the check which he had received in the morning. The
Chaplain smiled, and said that there was indeed some ancient prohibition
respecting the Bishop's private garden.
“But this,” he added, with a smile, “was when our reverend father was
a princely young prelate of not more than thirty years of age, and when
many fair ladies frequented the Castle for ghostly consolation. Need
there was,” he said with a downcast look, and a smile, half simple and
half intelligent, “that these ladies, pained in conscience, who were
ever lodged in the apartments now occupied by the noble Canoness, should
have some space for taking the air, secure from the intrusion of the
profane. But of late years,” he added, “this prohibition, although not
formally removed, has fallen entirely out of observance, and remains
but as the superstition which lingers in the brain of a superannuated
gentleman usher. If you please,” he added, “we will presently descend,
and try whether the place be haunted or no.”
Nothing could have been more agreeable to Quentin than the prospect of
a free entrance into the garden, through means of which, according to a
chance which had hitherto attended his passion, he hoped to communicate
with, or at least obtain sight of, the object of his affections, from
some such turret or balcony window, or similar “coign of vantage,” as at
the hostelry of the Fleur de Lys, near Plessis, or the Dauphin's Tower,
within that Castle itself. Isabelle seemed still destined, wherever she
made her abode, to be the Lady of the Turret.
[Coign of vantage: an advantageous position for observation or action.
Cf. 'no jutty, frieze, buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird
hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle.' Macbeth, I, vi, 6.]
When Durward descended with his new friend into the garden, the latter
seemed a terrestrial philosopher, entirely busied with the things of the
earth, while the eyes of Quentin, if they did not seek the heavens,
like those of an astrologer, ranged, at least, all around the windows,
balconies, and especially the turrets, which projected on every part
from the inner front of the old building, in order to discover that
which was to be his cynosure.
While thus employed, the young lover heard with total neglect, if indeed
he heard at all, the enumeration of plants, herbs, and shrubs which his
reverend conductor pointed out to him, of which this was choice, because
of prime use in medicine, and that more choice for yielding a rare
flavour to pottage, and a third, choicest of all, because possessed of
no merit but its extreme scarcity. Still it was necessary to preserve
some semblance at least of attention, which the youth found so
difficult, that he fairly wished at the devil the officious naturalist
and the whole vegetable kingdom. He was relieved at length by the
striking of a clock, which summoned the Chaplain to some official duty.
The reverend man made many unnecessary apologies for leaving his new
friend, and concluded by giving him the agreeable assurance that
he might walk in the garden till supper, without much risk of being
disturbed.
“It is,” said he, “the place where I always study my own homilies, as
being most sequestered from the resort of strangers. I am now about to
deliver one of them in the chapel, if you please to favour me with your
audience. I have been thought to have some gift.--But the glory be where
it is due!”
Quentin excused himself for this evening, under pretence of a severe
headache, which the open air was likely to prove the best cure for, and
at length the well meaning, priest left him to himself.
It may be well imagined, that in the curious inspection which he now
made, at more leisure, of every window or aperture which looked into the
garden, those did not escape which were in the immediate neighbourhood
of the small door by which he had seen Marthon admit Hayraddin, as he
pretended, to the apartment of the Countesses. But nothing stirred or
showed itself, which could either confute or confirm the tale which the
Bohemian had told, until it was becoming dusky, and Quentin began to be
sensible, he scarce knew why, that his sauntering so long in the garden
might be subject of displeasure or suspicion. Just as he had resolved to
depart, and was taking what he had destined for his last turn under the
windows which had such attraction for him, he heard above him a slight
and cautious sound, like that of a cough, as intended to call his
attention, and to avoid the observation of others. As he looked up in
joyful surprise, a casement opened, a female hand was seen to drop a
billet, which fell into a rosemary bush that grew at the foot of the
wall. The precaution used in dropping this letter prescribed equal
prudence and secrecy in reading it. The garden, surrounded, as we have
said, upon two sides, by the buildings of the palace, was commanded,
of course, by the windows of many apartments, but there was a sort of
grotto of rock work, which the Chaplain had shown Durward with much
complacency. To snatch up the billet, thrust it into his bosom, and
hie to this place of secrecy, was the work of a single minute. He there
opened the precious scroll, and blessed, at the same time, the memory
of the Monks of Aberbrothick, whose nurture had rendered him capable of
deciphering its contents.
The first line contained the injunction, “Read this in secret,”--and
the contents were as follows: “What your eyes have too boldly said, mine
have perhaps too rashly understood. But unjust persecution makes its
victims bold, and it were better to throw myself on the gratitude of
one, than to remain the object of pursuit to many. Fortune has her
throne upon a rock but brave men fear not to climb. If you dare do aught
for one that hazards much, you need but pass into this garden at prime
tomorrow, wearing in your cap a blue and white feather, but expect
no farther communication. Your stars have, they say, destined you
for greatness, and disposed you to gratitude.--Farewell--be faithful,
prompt, and resolute, and doubt not thy fortune.”
Within this letter was enclosed a ring with a table diamond, on which
were cut, in form of a lozenge, the ancient arms of the House of Croye.
The first feeling of Quentin upon this occasion was unmingled ecstasy--a
pride and joy which seemed to raise him to the stars--a determination
to do or die, influenced by which he treated with scorn the thousand
obstacles that placed themselves betwixt him and the goal of his wishes.
In this mood of rapture, and unable to endure any interruption which
might withdraw his mind, were it but for a moment, from so ecstatic
a subject of contemplation, Durward, retiring to the interior of the
castle, hastily assigned his former pretext of a headache for not
joining the household of the Bishop at the supper meal, and, lighting
his lamp, betook himself to the chamber which had been assigned him, to
read, and to read again and again, the precious billet, and to kiss a
thousand times the no less precious ring.
But such high wrought feelings could not remain long in the same
ecstatic tone. A thought pressed upon him, though he repelled it as
ungrateful--as even blasphemous--that the frankness of the confession
implied less delicacy on the part of her who made it, than was
consistent with the high romantic feeling of adoration with which he
had hitherto worshipped the Lady Isabelle. No sooner did this ungracious
thought intrude itself, than he hastened to stifle it, as he would have
stifled a hissing and hateful adder that had intruded itself into
his couch. Was it for him--him the Favoured--on whose account she had
stooped from her sphere, to ascribe blame to her for the very act of
condescension, Without which he dared not have raised his eyes towards
her? Did not her very dignity of birth and of condition reverse, in her
case, the usual rules which impose silence on the lady until her lover
shall have first spoken? To these arguments, which he boldly formed into
syllogisms and avowed to himself, his vanity might possibly suggest one
which he cared not to embody even mentally with the same frankness--that
the merit of the party beloved might perhaps warrant, on the part of the
lady, some little departure from common rules, and, after all, as in the
case of Malvolio [Olivia's steward in Twelfth Night], there was example
for it in chronicle. The Squire of low degree, of whom he had just been
reading, was, like himself, a gentleman void of land and living, and yet
the generous Princess of Hungary bestowed on him, without scruple, more
substantial marks of her affection than the billet he had just received:
“'Welcome,' she said, 'my swete Squyre,
My heart's roots, my soul's desire,
I will give thee kisses three,
And als five hundrid poundis in fee.'”
And again the same faithful history made the King of Hongrie himself
avouch--
“I have yknown many a page,
Come to be Prince by marriage.”
So that, upon the whole, Quentin generously and magnanimously reconciled
himself to a line of conduct on the Countess's part by which he was
likely to be so highly benefited.
But this scruple was succeeded by another doubt, harder of digestion.
The traitor Hayraddin had been in the apartments of the ladies, for
aught Quentin knew, for the space of four hours, and, considering the
hints which he had thrown out of possessing an influence of the most
interesting kind over the fortunes of Quentin Durward, what should
assure him that this train was not of his laying? And if so, was it not
probable that such a dissembling villain had set it on foot to conceal
some new plan of treachery--perhaps to seduce Isabelle out of the
protection of the worthy Bishop? This was a matter to be closely looked
into, for Quentin felt a repugnance to this individual proportioned to
the unabashed impudence with which he had avowed his profligacy, and
could not bring himself to hope that anything in which he was concerned
could ever come to an honourable or happy conclusion.
These various thoughts rolled over Quentin's mind like misty clouds, to
dash and obscure the fair landscape which his fancy had at first drawn,
and his couch was that night a sleepless one. At the hour of prime--ay,
and an hour before it, was he in the castle garden, where no one now
opposed either his entrance or his abode, with a feather of the assigned
colour, as distinguished as he could by any means procure in such haste.
No notice was taken of his appearance for nearly two hours, at length
he heard a few notes of the lute, and presently the lattice opened right
above the little postern door at which Marthon had admitted Hayraddin,
and Isabelle, in maidenly beauty, appeared at the opening, greeted him
half kindly, half shyly, coloured extremely at the deep and significant
reverence with which he returned her courtesy--shut the casement, and
disappeared.
Daylight and champaign could discover no more! The authenticity of the
billet was ascertained--it only remained what was to follow, and of
this the fair writer had given him no hint. But no immediate danger
impended--the Countess was in a strong castle, under the protection of
a Prince, at once respectable for his secular and venerable for his
ecclesiastical authority. There was neither immediate room nor occasion
for the exulting Squire interfering in the adventure, and it was
sufficient if he kept himself prompt to execute her commands whensoever
they should be communicated to him. But Fate purposed to call him into
action sooner than he was aware of.
It was the fourth night after his arrival at Schonwaldt, when Quentin
had taken measures for sending back on the morrow, to the Court of
Louis, the remaining groom who had accompanied him on his journey, with
letters from himself to his uncle and Lord Crawford, renouncing the
service of France, for which the treachery to which he had been exposed
by the private instructions of Hayraddin gave him an excuse, both in
honour and prudence, and he betook himself to his bed with all the rosy
coloured ideas around him which flutter about the couch of a youth when
he loves dearly, and thinks his love is as sincerely repaid.
But Quentin's dreams, which at first partook of the nature of those
happy influences under which he had fallen asleep, began by degrees to
assume a more terrific character.
He walked with the Countess Isabelle beside a smooth and inland lake,
such as formed the principal characteristic of his native glen, and he
spoke to her of his love, without any consciousness of the impediments
which lay between them. She blushed and smiled when she listened--even
as he might have expected from the tenor of the letter, which, sleeping
or waking, lay nearest to his heart. But the scene suddenly changed from
summer to winter--from calm to tempest, the winds and the waves rose
with such a contest of surge and whirlwind as if the demons of the water
and of the air had been contending for their roaring empires in rival
strife. The rising waters seemed to cut off their advance and their
retreat--the increasing tempest, which dashed them against each other,
seemed to render their remaining on the spot impossible, and the
tumultuous sensations produced by the apparent danger awoke the dreamer.
He awoke, but although the circumstances of the vision had disappeared,
and given place to reality, the noise, which had probably suggested
them, still continued to sound in his ears.
Quentin's first impulse was to sit erect in bed and listen with
astonishment to sounds, which, if they had announced a tempest, might
have shamed the wildest that ever burst down from the Grampians, and
again in a minute he became sensible that the tumult was not excited by
the fury of the elements, but by the wrath of men. He sprang from bed,
and looked from the window of his apartment, but it opened into the
garden, and on that side all was quiet, though the opening of the
casement made him still more sensible from the shouts which reached his
ears that the outside of the castle was beleaguered and assaulted, and
that by a numerous and determined enemy. Hastily collecting his dress
and arms, and putting them on with such celerity as darkness and
surprise permitted, his attention was solicited by a knocking at the
door of his chamber. As Quentin did not immediately answer, the door,
which was a slight one, was forced open from without, and the intruder,
announced by his peculiar dialect to be the Bohemian, Hayraddin
Maugrabin, entered the apartment. A phial which he held in his hand,
touched by a match, produced a dark flash of ruddy fire, by means of
which he kindled a lamp, which he took from his bosom.
“The horoscope of your destinies,” he said energetically to Durward,
without any farther greeting, “now turns upon the determination of a
minute.”
“Caitiff!” said Quentin, in reply, “there is treachery around us, and
where there is treachery thou must have a share in it.”
“You are mad,” answered Maugrabin. “I never betrayed any one but to gain
by it--and wherefore should I betray you, by whose safety I can take
more advantage than by your destruction? Hearken for a moment, if it be
possible for you, to one note of reason, ere it is sounded into your ear
by the death shut of ruin. The Liegeois are up--William de la Marck with
his band leads them.--Were there means of resistance, their numbers and
his fury would overcome them, but there are next to none. If you would
save the Countess and your own hopes, follow me, in the name of her who
sent you a table diamond, with three leopards engraved on it.”
“Lead the way,” said Quentin, hastily. “In that name I dare every
danger.”
“As I shall manage it,” said the Bohemian, “there is no danger, if you
can but withhold your hand from strife which does not concern you,
for, after all, what is it to you whether the Bishop, as they call him,
slaughters his flock, or the flock slaughters the shepherd?--Ha! ha! ha!
Follow me, but with caution and patience, subdue your own courage, and
confide in my prudence and my debt of thankfulness is paid, and you have
a Countess for your spouse.--Follow me.”
“I follow,” said Quentin, drawing his sword, “but the moment in which
I detect the least sign of treachery, thy head and body are three yards
separate!”
Without more conversation the Bohemian, seeing that Quentin was now
fully armed and ready, ran down the stairs before him, and winded
hastily through various side passages, until they gained the little
garden. Scarce a light was to be seen on that side, scarce any bustle
was to be heard, but no sooner had Quentin entered the open space,
than the noise on the opposite side of the castle became ten times more
stunningly audible, and he could hear the various war cries of “Liege!
Liege! Sanglier! Sanglier! [the Wild Boar: a name given to William de
la Marck]” shouted by the assailants, while the feebler cry of “Our
Lady for the Prince Bishop!” was raised in a faint and faltering tone by
those of the prelate's soldiers who had hastened, though surprised and
at disadvantage, to the defence of the walls.
But the interest of the fight, notwithstanding the martial character of
Quentin Durward, was indifferent to him, in comparison with the fate
of Isabelle of Croye, which, he had reason to fear, would be a dreadful
one, unless rescued from the power of the dissolute and cruel freebooter
who was now, as it seemed, bursting the gates of the castle. He
reconciled himself to the aid of the Bohemian, as men in a desperate
illness refuse not the remedy prescribed by quacks and mountebanks, and
followed across the garden, with the intention of being guided by him
until he should discover symptoms of treachery, and then piercing him
through the heart, or striking his head from his body.
Hayraddin seemed himself conscious that his safety turned on a feather
weight, for he forbore, from the moment they entered the open air, all
his wonted gibes and quirks, and seemed to have made a vow to act at
once with modesty, courage, and activity.
At the opposite door, which led to the ladies' apartments, upon a low
signal made by Hayraddin, appeared two women, muffled in the black silk
veils which were then, as now, worn by the women in the Netherlands.
Quentin offered his arm to one of them, who clung to it with trembling
eagerness, and indeed hung upon him so much, that had her weight been
greater, she must have much impeded their retreat. The Bohemian, who
conducted the other female, took the road straight for the postern which
opened upon the moat, through the garden wall, close to which the little
skiff Was drawn up, by means of which Quentin had formerly observed
Hayraddin himself retreating from the castle.
As they crossed, the shouts of storm and successful violence seemed to
announce that the castle was in the act of being taken, and so dismal
was the sound in Quentin's ears, that he could not help swearing aloud,
“But that my blood is irretrievably devoted to the fulfilment of my
present duty, I would back to the wall, take faithful part with the
hospitable Bishop, and silence some of those knaves whose throats are
full of mutiny and robbery!”
The lady, whose arm was still folded in his, pressed it lightly as he
spoke, as if to make him understand that there was a nearer claim on his
chivalry than the defence of Schonwaldt, while the Bohemian exclaimed,
loud enough to be heard, “Now, that I call right Christian frenzy,
which would turn back to fight when love and fortune both demand that we
should fly.
“On, on--with all the haste you can make.--Horses wait us in yonder
thicket of willows.”
“There are but two horses,” said Quentin, who saw them in the moonlight.
“All that I could procure without exciting suspicion--and enough,”
replied the Bohemian. “You two must ride for Tongres ere the way becomes
unsafe--Marthon will abide with the women of our horde, with whom she is
an old acquaintance. Know she is a daughter of our tribe, and only dwelt
among you to serve our purpose as occasion should fall.”
“Marthon!” exclaimed the Countess, looking at the veiled female with a
shriek of surprise, “is not this my kinswoman?”
“Only Marthon,” said Hayraddin. “Excuse me that little piece of deceit.
I dared not carry off both the Ladies of Croye from the Wild Boar of
Ardennes.”
“Wretch!” said Quentin, emphatically--“but it is not--shall not be too
late--I will back to rescue the Lady Hameline.”
“Hameline,” whispered the lady, in a disturbed voice, “hangs on thy arm,
to thank thee for her rescue.”
“Ha! what!--How is this?” said Quentin, extricating himself from her
hold, and with less gentleness than he would at any other time have
used towards a female of any rank. “Is the Lady Isabelle then left
behind!--Farewell--farewell.”
As he turned to hasten back to the castle, Hayraddin laid hold of
him.--“Nay, hear you--hear you--you run upon your death! What the foul
fiend did you wear the colours of the old one for?--I will never trust
blue and white silk again. But she has almost as large a dower--has
jewels and gold--hath pretensions, too, upon the earldom.”
While he spoke thus, panting on in broken sentences, the Bohemian
struggled to detain Quentin, who at length laid his hand on his dagger,
in order to extricate himself.
“Nay, if that be the case,” said Hayraddin, unloosing his hold, “go--and
the devil, if there be one, go along with you!”
And, soon as freed from his hold, the Scot shot back to the castle with
the speed of the wind.
Hayraddin then turned round to the Countess Hameline, who had sunk down
on the ground, between shame, fear, and disappointment.
“Here has been a mistake,” he said, “up, lady, and come with me--I will
provide you, ere morning comes, a gallanter husband than this smock
faced boy, and if one will not serve, you shall have twenty.”
The Lady Hameline was as violent in her passions, as she was vain and
weak in her understanding. Like many other persons, she went tolerably
well through the ordinary duties of life, but in a crisis like the
present, she was entirely incapable of doing aught, save pouring forth
unavailing lamentations, and accusing Hayraddin of being a thief, a base
slave, an impostor, a murderer.
“Call me Zingaro,” returned he, composedly, “and you have said all at
once.”
“Monster! you said the stars had decreed our union, and caused me to
write--Oh, wretch that I was!” exclaimed the unhappy lady.
“And so they had decreed your union,” said Hayraddin, “had both parties
been willing--but think you the blessed constellations can make any one
wed against his will?--I was led into error with your accursed Christian
gallantries, and fopperies of ribbons and favours--and the youth prefers
veal to beef, I think--that 's all.--Up and follow me, and take notice,
I endure neither weeping nor swooning.”
“I will not stir a foot,” said the Countess, obstinately.
“By the bright welkin, but you shall, though!” exclaimed Hayraddin. “I
swear to you, by all that ever fools believed in, that you have to do
with one, who would care little to strip you naked, bind you to a tree,
and leave you to your fortune!”
“Nay,” said Marthon, interfering, “by your favour she shall not be
misused. I wear a knife as well as you, and can use it.--She is a kind
woman, though a fool.--And you, madam, rise up and follow us.--Here has
been a mistake, but it is something to have saved life and limb. There
are many in yonder castle would give all the wealth in the world to
stand where we do.”
As Marthon spoke, a clamour, in which the shouts of victory were mingled
with screams of terror and despair, was wafted to them from the Castle
of Schonwaldt.
“Hear that, lady!” said Hayraddin, “and be thankful you are not adding
your treble pipe to yonder concert. Believe me, I will care for you
honestly, and the stars shall keep their words, and find you a good
husband.”
Like some wild animal, exhausted and subdued by terror amid fatigue, the
Countess Hameline yielded herself up to the conduct of her guides, and
suffered herself to be passively led whichever way they would. Nay, such
was the confusion of her spirits and the exhaustion of her strength,
that the worthy couple, who half bore, half led her, carried on their
discourse in her presence without her even understanding it.
“I ever thought your plan was folly,” said Marthon. “Could you have
brought the young people together, indeed, we might have had a hold on
their gratitude, and a footing in their castle. But what chance of so
handsome a youth wedding this old fool?”
“Rizpah,” said Hayraddin, “you have borne the name of a Christian, and
dwelt in the tents of those besotted people, till thou hast become a
partaker in their follies. How could I dream that he would have made
scruples about a few years' youth or age, when the advantages of the
match were so evident? And thou knowest, there would have been no moving
yonder coy wench to be so frank as this coming Countess here, who hangs
on our arms as dead a weight as a wool pack. I loved the lad too, and
would have done him a kindness: to wed him to this old woman was to make
his fortune, to unite him to Isabelle were to have brought on him De
la Marck, Burgundy, France--every one that challenges an interest in
disposing of her hand. And this silly woman's wealth being chiefly in
gold and jewels, we should have had our share. But the bow string has
burst, and the arrow failed. Away with her--we will bring her to William
with the Beard. By the time he has gorged himself with wassail, as
is his wont, he will not know an old Countess from a young one. Away,
Rizpah--bear a gallant heart. The bright Aldebaran still influences the
destinies of the Children of the Desert!”