Hold fast thy truth, young soldier.--Gentle maiden,
Keep you your promise plight--leave age its subtleties,
And gray hair'd policy its maze of falsehood,
But be you candid as the morning sky,
Ere the high sun sucks vapours up to stain it.
THE TRIAL
On the perilous and important morning which preceded the meeting of the
two Princes in the Castle of Peronne, Oliver le Dain did his master the
service of an active and skilful agent, making interest for Louis in
every quarter, both with presents and promises; so that when the Duke's
anger should blaze forth, all around should be interested to smother,
and not to increase, the conflagration. He glided like night, from tent
to tent, from house to house, making himself friends, but not in the
Apostle's sense, with the Mammon of unrighteousness. As was said of
another active political agent, “his finger was in every man's palm, his
mouth was in every man's ear;” and for various reasons, some of which
we have formerly hinted at, he secured the favour of many Burgundian
nobles, who either had something to hope or fear from France, or who
thought that, were the power of Louis too much reduced, their own Duke
would be likely to pursue the road to despotic authority, to which his
heart naturally inclined him, with a daring and unopposed pace.
Where Oliver suspected his own presence or arguments might be less
acceptable, he employed that of other servants of the King; and it
was in this manner that he obtained, by the favour of the Count de
Crevecoeur, an interview betwixt Lord Crawford, accompanied by Le
Balafre, and Quentin Durward, who, since he had arrived at Peronne, had
been detained in a sort of honourable confinement. Private affairs were
assigned as the cause of requesting this meeting; but it is probable
that Crevecoeur, who was afraid that his master might be stirred up in
passion to do something dishonourably violent towards Louis, was not
sorry to afford an opportunity to Crawford to give some hints to the
young Archer, which might prove useful to his master.
The meeting between the countrymen was cordial and even affecting.
“Thou art a singular youth,” said Crawford, stroking the head of young
Durward, as a grandsire might do that of his descendant. “Certes, you
have had as meikle good fortune as if you had been born with a lucky
hood on your head.”
“All comes of his gaining an Archer's place at such early years,” said
Le Balafre; “I never was so much talked of, fair nephew, because I was
five and twenty years old before I was hors de page [passed out of the
rank of the page].”
“And an ill looking mountainous monster of a page thou wert, Ludovic,”
said the old commander, “with a beard like a baker's shool, and a back
like old Wallace Wight [so called because of his vigour and activity].”
“I fear,” said Quentin, with downcast eyes, “I shall enjoy that title
to distinction but a short time--since it is my purpose to resign the
service of the Archer Guard.”
Le Balafre was struck almost mute with astonishment, and Crawford's
ancient features gleamed with displeasure. The former at length
mustered words enough to say, “Resign!--leave your place in the Scottish
Archers!--such a thing was never dreamed of. I would not give up my
situation to be made Constable of France.”
“Hush! Ludovic,” said Crawford; “this youngster knows better how to
shape his course with the wind than we of the old world do. His journey
hath given him some pretty tales to tell about King Louis; and he is
turning Burgundian, that he may make his own little profit by telling
them to Duke Charles.”
“If I thought so,” said Le Balafre, “I would cut his throat with my own
hand, were he fifty times my sister's son.”
“But you would first inquire whether I deserved to be so treated, fair
kinsman?” answered Quentin; “and you, my lord, know that I am no tale
bearer; nor shall either question or torture draw out of me a word to
King Louis's prejudice, which may have come to my knowledge while I was
in his service.--So far my oath of duty keeps me silent. But I will not
remain in that services in which, besides the perils of fair battle with
mine enemies, I am to be exposed to the dangers of ambuscade on the part
of my friends.”
“Nay, if he objects to lying in ambuscade,” said the slow witted Le
Balafre, looking sorrowfully at the Lord Crawford, “I am afraid, my
lord, that all is over with him! I myself have had thirty bushments
break upon me, and truly I think I have laid in ambuscade twice as often
myself, it being a favourite practice in our King's mode of making war.”
“It is so indeed, Ludovic,” answered Lord Crawford; “nevertheless, hold
your peace, for I believe I understand this gear better than you do.”
“I wish to Our Lady you may, my lord,” answered Ludovic; “but it
wounds me to the very midriff, to think my sister's son should fear an
ambushment.”
“Young man,” said Crawford, “I partly guess your meaning. You have met
foul play on the road where you travelled by the King's command, and you
think you have reason to charge him with being the author of it.”
“I have been threatened with foul play in the execution of the King's
commission,” answered Quentin; “but I have had the good fortune to elude
it--whether his Majesty be innocent or guilty in the matter, I leave to
God and his own conscience. He fed me when I was a-hungered--received me
when I was a wandering stranger. I will never load him in his adversity
with accusations which may indeed be unjust, since I heard them only
from the vilest mouths.”
“My dear boy--my own lad!” said Crawford, taking him in his arms.--“Ye
think like a Scot, every joint of you! Like one that will forget a cause
of quarrel with a friend whose back is already at the wall, and remember
nothing of him but his kindness.”
“Since my Lord Crawford has embraced my nephew,” said Ludovic Lesly,
“I will embrace him also--though I would have you to know that to
understand the service of an ambushment is as necessary to a soldier as
it is to a priest to be able to read his breviary.”
“Be hushed, Ludovic,” said Crawford; “ye are an ass, my friend, and ken
not the blessing Heaven has sent you in this braw callant.--And now tell
me, Quentin, my man, hath the King any advice of this brave, Christian,
and manly resolution of yours, for, poor man, he had need, in his
strait, to ken what he has to reckon upon. Had he but brought the whole
brigade of Guards with him!--But God's will be done.--Kens he of your
purpose, think you?”
“I really can hardly tell,” answered Quentin; “but I assured his learned
Astrologer, Martius Galeotti, of my resolution to be silent on all that
could injure the King with the Duke of Burgundy. The particulars which
I suspect, I will not (under your favour) communicate even to your
lordship; and to the philosopher I was, of course, far less willing to
unfold myself.”
“Ha!--ay!” answered Lord Crawford.--“Oliver did indeed tell me that
Galeotti prophesied most stoutly concerning the line of conduct you were
to hold; and I am truly glad to find he did so on better authority than
the stars.”
“He prophesy!” said Le Balafre, laughing; “the stars never told him that
honest Ludovic Lesly used to help yonder wench of his to spend the fair
ducats he flings into her lap.”
“Hush! Ludovic,” said his captain, “hush! thou beast, man!--If thou
dost not respect my gray hairs, because I have been e'en too much of a
routier myself, respect the boy's youth and innocence, and let us have
no more of such unbecoming daffing.”
“Your honour may say your pleasure,” answered' Ludovic Lesly; “but, by
my faith, second sighted Saunders Souplesaw, the town souter of Glen
Houlakin, was worth Galeotti, or Gallipotty, or whatever ye call him,
twice told, for a prophet. He foretold that all my sister's children,
would die some day; and he foretold it in the very hour that the
youngest was born, and that is this lad Quentin--who, no doubt, will one
day die, to make up the prophecy--the more's the pity--the whole curney
of them is gone but himself. And Saunders foretold to myself one day,
that I should be made by marriage, which doubtless will also happen in
due time, though it hath not yet come to pass--though how or when, I can
hardly guess, as I care not myself for the wedded state, and Quentin is
but a lad. Also, Saunders predicted--”
“Nay,” said Lord Crawford, “unless the prediction be singularly to the
purpose, I must cut you short, my good Ludovic; for both you and I must
now leave your nephew, with prayers to Our Lady to strengthen him in the
good mind he is in; for this is a case in which a light word might do
more mischief than all the Parliament of Paris could mend. My blessing
with you, my lad; and be in no hurry to think of leaving our body;
for there will be good blows going presently in the eye of day, and no
ambuscade.”
“And my blessing, too, nephew,” said Ludovic Lesly; “for, since you
have satisfied our most noble captain, I also am satisfied, as in duty
bound.”
“Stay, my lord,” said Quentin, and led Lord Crawford a little apart from
his uncle. “I must not forget to mention that there is a person besides
in the world, who, having learned from me these circumstances, which it
is essential to King Louis's safety should at present remain concealed,
may not think that the same obligation of secrecy, which attaches to me
as the King's soldier, and as having been relieved by his bounty, is at
all binding on her.”
“On her!” replied Crawford; “nay, if there be a woman in the secret, the
Lord have mercy, for we are all on the rocks again!”
“Do not suppose so, my lord,” replied Durward, “but use your interest
with the Count of Crevecoeur to permit me an interview with the Countess
Isabelle of Croye, who is the party possessed of my secret, and I doubt
not that I can persuade her to be as silent as I shall unquestionably
myself remain, concerning whatever may incense the Duke against King
Louis.”
The old soldier mused for a long time--looked up to the ceiling, then
down again upon the floor--then shook his head--and at length said,
“There is something in all this, which, by my honour, I do not
understand. The Countess Isabelle of Croye!--an interview with a lady
of her birth, blood, and possessions!--and thou a raw Scottish lad,
so certain of carrying thy point with her? Thou art either strangely
confident, my young friend, or else you have used your time well upon
the journey. But, by the cross of Saint Andrew, I will move Crevecoeur
in thy behalf; and, as he truly fears that Duke Charles may be provoked
against the King to the extremity of falling foul, I think it likely he
may grant thy request, though, by my honour, it is a comical one!”
So saying, and shrugging up his shoulders, the old Lord left the
apartment, followed by Ludovic Lesly, who, forming his looks on those of
his principal, endeavoured, though knowing nothing of the cause of his
wonder, to look as mysterious and important as Crawford himself.
In a few minutes Crawford returned, but without his attendant, Le
Balafre. The old man seemed in singular humour, laughing and chuckling
to himself in a manner which strangely distorted his stern and rigid
features, and at the same time shaking his head, as at something which
he could not help condemning, while he found it irresistibly ludicrous.
“My certes, countryman,” said he, “but you are not blate--you will never
lose fair lady for faint heart! Crevecoeur swallowed your proposal as
he would have done a cup of vinegar, and swore to me roundly, by all the
saints in Burgundy, that were less than the honour of princes and the
peace of kingdoms at stake, you should never see even so much as the
print of the Countess Isabelle's foot on the clay. Were it not that he
had a dame, and a fair one, I would have thought that he meant to break
a lance for the prize himself. Perhaps he thinks of his nephew, the
County Stephen. A Countess!--would no less serve you to be minting
at?--But come along--your interview with her must be brief.--But I fancy
you know how to make the most of little time--ho! ho! ho!--By my faith,
I can hardly chide thee for the presumption, I have such a good will to
laugh at it!”
With a brow like scarlet, at once offended and disconcerted by the blunt
inferences of the old soldier, and vexed at beholding in what an absurd
light his passion was viewed by every person of experience, Durward
followed Lord Crawford in silence to the Ursuline convent, in which the
Countess was lodged, and in the parlour of which he found the Count de
Crevecoeur.
“So, young gallant,” said the latter sternly, “you must see the fair
companion of your romantic expedition once more, it seems.”
“Yes, my Lord Count,” answered Quentin firmly, “and what is more, I must
see her alone.”
“That shall never be,” said the Count de Crevecoeur.--“Lord Crawford,
I make you judge. This young lady, the daughter of my old friend and
companion in arms, the richest heiress in Burgundy, has confessed a sort
of a--what was I going to say?--in short, she is a fool, and your man
at arms here a presumptuous coxcomb.--In a word, they shall not meet
alone.”
“Then will I not speak a single word to the Countess in your presence,”
said Quentin, much delighted. “You have told me much that I did not
dare, presumptuous as I may be, even to hope.”
“Ay, truly said, my friend,” said Crawford. “You have been imprudent
in your communications; and, since you refer to me, and there is a good
stout grating across the parlour, I would advise you to trust to it, and
let them do the worst with their tongues. What, man! the life of a King,
and many thousands besides, is not to be weighed with the chance of two
young things whilly whawing in ilk other's ears for a minute.”
So saying, he dragged off Crevecoeur, who followed very reluctantly, and
cast many angry glances at the young Archer as he left the room.
In a moment after, the Countess Isabelle entered on the other side of
the grate, and no sooner saw Quentin alone in the parlour, than she
stopped short, and cast her eyes on the ground for the space of half a
minute. “Yet why should I be ungrateful,” she said, “because others are
unjustly suspicious?--My friend--my preserver, I may almost say, so much
have I been beset by treachery, my only faithful and constant friend!”
As she spoke thus, she extended her hand to him through the grate,
nay, suffered him to retain it until he had covered it with kisses,
not unmingled with tears. She only said, “Durward, were we ever to meet
again, I would not permit this folly.”
If it be considered that Quentin had guided her through so many
perils--that he had been, in truth, her only faithful and zealous
protector, perhaps my fair readers, even if countesses and heiresses
should be of the number, will pardon the derogation.
But the Countess extricated her hand at length, and stepping a pace back
from the grate, asked Durward, in a very embarrassed tone, what boon he
had to ask of her?--“For that you have a request to make, I have learned
from the old Scottish Lord, who came here but now with my cousin of
Crevecoeur. Let it be but reasonable,” she said, “but such as poor
Isabelle can grant with duty and honour uninfringed, and you cannot
tax my slender powers too highly. But, oh! do not speak hastily--do not
say,” she added, looking around with timidity, “aught that might, if
overheard, do prejudice to us both!”
“Fear not, noble lady,” said Quentin sorrowfully; “it is not here that I
can forget the distance which fate has placed between us, or expose you
to the censures of your proud kindred, as the object of the most devoted
love to one, poorer and less powerful--not perhaps less noble--than
themselves. Let that pass like a dream of the night to all but one
bosom, where, dream as it is, it will fill up the room of all existing
realities.”
“Hush! hush!” said Isabelle “for your own sake--for mine--be silent on
such a theme. Tell me rather what it is you have to ask of me.”
“Forgiveness to one,” replied Quentin, “who, for his own selfish views,
hath conducted himself as your enemy.”
“I trust I forgive all my enemies,” answered Isabelle; “but oh, Durward!
through what scenes have your courage and presence of mind protected
me!--Yonder bloody hall--the good Bishop--I knew not till yesterday half
the horrors I had unconsciously witnessed!”
“Do not think on them,” said Quentin, who saw the transient colour which
had come to her cheek during their conference fast fading into the most
deadly paleness.--“Do not look back, but look steadily forward, as
they needs must who walk in a perilous road. Hearken to me. King
Louis deserves nothing better at your hand, of all others; than to be
proclaimed the wily and insidious politician which he really is. But to
tax him as the encourager of your flight--still more as the author of
a plan to throw you into the hands of De la Marck--will at this moment
produce perhaps the King's death or dethronement; and, at all events,
the most bloody war between France and Burgundy which the two countries
have ever been engaged in.”
“These evils shall not arrive for my sake, if they can be prevented,”
said the Countess Isabelle; “and indeed your slightest request were
enough to make me forego my revenge, were that at any time a passion
which I deeply cherish. Is it possible I would rather remember King
Louis's injuries than your invaluable services?--Yet how is this to
be?--When I am called before my Sovereign, the Duke of Burgundy, I must
either stand silent or speak the truth. The former would be contumacy;
and to a false tale you will not desire me to train my tongue.”
“Surely not,” said Durward; “but let your evidence concerning Louis be
confined to what you yourself positively know to be truth; and when you
mention what others have reported, no matter how credibly, let it be as
reports only, and beware of pledging your own personal evidence to that,
which, though you may fully believe, you cannot personally know to be
true. The assembled Council of Burgundy cannot refuse to a monarch the
justice which in my country is rendered to the meanest person under
accusation. They must esteem him innocent, until direct and sufficient
proof shall demonstrate his guilt. Now, what does not consist with your
own certain knowledge, should be proved by other evidence than your
report from hearsay.”
“I think I understand you,” said the Countess Isabelle.
“I will make my meaning plainer,” said Quentin; and was illustrating it
accordingly by more than one instance when the convent bell tolled.
“That,” said the Countess, “is a signal that we must part--part for
ever!--But do not forget me, Durward; I will never forget you--your
faithful services--”
She could not speak more, but again extended her hand, which was again
pressed to his lips; and I know not how it was, that, in endeavouring
to withdraw her hand, the Countess came so close to the grating that
Quentin was encouraged to press the adieu on her lips. The young
lady did not chide him--perhaps there was no time; for Crevecoeur and
Crawford, who had been from some loophole eye witnesses if not ear
witnesses, also, of what was passing, rushed into the apartment, the
first in a towering passion, the latter laughing, and holding the Count
back.
“To your chamber, young mistress--to your chamber!” exclaimed the Count
to Isabelle, who, flinging down her veil, retired in all haste--“which
should be exchanged for a cell, and bread and water.--And you, gentle
sir, who are so malapert, the time will come when the interests of kings
and kingdoms may not be connected with such as you are; and you shall
then learn the penalty of your audacity in raising your beggarly eyes--”
“Hush! hush!--enough said--rein up--rein up,” said the old Lord
“and you, Quentin, I command you to be silent, and begone to your
quarters.--There is no such room for so much scorn, neither, Sir Count
of Crevecoeur, that I must say now he is out of hearing.--Quentin
Durward is as much a gentleman as the King, only, as the Spaniard says,
not so rich. He is as noble as myself, and I am chief of my name. Tush,
tush! man, you must not speak to us of penalties.”
“My lord, my lord,” said Crevecoeur impatiently, “the insolence of these
foreign mercenaries is proverbial, and should receive rather rebuke than
encouragement from you, who are their leader.”
“My Lord Count,” answered Crawford, “I have ordered my command for these
fifty years without advice either from Frenchman or Burgundian; and I
intend to do so, under your favour, so long as I shall continue to hold
it.”
“Well, well, my lord,” said Crevecoeur, “I meant you no disrespect; your
nobleness, as well as your age, entitle you to be privileged in your
impatience; and for these young people. I am satisfied to overlook the
past, since I will take care that they never meet again.”
“Do not take that upon your salvation, Crevecoeur,” said the old Lord,
laughing; “mountains, it is said, may meet, and why not mortal creatures
that have legs, and life and love to put those legs in motion? Yon kiss,
Crevecoeur, came tenderly off--methinks it was ominous.”
“You are striving again to disturb my patience,” said Crevecoeur, “but I
will not give you that advantage over me.---Hark! they toll the summons
to the Castle--an awful meeting, of which God only can foretell the
issue.”
“This issue I can foretell,” said the old Scottish lord, “that if
violence is to be offered to the person of the King, few as his friends
are, and surrounded by his shall neither fall alone nor unavenged;
and grieved I am that his own positive orders have prevented my taking
measures to prepare for such an issue.”
“My Lord of Crawford,” said the Burgundian, “to anticipate such evil
is the sure way to give occasion to it. Obey the orders of your royal
master, and give no pretext for violence by taking hasty offence, and
you will find that the day will pass over more smoothly than you now
conjecture.”