wish me to harbour. Avenel guided Piercie Shafton into Scotland, and his
henchman, Christie of the Clinthill, brought the Southron hither.”
“Of that,” said the old man, “I am well aware. Yet if thou wilt trust
to me, as I have shown no reluctance to confide in thee, thou shalt find
with Julian Avenel welcome, or at least safety.”
“Father,” replied Halbert, “though I can ill reconcile what thou sayest
with what Julian Avenel hath done, yet caring little about the safety of
a creature so lost as myself, and as thy words seem those of truth and
honesty, and finally, as thou didst render thyself frankly up to my
conduct, I will return the confidence thou hast shown, and accompany
thee to the Castle of Avenel by a road which thou thyself couldst never
have discovered.” He led the way, and the old man followed for some time
in silence.
* * * * *
Chapter the Twenty-Third.
'Tis when the wound is stiffening with the cold.
The warrior first feels pain--'tis when the heat
And fiery fever of his soul is pass'd,
The sinner feels remorse.
OLD PLAY.
The feelings of compunction with which Halbert Glendinning was visited
upon this painful occasion, were deeper than belonged to an age and
country in which human life was held so cheap. They fell far short
certainly of those which might have afflicted a mind regulated by better
religious precepts, and more strictly trained under social laws; but
still they were deep and severely felt, and divided in Halbert's heart
even the regret with which he parted from Mary Avenel and the tower of
his fathers.
The old traveller walked silently by his side for some time, and then
addressed him.--“My son, it has been said that sorrow must speak or
die--Why art thou so much cast down?--Tell me thy unhappy tale, and
it may be that my gray head may devise counsel and aid for your young
life.”
“Alas!” said Halbert Glendinning, “can you wonder why I am cast
down?--I am at this instant a fugitive from my father's house, from my
mother, and from my friends, and I bear on my head the blood of a man
who injured me but in idle words, which I have thus bloodily requited.
My heart now tells me I have done evil--it were harder than these rocks
if it could bear unmoved the thought, that I have sent this man to a
long account, unhousled and unshrieved.”
“Pause there, my son,” said the traveller. “That thou hast defaced God's
image in thy neighbour's person--that thou hast sent dust to dust in
idle wrath or idler pride, is indeed a sin of the deepest dye--that
thou hast cut short the space which Heaven might have allowed him for
repentance, makes it yet more deadly--but for all this there is balm in
Gilead.”
“I understand you not, father,” said Halbert, struck by the solemn tone
which was assumed by his companion.
The old man proceeded. “Thou hast slain thine enemy--it was a cruel
deed: thou hast cut him off perchance in his sins--it is a fearful
aggravation. Do yet by my counsel, and in lieu of him whom thou hast
perchance consigned to the kingdom of Satan, let thine efforts wrest
another subject from the reign of the Evil One.”
“I understand you, father,” said Halbert; “thou wouldst have me atone
for my rashness by doing service to the soul of my adversary--But how
may this be? I have no money to purchase masses, and gladly would I
go barefoot to the Holy Land to free his spirit from purgatory, only
that--”
“My son,” said the old man, interrupting him, “the sinner for whose
redemption I entreat you to labour, is not the dead but the living. It
is not for the soul of thine enemy I would exhort thee to pray--that has
already had its final doom from a Judge as merciful as he is just; nor,
wert thou to coin that rock into ducats, and obtain a mass for each one,
would it avail the departed spirit. Where the tree hath fallen, it must
lie. But the sapling, which hath in it yet the vigour and juice of life,
may be bended to the point to which it ought to incline.”
“Art thou a priest, father?” said the young man, “or by what commission
dost thou talk of such high matters?”
“By that of my Almighty Master,” said the traveller, “under whose banner
I am an enlisted soldier.”
Halbert's acquaintance with religious matters was no deeper than could
be derived from the Archbishop of Saint Andrew's Catechism, and the
pamphlet called the Twapennie Faith, both which were industriously
circulated and recommended by the monks of Saint Mary's. Yet, however
indifferent and superficial a theologian, he began to suspect that he
was now in company with one of the gospellers, or heretics, before
whose influence the ancient system of religion now tottered to the very
foundation. Bred up, as may well be presumed, in a holy horror against
these formidable sectaries, the youth's first feelings were those of a
loyal and devoted church vassal. “Old man,” he said, “wert thou able to
make good with thy hand the words that thy tongue hath spoken against
our Holy Mother Church, we should have tried upon this moor which of our
creeds hath the better champion.”
“Nay,” said the stranger, “if thou art a true soldier of Rome, thou wilt
not pause from thy purpose because thou hast the odds of years and of
strength on thy side. Hearken to me, my son. I have showed thee how to
make thy peace with Heaven, and thou hast rejected my proffer. I will
now show thee how thou shalt make thy reconciliation with the powers of
this world. Take this gray head from the frail body which supports it,
and carry it to the chair of proud Abbot Boniface; and when thou tellest
him thou hast slain Piercie Shafton, and his ire rises at the deed, lay
the head of Henry Warden at his foot, and thou shalt have praise instead
of censure.”
Halbert Glendinning stepped back in surprise. “What! are you that Henry
Warden so famous among the heretics, that even Knox's name is scarce
more frequently in their mouths? Art thou he, and darest thou to
approach the Halidome of Saint Mary's?”
“I am Henry Warden, of a surety,” said the old man, “far unworthy to
be named in the same breath with Knox, but yet willing to venture on
whatever dangers my master's service may call me to.”
“Hearken to me, then,” said Halbert; “to slay thee, I have no heart--to
make thee prisoner, were equally to bring thy blood on my head--to leave
thee in this wild without a guide, were little better. I will conduct
thee, as I promised, in safety to the Castle of Avenel; but breathe not,
while we are on the journey, a word against the doctrines of the holy
church of which I am an unworthy--but though an ignorant, a zealous
member.--When thou art there arrived, beware of thyself--there is a
high price upon thy head, and Julian Avenel loves the glance of gold
bonnet-pieces.” [Footnote: A gold coin of James V., the most beautiful
of the Scottish series; so called because the effigy of the sovereignty
is represented wearing a bonnet.]
“Yet thou sayest not,” answered the Protestant preacher, for such he
was, “that for lucre he would sell the blood of his guest?”
“Not if thou comest an invited stranger, relying on his faith,” said
the youth; “evil as Julian may be, he dare not break the rites of
hospitality; for, loose as we on these marches may be in all other
ties, these are respected amongst us even to idolatry, and his
nearest relations would think it incumbent on them to spill his blood
themselves, to efface the disgrace such treason would bring upon their
name and lineage. But if thou goest self-invited, and without assurance
of safety, I promise thee thy risk is great.”
“I am in God's hand,” answered the preacher; “it is on His errand that I
traverse these wilds amidst dangers of every kind; while I am useful for
my master's service, they shall not prevail against me, and when, like
the barren fig-tree, I can no longer produce fruit, what imports it when
or by whom the axe is laid to the root?”
“Your courage and devotion,” said Glendinning, “are worthy of a better
cause.”
“That,” said Warden, “cannot be--mine is the very best.”
They continued their journey in silence, Halbert Glendinning tracing
with the utmost accuracy the mazes of the dangerous and intricate
morasses and hills which divided the Halidome from the barony of
Avenel. From time to time he was obliged to stop, in order to assist
his companion to cross the black intervals of quaking bog, called in the
Scottish dialect _hags_, by which the firmer parts of the morass were
intersected.
“Courage, old man,” said Halbert, as he saw his companion almost
exhausted with fatigue, “we shall soon be upon hard ground. And yet soft
as this moss is, I have seen the merry falconers go through it as light
as deer when the quarry was upon the flight.”
“True, my son,” answered Warden, “for so I will still call you, though
you term me no longer father; and even so doth headlong youth pursue its
pleasures, without regard to the mire and the peril of the paths through
which they are hurried.”
“I have already told thee,” answered Halbert Glendinning, sternly, “that
I will hear nothing from thee that savours of doctrine.”
“Nay, but, my son,” answered Warden, “thy spiritual father himself
would surely not dispute the truth of what I have now spoken for your
edification!”
Glendinning stoutly replied, “I know not how that may be--but I wot
well it is the fashion of your brotherhood to bait your hook with fair
discourse, and to hold yourselves up as angels of light, that you may
the better extend the kingdom of darkness.”
“May God,” replied the preacher, “pardon those who have thus reported
of his servants! I will not offend thee, my son, by being instant out of
season--thou speakest but as thou art taught--yet sure I trust that so
goodly a youth will be still rescued, like a brand from the burning.”
While he thus spoke, the verge of the morass was attained, and their
path lay on the declivity. Green-sward it was, and, viewed from a
distance, chequered with its narrow and verdant line the dark-brown
heath which it traversed, though the distinction was not so easily
traced when they were walking on it. [Footnote: This sort of path,
visible when looked at from a distance, but not to be seen when you
are upon it, is called on the Border by the significant name of a
Blind-road.] The old man pursued his journey with comparative ease; and,
unwilling again to awaken the jealous zeal of his young companion
for the Roman faith, he discoursed on other matters. The tone of his
conversation was still grave, moral, and instructive. He had travelled
much, and knew both the language and manners of other countries,
concerning which Halbert Glendinning, already anticipating the
possibility of being obliged to leave Scotland for the deed he had done,
was naturally and anxiously desirous of information. By degrees he
was more attracted by the charms of the stranger's conversation than
repelled by the dread of his dangerous character as a heretic, and
Halbert had called him father more than once, ere the turrets of Avenel
Castle came in view.
The situation of this ancient fortress was remarkable. It occupied a
small rocky islet in a mountain lake, or _tarn,_ as such a piece of
water is called in Westmoreland. The lake might be about a mile in
circumference, surrounded by hills of considerable height, which, except
where old trees and brushwood occupied the ravines that divided them
from each other, were bare and heathy. The surprise of the spectator was
chiefly excited by finding a piece of water situated in that high and
mountainous region, and the landscape around had features which might
rather be termed wild, than either romantic or sublime; yet the scene
was not without its charms. Under the burning sun of summer, the clear
azure of the deep unruffled lake refreshed the eye, and impressed the
mind with a pleasing feeling of deep solitude. In winter, when the snow
lay on the mountains around, these dazzling masses appeared to ascend
far beyond their wonted and natural height, while the lake, which
stretched beneath, and filled their bosom with all its frozen waves, lay
like the surface of a darkened and broken mirror around the black and
rocky islet, and the walls of the gray castle with which it was crowned.
As the castle occupied, either with its principal buildings, or with its
flanking and outward walls, every projecting point of rock, which served
as its site, it seemed as completely surrounded by water as the nest of
a wild swan, save where a narrow causeway extended betwixt the islet and
the shore. But the fortress was larger in appearance than in reality;
and of the buildings which it actually contained, many had become
ruinous and uninhabitable. In the times of the grandeur of the Avenel
family, these had been occupied by a considerable garrison of followers
and retainers, but they were now in a great measure deserted; and Julian
Avenel would probably have fixed his habitation in a residence better
suited to his diminished fortunes, had it not been for the great
security which the situation of the old castle afforded to a man of his
precarious and perilous mode of life. Indeed, in this respect, the spot
could scarce have been more happily chosen, for it could be rendered
almost completely inaccessible at the pleasure of the inhabitant. The
distance betwixt the nearest shore and the islet was not indeed above an
hundred yards; but then the causeway which connected them was extremely
narrow, and completely divided by two cuts, one in the mid-way between
the islet and shore, and another close under the outward gate of
the castle. These formed a formidable, and almost insurmountable
interruption to any hostile approach. Each was defended by a drawbridge,
one of which, being that nearest to the castle, was regularly raised at
all times during the day, and both were lifted at night. [Footnote:
It is in vain to search near Melrose for any such castle as is here
described. The lakes at the head of the Yarrow, and those at the rise of
the water of Ale, present no object of the kind. But in Vetholm Loch, (a
romantic sheet of water, in the dry march, as it is called,) there
are the remains of a fortress called Lochside Tower, which, like the
supposed Castle of Avenel, is built upon an island, and connected with
the land by a causeway. It is much smaller than the Castle of Avenel is
described, consisting only of a single tower.]
The situation of Julian Avenel, engaged in a variety of feuds, and a
party to almost every dark and mysterious transaction which was on foot
in that wild and military frontier, required all these precautions
for his security. His own ambiguous and doubtful course of policy had
increased these dangers; for as he made professions to both parties in
the state, and occasionally united more actively with either the one or
the other, as chanced best to serve his immediate purpose, he could
not be said to have either firm allies and protectors, or determined
enemies. His life was a life of expedients and of peril; and while,
in pursuit of his interest, he made all the doubles which he thought
necessary to attain his object, he often overran his prey, and missed
that which he might have gained by observing a straighter course.
* * * * *
Chapter the Twenty-Fourth.
I'll walk on tiptoe; arm my eye with caution,
My heart with courage, and my hand with weapon,
Like him who ventures on a lion's den.
OLD PLAY.
When, issuing from the gorge of a pass which terminated upon the lake,
the travellers came in sight of the ancient castle of Avenel, the old
man looked with earnest attention upon the scene before him. The castle
was, as we have said, in many places ruinous, as was evident, even at
this distance, by the broken, rugged, and irregular outline of the walls
and of the towers. In others it seemed more entire, and a pillar of dark
smoke, which ascended from the chimneys of the donjon, and spread
its long dusky pennon through the clear ether, indicated that it was
inhabited. But no corn-fields or enclosed pasture-grounds on the side
of the lake showed that provident attention to comfort and subsistence
which usually appeared near the houses of the greater, and even of the
lesser barons. There were no cottages with their patches of infield, and
their crofts and gardens, surrounded by rows of massive sycamores; no
church with its simple tower in the valley; no herds of sheep among
the hills; no cattle on the lower ground; nothing which intimated the
occasional prosecution of the arts of peace and of industry. It was
plain that the inhabitants, whether few or numerous, must be considered
as the garrison of the castle, living within its defended precincts, and
subsisting by means which were other than peaceful.
Probably it was with this conviction that the old man, gazing on the
castle, muttered to himself, “_Lapis offensionis et petra scandali!_”
and then, turning to Halbert Glendinning, he added, “We may say of
yonder fort as King James did of another fastness in this province,
that he who built it was a thief in his heart.” [Footnote: It was of
Lochwood, the hereditary fortress of the Johnstones of Aunandale, a
strong castle situated in the centre of a quaking bog, that James VI.
made this remark.]
“But it was not so,” answered Glendinning; “yonder castle was built
by the old lords of Avenel, men as much beloved in peace as they
were respected in war. They were the bulwark of the frontiers against
foreigners, and the protectors of the natives from domestic oppression.
The present usurper of their inheritance no more resembles them, than
the night-prowling owl resembles a falcon, because she builds on the
same rock.”
“This Julian Avenel, then, holds no high place in the love and regard of
his neighbours?” said Warden.
“So little,” answered Halbert, “that besides the jack-men and riders
with whom he has associated himself, and of whom he has many at his
disposal, I know of few who voluntarily associate with him. He has been
more than once outlawed both by England and Scotland, his lands declared
forfeited, and his head set at a price. But in these unquiet times, a
man so daring as Julian Avenel has ever found some friends willing to
protect him against the penalties of the law, on condition of his secret
services.”
“You describe a dangerous man,” replied Warden.
“You may have experience of that,” replied the youth, “if you deal
not the more warily;--though it may be that he also has forsaken the
community of the church, and gone astray in the path of heresy.”
“What your blindness terms the path of heresy,” answered the reformer,
“is indeed the straight and narrow way, wherein he who walks turns not
aside, whether for worldly wealth or for worldly passions. Would to
God this man were moved by no other and no worse spirit than that which
prompts my poor endeavours to extend the kingdom of Heaven! This Baron
of Avenel is personally unknown to me, is not of our congregation or of
our counsel; yet I bear to him charges touching my safety, from those
whom he must fear if he does not respect them, and upon that assurance I
will venture upon his hold--I am now sufficiently refreshed by these few
minutes of repose.”
“Take then this advice for your safety,” said Halbert, “and believe that
it is founded upon the usage of this country and its inhabitants. If you
can better shift for yourself, go not to the Castle of Avenel--if you do
risk going thither, obtain from him, if possible, his safe conduct, and
beware that he swears it by the Black Rood--And lastly, observe whether
he eats with you at the board, or pledges you in the cup; for if he
gives you not these signs of welcome, his thoughts are evil towards
you.”
“Alas!” said the preacher, “I have no better earthly refuge for the
present than these frowning towers, but I go thither trusting to aid
which is not of this earth--But thou, good youth, needest thou trust
thyself in this dangerous den?”
“I,” answered Halbert, “am in no danger. I am well known to Christie of
the Clinthill, the henchman of this Julian Avenel; and, what is a yet
better protection, I have nothing either to provoke malice or to tempt
plunder.”
The tramp of a steed, which clattered along the shingly banks of the
loch, was now heard behind them; and, when they looked back, a rider was
visible, his steel cap and the point of his long lance glancing in the
setting sun, as he rode rapidly towards them.
Halbert Glendinning soon recognized Christie of the Clinthill, and made
his companion aware that the henchman of Julian Avenel was approaching.
“Ha, youngling!” said Christie to Halbert, as he came up to them, “thou
hast made good my word at last, and come to take service with my noble
master, hast thou not? Thou shalt find a good friend and a true; and
ere Saint Barnaby come round again, thou shalt know every pass betwixt
Millburn Plain and Netherby, as if thou hadst been born with a jack
on thy back, and a lance in thy hand.--What old carle hast thou with
thee?--He is not of the brotherhood of Saint Mary's--at least he has
not the buist [Footnote: _Buist_--The brand, or mark, set upon sheep or
cattle, by their owners.] of these black cattle.”
“He is a wayfaring man,” said Halbert, “who has concerns with Julian of
Avenel. For myself, I intend to go to Edinburgh to see the court and the
Queen, and when I return hither we will talk of your proffer. Meantime,
as thou hast often invited me to the castle, I crave hospitality there
to-night for myself and my companion.”
“For thyself and welcome, young comrade,” replied Christie; “but we
harbour no pilgrims, nor aught that looks like a pilgrim.”
“So please you,” said Warden, “I have letters of commendation to thy
master from a sure friend, whom he will right willingly oblige in higher
matters than in affording me a brief protection.--And I am no pilgrim,
but renounce the same, with all its superstitious observances.” He
offered his letters to the horseman, who shook his head.
“These,” he said, “are matters for my master, and it will be well if he
can read them himself; for me, sword and lance are my book and psalter,
and have been since I was twelve years old. But I will guide you to the
castle, and the Baron of Avenel will himself judge of your errand.”
By this time the party had reached the causeway, along which Christie
advanced at a trot, intimating his presence to the warders within the
castle by a shrill and peculiar whistle. At this signal the farther
drawbridge was lowered. The horseman passed it, and disappeared under
the gloomy portal which was beyond it.
Glendinning and his companion advancing more leisurely along the rugged
causeway, stood at length under the same gateway, over which frowned,
in dark red freestone, the ancient armorial bearings of the house of
Avenel, which represented a female figure shrouded and muffled, which
occupied the whole field. The cause of their assuming so singular a
device was uncertain, but the figure was generally supposed to represent
the mysterious being called the White Lady of Avenel. [Footnote: There
is an ancient English family, I believe, which bears, or did bear, a
ghost or spirit passant sable in a field argent. This seems to have been
a device of a punning or _canting_ herald.] The sight of this mouldering
shield awakened in the mind of Halbert the strange circumstances which
had connected his fate with that of Mary Avenel, and with the doings of
the spiritual being who was attached to her house, and whom he saw
here, represented in stone, as he had before seen her effigy upon
the seal-ring of Walter Avenel, which, with other trinkets formerly
mentioned, had been saved from pillage, and brought to Glendearg, when
Mary's mother was driven from her habitation.
“You sigh, my son,” said the old man, observing the impression made on
his youthful companion's countenance, but mistaking the cause; “if you
fear to enter, we may yet return.”
“That can ye not,” said Christie of the Clinthill, who emerged at that
instant from the side-door under the archway. “Look yonder, and choose
whether you will return skimming the water like a wild-duck, or winging
the air like a plover.”
They looked, and saw that the drawbridge which they had just crossed was
again raised, and now interposed its planks betwixt the setting sun and
the portal of the castle, deepening the gloom of the arch under which
they stood. Christie laughed and bid them follow him, saying, by way of
encouragement, in Halbert's ear, “Answer boldly and readily to whatever
the Baron asks you. Never stop to pick your words, and above all show no
fear of him--the devil is not so black as he is painted.”
As he spoke thus, he introduced them into the large stone hall, at the
upper end of which blazed a huge fire of wood. The long oaken table,
which, as usual, occupied the midst of the apartment, was covered
with rude preparations for the evening meal of the Baron and his chief
domestics, five or six of whom, strong, athletic, savage-looking men,
paced up and down the lower end of the hall, which rang to the jarring
clang of their long swords that clashed as they moved, and to the heavy
tramp of their high-heeled jack-boots. Iron jacks, or coats of buff,
formed the principal part of their dress, and steel-bonnets, or large
slouched hats with Spanish plumes drooping backwards, were their head
attire.
The Baron of Avenel was one of those tall, muscular, martial figures,
which are the favourite subjects of Salvator Rosa. He wore a cloak
which had been once gaily trimmed, but which, by long wear and
frequent exposure to the weather, was now faded in its colours. Thrown
negligently about his tall person, it partly hid, and partly showed, a
short doublet of buff, under which was in some places visible that light
shirt of mail which was called a _secret_, because worn instead of more
ostensible armour to protect against private assassination. A leathern
belt sustained a large and heavy sword on one side, and on the other
that gay poniard which had once called Sir Piercie Shafton master, of
which the hatchments and gildings were already much defaced, either by
rough usage or neglect.
Notwithstanding the rudeness of his apparel, Julian Avenel's manner
and countenance had far more elevation than those of the attendants
who surrounded him. He might be fifty or upwards, for his dark hair was
mingled with gray, but age had neither tamed the fire of his eye nor the
enterprise of his disposition. His countenance had been handsome, for
beauty was an attribute of the family; but the lines were roughened by
fatigue and exposure to the weather, and rendered coarse by the habitual
indulgence of violent passions.
He seemed in deep and moody reflection, and was pacing at a distance
from his dependents along the upper end of the hall, sometimes stopping
from time to time to caress and feed a gos-hawk, which sat upon his
wrist, with its jesses (_i. e._ the leathern straps fixed to its legs)
wrapt around his hand. The bird, which seemed not insensible to its
master's attention, answered his caresses by ruffling forward its
feathers, and pecking playfully at his finger. At such intervals
the Baron smiled, but instantly resumed the darksome air of sullen
meditation. He did not even deign to look upon an object, which few
could have passed and repassed so often without bestowing on it a
transient glance.
This was a woman of exceeding beauty, rather gaily than richly attired,
who sat on a low seat close by the huge hall chimney. The gold chains
round her neck and arms,--the gay gown of green which swept the
floor,--the silver embroidered girdle, with its bunch of keys, depending
in house-wifely pride by a silver chain,--the yellow silken _couvrechef_
(Scottice, _curch_) which was disposed around her head, and partly
concealed her dark profusion of hair,--above all, the circumstance so
delicately touched in the old ballad, that “the girdle was too short,”
the “gown of green all too strait,” for the wearer's present shape,
would have intimated the Baron's lady. But then the lowly seat,--the
expression of deep melancholy, which was changed into a timid smile
whenever she saw the least chance of catching the eye of Julian
Avenel,--the subdued look of grief, and the starting tear for which
that constrained smile was again exchanged when she saw herself entirely
disregarded,--these were not the attributes of a wife, or they were
those of a dejected and afflicted female, who had yielded her love on
less than legitimate terms.
Julian Avenel, as we have said, continued to pace the hall without
paying any of that mute attention which is rendered to almost every
female either by affection or courtesy. He seemed totally unconscious of
her presence, or of that of his attendants, and was only roused from
his own dark reflections by the notice he paid to the falcon, to which,
however, the lady seemed to attend, as if studying to find either
an opportunity of speaking to the Baron, or of finding something
enigmatical in the expressions which he used to the bird. All this the
strangers had time enough to remark; for no sooner had they entered the
apartment than their usher, Christie of the Clinthill, after exchanging
a significant glance with the menials or troopers at the lower end of
the apartment, signed to Halbert Glendinning and to his companion to
stand still near the door, while he himself, advancing nearer the table,
placed himself in such a situation as to catch the Baron's observation
when he should be disposed to look around, but without presuming to
intrude himself on his master's notice. Indeed, the look of this man,
naturally bold, hardy, and audacious, seemed totally changed when he
was in presence of his master, and resembled the dejected and cowering
manner of a quarrelsome dog when rebuked by his owner, or when he finds
himself obliged to deprecate the violence of a superior adversary of his
own species.
In spite of the novelty of his own situation, and every painful feeling
connected with it, Halbert felt his curiosity interested in the female,
who sate by the chimney unnoticed and unregarded. He marked with what
keen and trembling solicitude she watched the broken words of Julian,
and how her glance stole towards him, ready to be averted upon the
slightest chance of his perceiving himself to be watched.
Meantime he went on with his dalliance with his feathered favourite, now
giving, now withholding, the morsel with which he was about to feed the
bird, and so exciting its appetite and gratifying it by turns. “What!
more yet?--thou foul kite, thou wouldst never have done--give thee part
thou wilt have all--Ay, prune thy feathers, and prink thyself gay--much
thou wilt make of it now--dost think I know thee not?--dost think I see
not that all that ruffling and pluming of wing and feathers is not
for thy master, but to try what thou canst make of him, thou greedy
gled?--well--there--take it then, and rejoice thyself--little boon goes
far with thee, and with all thy sex--and so it should.”
He ceased to look on the bird, and again traversed the apartment. Then
taking another small piece of raw meat from the trencher, on which it
was placed ready cut for his use, he began once again to tempt and tease
the bird, by offering and withdrawing it, until he awakened its wild and
bold disposition. “What! struggling, fluttering, aiming at me with beak
and single? [Footnote: In the _kindly_ language of hawking, as Lady
Juliana Berners terms it, hawks' talons are called their _singles_]
So la! So la! wouldst mount? wouldst fly? the jesses are round thy
clutches, fool--thou canst neither stir nor soar but by my will--Beware
thou come to reclaim, wench, else I will wring thy head off one of these
days--Well, have it then, and well fare thou with it.--So ho, Jenkin!”
One of the attendants stepped forward--“Take the foul gled hence to
the mew--or, stay; leave her, but look well to her casting and to her
bathing--we will see her fly to-morrow.--How now, Christie, so soon
returned?”
Christie advanced to his master, and gave an account of himself and his
journey, in the way in which a police-officer holds communication with
his magistrate, that is, as much by signs as by words.
“Noble sir,” said that worthy satellite, “the Laird of--,” he named no
place, but pointed with his finger in a south-western direction,--
“may not ride with you the day he purposed, because the Lord Warden has
threatened that he will--”
Here another blank, intelligibly enough made up by the speaker touching
his own neck with his left fore-finger, and leaning his head a little to
one side.
“Cowardly caitiff!” said Julian; “by Heaven! the whole world turns sheer
naught--it is not worth a brave man's living in--ye may ride a day and
night, and never see a feather wave or hear a horse prance--the spirit
of our fathers is dead amongst us--the very brutes are degenerated--the
cattle we bring at our life's risk are mere carrion--our hawks are
riflers [Footnote: So called when they only caught their prey by the
feathers.]--our hounds are turnspits and trindle-tails--our men are
women--and our women are--”
He looked at the female for the first time, and stopped short in
the midst of what he was about to say, though there was something so
contemptuous in the glance, that the blank might have been thus filled
up--“Our women are such as she is.”
He said it not, however, and as if desirous of attracting his attention
at all risks, and in whatever manner, she rose and came forward to him,
but with a timorousness ill-disguised by affected gaiety.--“Our women,
Julian--what would you say of the women?”
“Nothing,” answered Julian Avenel, “at least nothing but that they are
kind-hearted wenches like thyself, Kate.” The female coloured deeply,
and returned to her seat.--“And what strangers hast thou brought with
thee, Christie, that stand yonder like two stone statues?” said the
Baron.
“The taller,” answered Christie, “is, so please you, a young fellow
called Halbert Glendinning, the eldest son of the old widow at
Glendearg.”
“What brings him here?” said the Baron; “hath he any message from Mary
Avenel?”
“Not as I think,” said Christie; “the youth is roving the country--he
was always a wild slip, for I have known him since he was the height of
my sword.”
“What qualities hath he?” said the Baron.
“All manner of qualities,” answered his follower--“he can strike a buck,
track a deer, fly a hawk, halloo to a hound--he shoots in the long
and crossbow to a hair's breadth--wields a lance or sword like myself
nearly--backs a horse manfully and fairly--I wot not what more a man
need to do to make him a gallant companion.”
“And who,” said the Baron, “is the old miser [Footnote: Miser, used in
the sense in which it often occurs in Spenser, and which is indeed its
literal import--“wretched old man.”] who stands beside him?”
“Some cast of a priest as I fancy--he says he is charged with letters to
you.”
“Bid them come forward,” said the Baron; and no sooner had they
approached him more nearly, than, struck by the fine form and strength
displayed by Halbert Glendinning, he addressed him thus: “I am told,
young Swankie, that you are roaming the world to seek your fortune,--if
you will serve Julian Avenel, you may find it without going farther.”
“So please you,” answered Glendinning, “something has chanced to me that
makes it better I should leave this land, and I am bound for Edinburgh.”
“What!--thou hast stricken some of the king's deer, I warrant,--or
lightened the meadows of Saint Mary's of some of their beeves--or thou
hast taken a moonlight leap over the border?”
“No, sir,” said Halbert, “my case is entirely different.”
“Then I warrant thee,” said the Baron, “thou hast stabbed some brother
churl in a fray about a wench--thou art a likely lad to wrangle in such
a cause.”
Ineffably disgusted at his tone and manner, Halbert Glendinning remained
silent, while the thought darted across his mind, what would Julian
Avenel have said, had he known the quarrel of which he spoke so lightly,
had arisen on account of his own brother's daughter! “But be thy cause
of flight what it will,” said Julian, in continuation, “dost thou think
the law or its emissaries can follow thee into this island, or arrest
thee under the standard of Avenel?--Look at the depth of the lake, the
strength of the walls, the length of the causeway--look at my men,
and think if they are likely to see a comrade injured, or if I, their
master, am a man to desert a faithful follower, in good or evil. I tell
thee it shall be an eternal day of truce betwixt thee and justice,
as they call it, from the instant thou hast put my colours into thy
cap--thou shalt ride by the Warden's nose as thou wouldst pass an old
market-woman, and ne'er a cur which follows him shall dare to bay at
thee!”
“I thank you for your offers, noble sir,” replied Halbert, “but I must
answer in brief, that I cannot profit by them--my fortunes lead me
elsewhere.”
“Thou art a self-willed fool for thy pains,” said Julian, turning from
him; and signing Christie to approach, he whispered in his ear, “there
is promise in that young fellow's looks, Christie, and we want men of
limbs and sinews so compacted--those thou hast brought to me of late are
the mere refuse of mankind, wretches scarce worth the arrow that ends
them: this youngster is limbed like Saint George. Ply him with wine and
wassail--let the wenches weave their meshes about him like spiders--thou
understandest?” Christie gave a sagacious nod of intelligence, and fell
back to a respectful distance from his master.--“And thou, old man,”
said the Baron, turning to the elder traveller, “hast thou been roaming
the world after fortune too?--it seems not she has fallen into thy way.”
“So please you,” replied Warden, “I were perhaps more to be pitied than
I am now, had I indeed met with that fortune, which, like others, I have
sought in my greener days.”
“Nay, understand me, friend,” said the Baron; “if thou art satisfied
with thy buckram gown and long staff, I also am well content thou
shouldst be as poor and contemptible as is good for the health of thy
body and soul--All I care to know of thee is, the cause which hath
brought thee to my castle, where few crows of thy kind care to settle.
Thou art, I warrant thee, some ejected monk of a suppressed convent,
paying in his old days the price of the luxurious idleness in which he
spent his youth.--Ay, or it may be some pilgrim with a budget of lies
from Saint James of Compostella, or Our Lady of Loretto; or thou mayest
be some pardoner with his budget of relics from Rome, forgiving sins at
a penny a-dozen, and one to the tale.--Ay, I guess why I find thee in
this boy's company, and doubtless thou wouldst have such a strapping lad
as he to carry thy wallet, and relieve thy lazy shoulders; but by the
mass I will cross thy cunning. I make my vow to sun and moon, I will
not see a proper lad so misleard as to run the country with an old knave
like Simmie and his brother. [Footnote: Two _quaestionarii_, or begging
friars, whose accoutrements and roguery make the subject of an old
Scottish satirical poem] Away with thee!” he added, rising in wrath,
and speaking so fast as to give no opportunity of answer, being probably
determined to terrify the elder guest into an abrupt flight--“Away with
thee, with thy clouted coat, scrip, and scallop-shell, or, by the name
of Avenel, I will have them loose the hounds on thee.”
Warden waited with the greatest patience until Julian Avenel, astonished
that the threats and violence of his language made no impression on him,
paused in a sort of wonder, and said in a less imperious tone, “Why the
fiend dost thou not answer me?”
“When you have done speaking,” said Warden, in the same composed manner,
“it will be full time to reply.”
“Say on man, in the devil's name--but take heed--beg not here--were it
but for the rinds of cheese, the refuse of the rats, or a morsel that my
dogs would turn from--neither a grain of meal, nor the nineteenth part
of a gray groat, will I give to any feigned limmer of thy coat.”
“It may be,” answered Warden, “that you would have less quarrel with my
coat if you knew what it covers, I am neither a friar nor mendicant, and
would be right glad to hear thy testimony against these foul deceivers
of God's church, and usurpers of his rights over the Christian flock,
were it given in Christian charity.”
“And who or what art thou, then,” said Avenel, “that thou comest to this
Border land, and art neither monk, nor soldier, nor broken man?”
“I am an humble teacher of the holy word,” answered Warden. “This letter
from a most noble person will speak why I am here at this present time.”
He delivered the letter to the Baron, who regarded the seal with some
surprise, and then looked on the letter itself, which seemed to excite
still more. He then fixed his eyes on the stranger, and said, in a
menacing tone, “I think thou darest not betray me or deceive me?”
“I am not the man to attempt either,” was the concise reply.
Julian Avenel carried the letter to the window, where he perused, or
at least attempted to peruse it more than once, often looking from the
paper and gazing on the stranger who had delivered it, as if he meant to
read the purport of the missive in the face of the messenger. Julian
at length called to the female,--“Catherine, bestir thee, and fetch
me presently that letter which I bade thee keep ready at hand in thy
casket, having no sure lockfast place of my own.”
Catherine went with the readiness of one willing to be employed; and
as she walked, the situation which requires a wider gown and a longer
girdle, and in which woman claims from man a double portion of the most
anxious care, was still more visible than before. She soon returned with
the paper, and was rewarded with a cold--“I thank thee, wench; thou art
a careful secretary.”
This second paper he also perused and reperused more than once, and
still, as he read it, bent from time to time a wary and observant eye
upon Henry Warden. This examination and re-examination, though both the
man and the place were dangerous, the preacher endured with the most
composed and steady countenance, seeming, under the eagle, or rather the
vulture eye of the baron, as unmoved as under the gaze of an ordinary
and peaceful peasant. At length Julian Avenel folded both papers, and
having put them into the pocket of his cloak, cleared his brow, and,
coming forward, addressed his female companion. “Catherine,” said he,
“I have done this good man injustice, when I mistook him for one of the
drones of Rome. He is a preacher, Catherine--a preacher of the--the new
doctrine of the Lords of the Congregation.”
“The doctrine of the blessed Scriptures,” said the preacher, “purified
from the devices of men.”
“Sayest thou?” said Julian Avenel--“Well, thou mayest call it what thou
lists; but to me it is recommended, because it flings off all those
sottish dreams about saints and angels and devils, and unhorses lazy
monks that have ridden us so long, and spur-galled us so hard. No
more masses and corpse-gifts--no more tithes and offerings to make men
poor--no more prayers or psalms to make men cowards-no more christenings
and penances, and confessions and marriages.”
“So please you,” said Henry Warden, “it is against the corruptions, not
against the fundamental doctrines, of the church, which we desire to
renovate, and not to abolish.”
“Prithee, peace, man,” said the Baron; “we of the laity care not what
you set up, so you pull merrily down what stands in our way. Specially
it suits well with us of the Southland fells; for it is our profession
to turn the world upside down, and we live ever the blithest life when
the downer side is uppermost.”
Warden would have replied; but the Baron allowed him not time, striking
the table with the hilt of his dagger, and crying out,--“Ha! you
loitering knaves, bring our supper-meal quickly. See you not this holy
man is exhausted for lack of food? heard ye ever of priest or preacher
that devoured not his five meals a-day?”
The attendants bustled to and fro, and speedily brought in several large
smoking platters filled with huge pieces of beef, boiled and roasted,
but without any variety whatsoever; without vegetables, and almost
without bread, though there was at the upper end a few oat-cakes in a
basket. Julian Avenel made a sort of apology to Warden.
“You have been commended to our care, Sir Preacher, since that is your
style, by a person whom we highly honour.”
“I am assured,” said Warden, “that the most noble Lord--”
“Prithee, peace, man,” said Avenel; “what need of naming names, so we
understand each other? I meant but to speak in reference to your safety
and comfort, of which he desires us to be chary. Now, for your safety,
look at my walls and water. But touching your comfort, we have no
corn of our own, and the meal-girnels of the south are less easily
transported than their beeves, seeing they have no legs to walk upon.
But what though? a stoup of wine thou shalt have, and of the best--thou
shalt sit betwixt Catherine and me at the board-end.--And, Christie, do
thou look to the young springald, and call to the cellarer for a flagon
of the best.”
The Baron took his wonted place at the upper end of the board; his
Catherine sate down, and courteously pointed to a seat betwixt them for
their reverend guest. But notwithstanding the influence both of hunger
and fatigue, Henry Warden retained his standing posture.
Chapter the Twenty-Fifth.
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray--
Julian Avenel saw with surprise the demeanour of the reverend stranger.
“Beshrew me,” he said, “these new-fashioned religioners have fast-days,
I warrant me--the old ones used to confer these blessings chiefly on the
laity.”
“We acknowledge no such rule,” said the preacher--“We hold that our
faith consists not in using or abstaining from special meats on special
days; and in fasting we rend our hearts, and not our garments.”
“The better--the better for yourselves, and the worse for Tom Tailor,”
said the Baron; “but come, sit down, or, if thou needs must e'en give us
a cast of thy office, mutter thy charm.”
“Sir Baron,” said the preacher, “I am in a strange land, where neither
mine office nor my doctrine are known, and where, it would seem, both
are greatly misunderstood. It is my duty so to bear me, that in my
person, however unworthy, my Master's dignity may be respected, and that
sin may take not confidence from relaxation of the bonds of discipline.”
“Ho la! halt there,” said the Baron; “thou wert sent hither for thy
safety, but not, I think, to preach to me, or control me. What is it
thou wouldst have, Sir Preacher? Remember thou speakest to one somewhat
short of patience, who loves a short health and a long draught.”
“In a word, then,” said Henry Warden, “that lady--”
“How?” said the Baron, starting--“what of her?--what hast thou to say of
that dame?”
“Is she thy house-dame?” said the preacher, after a moment's pause, in
which, he seemed to seek for the best mode of expressing what he had to
say--“Is she, in brief, thy wife?”
The unfortunate young woman pressed both her hands on her face, as if
to hide it, but the deep blush which crimsoned her brow and neck, showed
that her cheeks were also glowing; and the bursting tears, which found
their way betwixt her slender fingers, bore witness to her sorrow, as
well as to her shame.
“Now, by my father's ashes!” said the Baron, rising and spurning from
him his footstool with such violence, that it hit the wall on the
opposite side of the apartment--then instantly constraining himself,
he muttered, “What need to run myself into trouble for a fool's
word?”--then resuming his seat, he answered coldly and scornfully--“No,
Sir Priest or Sir Preacher, Catherine is not my wife--Cease thy
whimpering, thou foolish wench--she is not my wife, but she is
handfasted with me, and that makes her as honest a woman.”
“Handfasted?”--repeated Warden.
“Knowest thou not that rite, holy man?” said Avenel, in the same tone of
derision; “then I will tell thee. We Border-men are more wary than
your inland clowns of Fife and Lothian--no jump in the dark for us--no
clenching the fetters around our wrists till we know how they will wear
with us--we take our wives, like our horses, upon trial. When we are
handfasted, as we term it, we are man and wife for a year and day--that
space gone by, each may choose another mate, or, at their pleasure, may
call the priest to marry them for life--and this we call handfasting.”
[Footnote: This custom of handfasting actually prevailed in the upland
days. It arose partly from the want of priests. While the convents
subsisted, monks were detached on regular circuits through the wilder
districts, to marry those who had lived in this species of connexion. A
practice of the same kind existed in the Isle of Portland.]
“Then,” said the preacher, “I tell thee, noble Baron, in brotherly love
to thy soul, it is a custom licentious, gross, and corrupted, and, if
persisted in, dangerous, yea, damnable. It binds thee to the frailer
being while she is the object of desire--it relieves thee when she is
most the subject of pity--it gives all to brutal sense, and nothing to
generous and gentle affection. I say to thee, that he who can meditate
the breach of such an engagement, abandoning the deluded woman and the
helpless offspring, is worse than the birds of prey; for of them the
males remain with their mates until the nestlings can take wing. Above
all, I say it is contrary to the pure Christian doctrine, which assigns
woman to man as the partner of his labour, the soother of his evil,
his helpmate in peril, his friend in affliction; not as the toy of his
looser hours, or as a flower, which, once cropped, he may throw aside at
pleasure.”
“Now, by the Saints, a most virtuous homily!” said the Baron; “quaintly
conceived and curiously pronounced, and to a well-chosen congregation.
Hark ye, Sir Gospeller! trow ye to have a fool in hand? Know I not that
your sect rose by bluff Harry Tudor, merely because ye aided him to
change _his_ Kate; and wherefore should I not use the same Christian
liberty with _mine?_ Tush, man! bless the good food, and meddle not with
what concerns thee not--thou hast no gull in Julian Avenel.”
“He hath gulled and cheated himself,” said the preacher, “should he
even incline to do that poor sharer of his domestic cares the imperfect
justice that remains to him. Can he now raise her to the rank of a pure
and uncontaminated matron?--Can he deprive his child of the misery of
owing birth to a mother who has erred? He can indeed give them both
the rank, the state of married wife and of lawful son; but, in public
opinion, their names will be smirched and sullied with a stain which his
tardy efforts cannot entirely efface. Yet render it to them, Baron of
Avenel, render to them this late and imperfect justice. Bid me bind
you together for ever, and celebrate the day of your bridal, not with
feasting or wassail, but with sorrow for past sin, and the resolution
to commence a better life. Happy then will have the chance been that has
drawn me to this castle, though I come driven by calamity, and unknowing
where my course is bound, like a leaf travelling on the north wind.”
The plain, and even coarse features, of the zealous speaker, were warmed
at once and ennobled by the dignity of his enthusiasm; and the wild
Baron, lawless as he was, and accustomed to spurn at the control whether
of religious or moral law, felt, for the first time perhaps in his life,
that he was under subjection to a mind superior to his own. He sat mute
and suspended in his deliberations, hesitating betwixt anger and shame,
yet borne down by the weight of the just rebuke thus boldly fulminated
against him.
The unfortunate young woman, conceiving hopes from her tyrant's silence
and apparent indecision, forgot both her fear and shame in her timid
expectation that Avenel would relent; and fixing upon him her anxious
and beseeching eyes, gradually drew near and nearer to his seat, till at
length, laying a trembling hand on his cloak, she ventured to utter, “O
noble Julian, listen to the good man!”
The speech and the motion were ill-timed, and wrought on that proud and
wayward spirit the reverse of her wishes.
The fierce Baron started up in a fury, exclaiming, “What! thou foolish
callet, art thou confederate with this strolling vagabond, whom thou
hast seen beard me in my own hall! Hence with thee, and think that I ana
proof both to male and female hypocrisy!”
The poor girl started back, astounded at his voice of thunder and looks
of fury, and, turning pale as death, endeavoured to obey his orders, and
tottered towards the door. Her limbs failed in the attempt, and she fell
on the stone floor in a manner which her situation might have rendered
fatal--The blood gushed from her face.--Halbert Glendinning brooked not
a sight so brutal, but, uttering a deep imprecation, started from
his seat, and laid his hand on his sword, under the strong impulse of
passing it through the body of the cruel and hard-hearted ruffian. But
Christie of the Clinthill, guessing his intention, threw his arms around
him, and prevented him from stirring to execute his purpose.
The impulse to such an act of violence was indeed but momentary, as it
instantly appeared that Avenel himself, shocked at the effects of his
violence, was lifting up and endeavouring to soothe in his own way the
terrified Catherine.
“Peace,” he said, “prithee, peace, thou silly minion--why, Kate, though
I listen not to this tramping preacher, I said not what might happen
an thou dost bear me a stout boy. There--there--dry thy tears--Call thy
women.--So ho!--where be these queans?--Christie--Rowley--Hutcheon--drag
them hither by the hair of the head!”
A half dozen of startled wild-looking females rushed into the room,
and bore out her who might be either termed their mistress or their
companion. She showed little sign of life, except by groaning faintly
and keeping her hand on her side.
No sooner had this luckless female been conveyed from the apartment,
than the Baron, advancing to the table, filled and drank a deep goblet
of wine; then, putting an obvious restraint on his passions, turned to
the preacher, who stood horror-struck at the scene he had witnessed, and
said, “You have borne too hard on us, Sir Preacher--but coming with the
commendations which you have brought me, I doubt not but your meaning
was good. But we are a wilder folk than you inland men of Fife and
Lothian. Be advised, therefore, by me--Spur not an unbroken horse--put
not your ploughshare too deep into new land--Preach to us spiritual
liberty, and we will hearken to you.--But we will give no way to
spiritual bondage.--Sit, therefore, down, and pledge me in old sack, and
we will talk over these matters.”
“It is _from_ spiritual bondage,” said the preacher, in the same tone
of admonitory reproof, “that I came to deliver you--it is from a bondage
more fearful than than that of the heaviest earthly gyves--it is from
your own evil passions.”
“Sit down,” said Avenel, fiercely; “sit down while the play is
good--else by my father's crest and my mother's honour!----”
“Now,” whispered Christie of the Clinthill to Halbert, “if he refuse to
sit down, I would not give a gray groat for his head.”
“Lord Baron,” said Warden, “thou hast placed me in extremity. But if the
question be, whether I am to hide the light which I am commanded to show
forth, or to lose the light of this world, my choice is made. I say to
thee, like the Holy Baptist to Herod, it is not lawful for thee to have
this woman; and I say it though bonds and death be the consequence,
counting my life as nothing in comparison of the ministry to which I am
called.”
Julian Avenel, enraged at the firmness of this reply, flung from his
right hand the cup in which he was about to drink to his guest, and from
the other cast off the hawk, which flew wildly through the apartment.
His first motion was to lay hand upon his dagger. But, changing
his resolution, he exclaimed, “To the dungeon with this insolent
stroller!--I will hear no man speak a word for him----Look to the
falcon, Christie, thou fool--an she escape, I will despatch you after
her every man--Away with that hypocritical dreamer--drag him hence if he
resist!”
He was obeyed in both points. Christie of the Clinthill arrested the
hawk's flight, by putting his foot on her jesses, and so holding her
fast, while Henry Warden was led off, without having shown the slightest
symptoms of terror, by two of the Baron's satellites. Julian Avenel
walked the apartment for a short time in sullen silence, and despatching
one of his attendants with a whispered message, which probably related
to the health of the unfortunate Catherine, he said aloud, “These rash
and meddling priests--By Heaven! they make us worse than we would be
without them.”
[Footnote: If it were necessary to name a prototype for this brutal,
licentious and cruel Border chief, in an age which showed but too many
such, the Laird of Black Ormiston might be selected for that purpose. He
was a friend and confidant of Bothwell, and an agent in Henry Darnley's
murder. At his last stage, he was, like other great offenders, a seeming
penitent; and, as his confession bears, divers gentlemen and servants
being in the chamber, he said, “For God's sake, sit down and pray for
me, for I have been a great sinner otherwise,” (that is, besides his
share in Darnley's death,) “for the which God is this day punishing me;
for of all men on the earth, I have been one of the proudest, and most
high-minded, and most unclean of my body. But specially I have shed the
innocent blood of one Michael Hunter with my own hands. Alas, therefore!
because the said Michael, having me lying on my back, having a fork in
his hand, might have slain me if he had pleased, and did it not, which
of all things grieves me most in conscience. Also, in a rage, I hanged a
poor man for a horse;--with many other wicked deeds, for whilk I ask my
God mercy. It is not marvel I have been wicked, considering the wicked
company that ever I have been in, but specially within the seven years
by-past, in which I never saw two good men or one good deed, but all
kind of wickedness, and yet God would not suffer me to be lost.”--See
the whole confession in the State Trials.
Another worthy of the Borders, called Geordy Bourne, of somewhat
subordinate rank, was a similar picture of profligacy. He had fallen
into the hands of Sir Robert Carey, then Warden of the English East
Marches, who gives the following account of his prisoner's confession:--
“When all things were quiet, and the watch set at night, after supper,
about ten of the clock, I took one of my men's liveries, and put it
about me, and took two other of my servants with me in their liveries;
and we three, as the Warden's men, came to the Provost Marshal's where
Bourne was, and were let into his chamber. We sate down by him, and told
him that we were desirous to see him, because we heard he was stout and
valiant, and true to his friend, and that we were sorry our master could
not be moved to save his life. He voluntarily of himself said, that he
had lived long enough to do so many villanies as he had done; and withal
told us, that he had lain with above forty men's wives, what in England
what in Scotland; and that he had killed seven Englishmen with his own
hands, cruelly murdering them; and that he had spent his whole time
in whoring, drinking, stealing, and taking deep revenge for slight
offences. He seemed to be very penitent, and much desired a minister
for the comfort of his soul. We promised him to let our master know his
desire, who, we knew would promptly grant it. We took leave of him; and
presently I took order that Mr Selby, a very honest preacher, should go
to him, and not stir from him till his execution the next morning;
for after I had heard his own confession, I was resolved no conditions
should save his life, and so took order, that at the gates opening the
next morning, he should be carried to execution, which accordingly was
performed.”--_Memoirs of Sir Robert Carey, Earl of Monmouth._]
The answer which he presently received seemed somewhat to pacify his
angry mood, and he took his place at the board, commanding his retinue
to the like. All sat down in silence, and began the repast.
During the meal Christie in vain attempted to engage his youthful
companion in carousal, or, at least, in conversation. Halbert
Glendinning pleaded fatigue, and expressed himself unwilling to take any
liquor stronger than the heather ale, which was at that time frequently
used at meals. Thus every effort at jovialty died away, until the
Baron, striking his hand against the table, as if impatient of the
long unbroken silence, cried out aloud, “What, ho! my masters--are ye
Border-riders, and sit as mute over your meal as a mess of monks and
friars?--Some one sing, if no one list to speak. Much eaten without
either mirth or music is ill of digestion.--Louis,” he added, speaking
to one of the youngest of his followers, “thou art ready enough to sing
when no one bids thee.”
The young man looked first at his master, then up to the arched roof of
the hall, then drank off the horn of ale, or wine, which stood beside
him, and with a rough, yet not unmelodious voice, sung the following
ditty to the ancient air of “Blue bonnets over the Border.”