II.

Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing,

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;

Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing,

Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.

Trumpets are sounding,

War-steeds are bounding,

Stand to your arms then, and march in good order;

England shall many a day

Tell of the bloody fray,

When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border!

The song, rude as it was, had in it that warlike character which at any

other time would have roused Halbert's spirit; but at present the charm

of minstrelsy had no effect upon him. He made it his request to Christie

to suffer him to retire to rest, a request with which that worthy

person, seeing no chance of making a favourable impression on his

intended proselyte in his present humour, was at length pleased to

comply. But no Sergeant Kite, who ever practised the profession of

recruiting, was more attentive that his object should not escape

him, than was Christie of the Clinthill. He indeed conducted Halbert

Glendinning to a small apartment overlooking the lake, which was

accommodated with a truckle bed. But before quitting him, Christie took

special care to give a look to the bars which crossed the outside of the

window, and when he left the apartment, he failed not to give the key a

double turn; circumstances which convinced young Glendinning that there

was no intention of suffering him to depart from the Castle of Avenel

at his own time and pleasure. He judged it, however, most prudent to let

these alarming symptoms pass without observation.

No sooner did he find himself in undisturbed solitude, than he ran

rapidly over the events of the day in his recollection, and to his

surprise found that his own precarious fate, and even the death of

Piercie Shafton, made less impression on him than the singularly bold

and determined conduct of his companion, Henry Warden. Providence, which

suits its instruments to the end they are to achieve, had awakened in

the cause of Reformation in Scotland, a body of preachers of more energy

than refinement, bold in spirit, and strong in faith, contemners of

whatever stood betwixt them and their principal object, and seeking the

advancement of the great cause in which they laboured by the roughest

road, provided it were the shortest. The soft breeze may wave the

willow, but it requires the voice of the tempest to agitate the boughs

of the oak; and, accordingly, to milder hearers, and in a less rude

age, their manners would have been ill-adapted, but they were singularly

successful in their mission to the rude people to whom it was addressed.

Owing to these reasons, Halbert Glendinning, who had resisted and

repelled the arguments of the preacher, was forcibly struck by the

firmness of his demeanour in the dispute with Julian Avenel. It might

be discourteous, and most certainly it was incautious, to choose such

a place and such an audience, for upbraiding with his transgressions

a baron, whom both manners and situation placed in full possession of

independent power. But the conduct of the preacher was uncompromising,

firm, manly, and obviously grounded upon the deepest conviction which

duty and principle could afford; and Glendinning, who had viewed the

conduct of Avenel with the deepest abhorrence, was proportionally

interested in the brave old man, who had ventured life rather than

withhold the censure due to guilt. This pitch of virtue seemed to him to

be in religion what was demanded by chivalry of her votaries in war; an

absolute surrender of all selfish feelings, and a combination of every

energy proper to the human mind, to discharge the task which duty

demanded.

Halbert was at the period when youth was most open to generous emotions,

and knows best how to appreciate them in others, and he felt, although

he hardly knew why, that, whether catholic or heretic, the safety of

this man deeply interested him. Curiosity mingled with the feeling, and

led him to wonder what the nature of those doctrines could be, which

stole their votary so completely from himself, and devoted him to chains

or to death as their sworn champion. He had indeed been told of saints

and martyrs of former days, who had braved for their religious faith

the extremity of death and torture. But their spirit of enthusiastic

devotion had long slept in the ease and indolent habits of their

successors, and their adventures, like those of knights-errant, were

rather read for amusement than for edification. A new impulse had been

necessary to rekindle the energies of religious zeal, and that impulse

was now operating in favour of a purer religion, with one of whose

steadiest votaries the youth had now met for the first time.

The sense that he himself was a prisoner, under the power of this savage

chieftain, by no means diminished Halbert's interest in the fate of his

fellow sufferer, while he determined at the same time so far to emulate

his fortitude, that neither threats nor suffering should compel him to

enter into the service of such a master. The possibility of escape next

occurred to him, and though with little hope of effecting it in that

way, Glendinning proceeded to examine more particularly the window of

the apartment. The apartment was situated in the first story of the

castle; and was not so far from the rock, on which it was founded, but

that an active and bold man might with little assistance descend to a

shelf of rock which was immediately below the window, and from thence

either leap or drop himself down into the lake which lay before his eye,

clear and blue in the placid light of a full summer's moon.--“Were I

once placed on that ledge,” thought Glendinning, “Julian Avenel and

Christie had seen the last of me.” The size of the window favoured

such an attempt, but the stanchions or iron bars seemed to form an

insurmountable obstacle.

While Halbert Glendinning gazed from the window with that eagerness

of hope which was prompted by the energy of his character and his

determination not to yield to circumstances, his ear caught some sounds

from below, and listening with more attention, he could distinguish

the voice of the preacher engaged in his solitary devotions. To open a

correspondence with him became immediately his object, and failing to

do so by less marked sounds, he at length ventured to speak, and was

answered from beneath--“Is it thou, my son?” The voice of the prisoner

now sounded more distinctly than when it was first heard, for Warden had

approached the small aperture, which, serving his prison for a window,

opened just betwixt the wall and the rock, and admitted a scanty portion

of light through a wall of immense thickness. This _soupirait_ being

placed exactly under Halbert's window, the contiguity permitted the

prisoners to converse in a low tone, when Halbert declared his intention

to escape, and the possibility he saw of achieving his purpose, but for

the iron stanchions of the window--“Prove thy strength, my son, in the

name of God” said the preacher. Halbert obeyed him more in despair than

hope, but to his great astonishment, and somewhat to his terror, the bar

parted asunder near the bottom, and the longer part being easily bent

outwards, and not secured with lead in the upper socket, dropt out into

Halbert's hand. He immediately whispered, but as energetically as a

whisper could be expressed--“By Heaven, the bar has given way in my

hand!”

“Thank Heaven, my son, instead of swearing by it,” answered Warden from

his dungeon.

With little effort Halbert Glendinning forced himself through the

opening thus wonderfully effected, and using his leathern sword-belt as

a rope to assist him, let himself safely drop on the shelf of rock upon

which the preacher's window opened. But through this no passage could

be effected, being scarce larger than a loop-hole for musketry, and

apparently constructed for that purpose.

“Are there no means by which I can assist your escape, my father?” said

Halbert.

“There are none, my son,” answered the preacher; “but if thou wilt

ensure my safety, that may be in thy power.”

“I will labour earnestly for it,” said the youth.

“Take then a letter which I will presently write, for I have the means

of light and writing materials in my scrip--Hasten towards Edinburgh,

and on the way thou wilt meet a body of horse marching southwards--Give

this to their leader, and acquaint him of the state in which thou hast

left me. It may hap that thy doing so will advantage thyself.”

In a minute or two the light of a taper gleamed through the shot-hole,

and very shortly after, the preacher, with the assistance of his staff,

pushed a billet to Glendinning through the window.

“God bless thee, my son,” said the old man, “and complete the marvellous

work which he has begun.”

“Amen!” answered Halbert, with solemnity, and proceeded on his

enterprise.

He hesitated a moment whether he should attempt to descend to the edge

of the water; but the steepness of the rock, and darkness of the night,

rendered the enterprise too dangerous. He clasped his hands above his

head and boldly sprung from the precipice, shooting himself forward into

the air as far as he could for fear of sunken rocks, and alighted on the

lake, head foremost, with such force as sunk him for a minute below the

surface. But strong, long-breathed, and accustomed to such exercise,

Halbert, even though encumbered with his sword, dived and rose like a

seafowl, and swam across the lake in the northern direction. When he

landed and looked back on the castle, he could observe that the alarm

had been given, for lights glanced from window to window, and he heard

the drawbridge lowered, and the tread of horses' feet upon the causeway.

But, little alarmed for the consequence of a pursuit during the

darkness, he wrung the water from his dress, and, plunging into the

moors, directed his course to the north-east by the assistance of the

polar star.

* * * * *

Chapter the Twenty-Sixth.

Why, what an intricate impeach is this!

I think you all have drank of Circe's cup.

If here you housed him, here he would have been;

If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly.

COMEDY OF ERRORS.

The course of our story, leaving for the present Halbert Glendinning

to the guidance of his courage and his fortune, returns to the Tower

of Glendearg, where matters in the meanwhile fell out, with which it is

most fitting that the reader should be acquainted.

The meal was prepared at noontide with all the care which Elspeth and

Tibb, assisted by the various accommodations which had been supplied

from the Monastery, could bestow on it. Their dialogue ran on as

usual in the intervals of their labour, partly as between mistress and

servant, partly as maintained by gossips of nearly equal quality.

“Look to the minced meat, Tibb,” said Elspeth; “and turn the broach

even, thou good-for-nothing Simmie,--thy wits are harrying birds' nests,

child.--Weel, Tibb, this is a fasheous job, this Sir Piercie lying

leaguer with us up here, and wha kens for how lang?”

“A fasheous job indeed,” answered her faithful attendant, “and little

good did the name ever bring to fair Scotland. Ye may have your hands

fuller of them than they are yet. Mony a sair heart have the Piercies

given to Scots wife and bairns with their pricking on the Borders.

There was Hotspur and many more of that bloody kindred, have sate in our

skirts since Malcolm's time, as Martin says!”

“Martin should keep a well-scrapit tongue in his head,” said Elspeth,

“and not slander the kin of any body that quarters at Glendearg; forby,

that Sir Piercie Shafton is much respected with the holy fathers of the

community, and they will make up to us ony fasherie that we may have

with him, either by good word or good deed, I'se warrant them. He is a

considerate lord the Lord Abbot.”

“And weel he likes a saft seat to his hinder end,” said Tibb; “I have

seen a belted baron sit on a bare bench, and find nae fault. But an ye

are pleased, mistress, I am pleased.”

“Now, in good time, here comes Mysie of the Mill.--And where hae ye

been, lass for a's gane wrang without you?” said Elspeth.

“I just gaed a blink up the burn,” said Mysie, “for the young lady has

been down on her bed, and is no just that weel--So I gaed a gliff up the

burn.”

“To see the young lads come hame frae the sport, I will warrant you,”

said Elspeth. “Ay, ay, Tibb, that's the way the young folk guide us,

Tibbie--leave us to do the wark, and out to the play themsells.”

“Ne'er a bit of that, mistress,” said the Maid of the Mill, stripping

her round pretty arms, and looking actively and good-humouredly round

for some duty that she could discharge, “but just--I thought ye might

like to ken if they were coming back, just to get the dinner forward.”

“And saw ye ought of them then?” demanded Elspeth.

“Not the least tokening,” said Mysie, “though I got to the head of a

knowe, and though the English knight's beautiful white feather could

have been seen over all the bushes in the Shaw.”

“The knight's white feather!” said Dame Glendinning; “ye are a silly

hempie--my Halbert's high head will be seen farther than his feather,

let it be as white as it like, I trow.”

Mysie made no answer, but began to knead dough for wastel-cake with all

despatch, observing that Sir Piercie had partaken of that dainty, and

commended it upon the preceding day. And presently, in order to place

on the fire the _girdle_, or iron plate on which these cates were to be

baked, she displaced a stew-pan in which one of Tibb's delicacies were

submitted to the action of the kitchen fire. Tibb muttered betwixt her

teeth--“And it is the broth for my sick bairn, that maun make room

for the dainty Southron's wastel-bread. It was a blithe time in Wight

Wallace's day, or good King Robert's, when the pock-puddings gat

naething here but hard straiks and bloody crowns. But we will see how it

will a' end.”

Elspeth did not think it proper to notice these discontented expressions

of Tibbie, but they sunk into her mind; for she was apt to consider

her as a sort of authority in matters of war and policy, with which

her former experience as bower-woman at Avenel Castle made her better

acquainted than were the peaceful inhabitants of Halidome. She only

spoke, however, to express her surprise that the hunters did not return.

“An they come not back the sooner,” said Tibb, “they will fare the waur,

for the meat will be roasted to a cinder--and there is poor Simmie that

can turn the spit nae langer: the bairn is melting like an icicle in

warm water--Gang awa, bairn, and take a mouthful of the caller air, and

I will turn the broach till ye come back.”

“Rin up to the bartizan at the tower-head, callant,” said Dame

Glendinning, “the air will be callerer there than ony gate else, and

bring us word if our Halbert and the gentleman are coming down the

glen.”

The boy lingered long enough to allow his substitute, Tibb Tacket,

heartily to tire of her own generosity, and of his cricket-stool by the

side of a huge fire. He at length returned with the news that he

had seen nobody. The matter was not so remarkable as far as Halbert

Glendinning was concerned, for, patient alike of want and of fatigue, it

was no uncommon circumstance for him to remain in the wilds till curfew

time. But nobody had given Sir Piercie Shafton credit for being so keen

a sportsman, and the idea of an Englishman preferring the chase to his

dinner was altogether inconsistent with their preconceptions of the

national character. Amidst wondering and conjecturing, the usual

dinner-hour passed long away; and the inmates of the tower, taking a

hasty meal themselves, adjourned their more solemn preparations until

the hunters' return at night, since it seemed now certain that their

sport had either carried them to a greater distance, or engaged them for

a longer time than had been expected.

About four hours after noon, arrived, not the expected sportsmen, but

an unlooked for visitant, the Sub-Prior from the Monastery. The scene

of the preceding day had dwelt on the mind of Father Eustace, who was

of that keen and penetrating cast of mind which loves not to leave

unascertained whatever of mysterious is subjected to its inquiry. His

kindness was interested in the family of Glendearg, which he had now

known for a long time; and besides, the community was interested in the

preservation of the peace betwixt Sir Piercie Shafton and his youthful

host, since whatever might draw public attention on the former,

could not fail to be prejudicial to the Monastery, which was already

threatened by the hand of power. He found the family assembled, all but

Mary Avenel, and was informed that Halbert Glendinning had accompanied

the stranger on a day's sport. So far was well. They had not returned;

but when did youth and sport conceive themselves bound by set hours? and

the circumstance excited no alarm in his mind.

While he was conversing with Edward Glendinning touching his progress

in the studies he had pointed out to him, they were startled by a shriek

from Mary Avenel's apartment, which drew the whole family thither in

headlong haste. They found her in a swoon in the arms of old Martin, who

was bitterly accusing himself of having killed her; so indeed it seemed,

for her pale features and closed eyes argued rather a dead corpse than a

living person. The whole family were instantly in tumult. Snatching her

from Martin's arms with the eagerness of affectionate terror, Edward

bore her to the casement, that she might receive the influence of the

open air; the Sub-Prior, who, like many of his profession, had some

knowledge of medicine, hastened to prescribe the readiest remedies which

occurred to him, and the terrified females contended with, and impeded

each other, in their rival efforts to be useful.

“It has been ane of her weary ghaists,” said Dame Glendinning.

“It's just a trembling on her spirits, as her blessed mother used to

have,” said Tibb.

“It's some ill news has come ower her,” said the miller's maiden;

while burnt feathers, cold water, and all the usual means of restoring

suspended animation, were employed alternately, and with little effect.

At length a new assistant, who had joined the group unobserved, tendered

his aid in the following terms:--“How is this, my most fair Discretion?

What cause hath moved the ruby current of life to rush back to the

citadel of the heart, leaving pale those features in which it

should have delighted to meander for ever?--Let me approach her,” he

said,”--with this sovereign essence, distilled by the fair hands of the

divine Urania, and powerful to recall fugitive life, even if it were

trembling on the verge of departure.”

Thus speaking, Sir Piercie Shafton knelt down, and most gracefully

presented to the nostrils of Mary Avenel a silver pouncet-box,

exquisitely chased, containing a sponge dipt in the essence which he

recommmended so highly. Yes, gentle reader, it was Sir Piercie Shafton

himself who thus unexpectedly proffered his good offices! his cheeks,

indeed, very pale, and some part of his dress stained with blood, but

not otherwise appearing different from what he was on the preceding

evening. But no sooner had Mary Avenel opened her eyes, and fixed them

on the figure of the officious courtier, than she screamed faintly, and

exclaimed,--“Secure the murderer!”

Those present stood aghast with astonishment, and none more so than the

Euphuist, who found himself so suddenly and so strangely accused by

the patient whom he was endeavouring to succour, and who repelled his

attempts to yield her assistance with all the energy of abhorrence.

“Take him away!” she exclaimed--“take away the murderer!”

“Now, by my knighthood,” answered Sir Piercie, “your lovely faculties

either of mind or body are, O my most fair Discretion, obnubilated by

some strange hallucination. For either your eyes do not discern that it

is Piercie Shafton, your most devoted Affability, who now stands

before you, or else, your eyes discerning truly, your mind hath most

erroneously concluded that he hath been guilty of some delict or

violence to which his hand is a stranger. No murder, O most scornful

Discretion, hath been this day done, saving but that which your angry

glances are now performing on your most devoted captive.”

He was here interrupted by the Sub-Prior, who had, in the meantime, been

speaking with Martin apart, and had received from him an account of the

circumstances, which, suddenly communicated to Mary Avenel, had thrown

her into this state. “Sir Knight,” said the Sub-Prior, in a very solemn

tone, yet with some hesitation, “circumstances have been communicated

to us of a nature so extraordinary, that, reluctant as I am to exercise

such authority over a guest of our venerable community, I am constrained

to request from you an explanation of them. You left this tower early in

the morning, accompanied by a youth, Halbert Glendinning, the eldest son

of this good dame, and you return hither without him. Where, and at what

hour, did you part company from him?”

The English knight paused for a moment, and then replied,--“I marvel

that your reverence employs so grave a tone to enforce so light a

question. I parted with the villagio whom you call Halbert Glendinning

some hour or twain after sunrise.”

“And at what place, I pray you?” said the monk.

“In a deep ravine, where a fountain rises at the base of a huge rock; an

earth-born Titan, which heaveth up its gray head, even as--”

“Spare us farther description,” said the Sub-Prior; “we know the spot.

But that youth hath not since been heard of, and it will fall on you to

account for him.”

“My bairn! my bairn!” exclaimed Dame Glendinning. “Yes, holy father,

make the villain account for my bairn!”

“I swear, good woman, by bread and by water,--which are the props of our

life--”

“Swear by wine and wastel-bread, for these are the props of _thy_ life,

thou greedy Southron!” said Dame Glendinning;--“a base belly-god, to

come here to eat the best, and practise on our lives that give it to

him!”

“I tell thee, woman,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “I did but go with thy

son to the hunting.”

“A black hunting it has been to him, poor bairn,” replied Tibb; “and sae

I said it wad prove since I first saw the false Southron snout of thee.

Little good comes of a Piercie's hunting, from Chevy Chase till now.”

“Be silent, woman,” said the Sub-Prior, “and rail not upon the English

knight; we do not yet know of any thing beyond suspicion.”

“We will have his heart's blood!” said Dame Glendinning; and, seconded

by the faithful Tibbie, she made such a sudden onslaught on the unlucky

Euphuist, as must have terminated in something serious, had not the

monk, aided by Mysie Happer, interposed to protect him from their fury.

Edward had left the apartment the instant the disturbance broke out,

and now entered, sword in hand, followed by Martin and Jasper, the one

having a hunting spear in his hand, the other a cross-bow.

“Keep the door,” he said to his two attendants; “shoot him or stab him

without mercy, should he attempt to break forth; if he offers an escape,

by Heaven he shall die!”

“How now, Edward,” said the Sub-Prior; “how is this that you so far

forget yourself? meditating violence to a guest, and in my presence, who

represent your liege lord?”

Edward stepped forward with his drawn sword in his hand. “Pardon me,

reverend father,” he said, “but in this matter the voice of nature

speaks louder and stronger than yours. I turn my sword's point against

this proud man, and I demand of him the blood of my brother--the blood

of my father's son--of the heir of our name! If he denies to give me a

true account of him, he shall not deny me vengeance.”

Embarrassed as he was, Sir Piercie Shafton showed no personal fear. “Put

up thy sword,” he said, “young man; not in the same day does Piercie

Shafton contend with two peasants.”

“Hear him! he confesses the deed, holy father,” said Edward.

“Be patient, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, endeavouring to soothe the

feelings which he could not otherwise control, “be patient--thou wilt

attain the ends of justice better through my means than thine own

violence--And you, women, be silent--Tibb, remove your mistress and Mary

Avenel.”

While Tibb, with the assistance of the other females of the household,

bore the poor mother and Mary Avenel into separate apartments, and while

Edward, still keeping his sword in his hand, hastily traversed the room,

as if to prevent the possibility of Sir Piercie Shafton's escape,

the Sub-Prior insisted upon knowing from the perplexed knight the

particulars which he knew respecting Halbert Glendinning. His situation

became extremely embarrassing, for what he might with safety have told

of the issue of their combat was so revolting to his pride, that he

could not bring himself to enter into the detail; and of Halbert's

actual fate he knew, as the reader is well aware, absolutely nothing.

The father in the meanwhile pressed him with remonstrances, and prayed

him to observe, he would greatly prejudice himself by declining to give

a full account of the transactions of the day. “You cannot deny,” he

said, “that yesterday you seemed to take the most violent offence at

this unfortunate youth; and that you suppressed your resentment so

suddenly as to impress us all with surprise. Last night you proposed to

him this day's hunting party, and you set out together by break of day.

You parted, you said, at the fountain near the rock, about an hour or

twain after sunrise, and it appears that before you parted you had been

at strife together.”

“I said not so,” replied the knight. “Here is a coil indeed about the

absence of a rustical bondsman, who, I dare say, hath gone off (if he be

gone) to join the next rascally band of freebooters! Ye ask me, a knight

of the Piercie's lineage, to account for such an insignificant fugitive,

and I answer,--let me know the price of his head, and I will pay it to

your convent treasurer.”

“You admit, then, that you have slain my brother?” said Edward,

interfering once more; “I will presently show you at what price we Scots

rate the lives of our friends.”

“Peace, Edward, peace--I entreat--I command thee,” said the Sub-Prior.

“And you, Sir Knight, think better of us than to suppose you may spend

Scottish blood, and reckon for it as for wine spilt in a drunken revel.

This youth was no bondsman--thou well knowest, that in thine own land

thou hadst not dared to lift thy sword against the meanest subject of

England, but her laws would have called thee to answer for the deed. Do

not hope it will be otherwise here, for you will but deceive yourself.”

“You drive me beyond my patience,” said the Euphuist, “even as the

over-driven ox is urged into madness!--What can I tell you of a young

fellow whom I have not seen since the second hour after sunrise?”

“But can you explain in what circumstances you parted with him?” said

the monk.

“What _are_ the circumstances, in the devil's name, which you desire

should be explained?--for although I protest against this constraint as

alike unworthy and inhospitable, yet would I willingly end this fray,

provided that by words it may be ended,” said the knight.

“If these end it not,” said Edward, “blows shall, and that full

speedily.”

“Peace, impatient boy!” said the Sub-Prior; “and do you, Sir Piercie

Shafton, acquaint me why the ground is bloody by the verge of the

fountain in Corri-nan-shian, where, as you say yourself, you parted from

Halbert Glendinning?”

Resolute not to avow his defeat if possibly he could avoid it, the

knight answered in a haughty tone, that he supposed it was no unusual

thing to find the turf bloody where hunters had slain a deer.

“And did you bury your game as well as kill it?” said the monk. “We must

know from you who is the tenant of that grave, that newly-made grave,

beside the very fountain whose margin is so deeply crimsoned with

blood?--thou seest thou canst not evade me; therefore be ingenuous, and

tell us the fate of this unhappy youth, whose body is doubtless lying

under that bloody turf.”

“If it be,” said Sir Piercie, “they must have buried him alive; for I

swear to thee, reverend father, that this rustic juvenal parted from me

in perfect health. Let the grave be searched, and if his body be found,

then deal with me as ye list.”

“It is not my sphere to determine thy fate, Sir Knight, but that of the

Lord Abbot, and the right reverend Chapter. It is but my duty to collect

such information as may best possess their wisdom with the matters which

have chanced.”

“Might I presume so far, reverend father,” said the knight, “I should

wish to know the author and evidence of all these suspicions, so

unfoundedly urged against me?”

“It is soon told,” said the Sub-Prior; “nor do I wish to disguise it, if

it can avail you in your defence. This maiden, Mary Avenel, apprehending

that you nourished malice against her foster-brother under a friendly

brow, did advisedly send up the old man, Martin Tacket, to follow your

footsteps and to prevent mischief. But it seems that your evil passions

had outrun precaution: for when he came to the spot, guided by your

footsteps upon the dew, he found but the bloody turf and the new covered

grave; and after long and vain search through the wilds after Halbert

and yourself, he brought back the sorrowful news to her who had sent

him.”

“Saw he not my doublet, I pray you?” said Sir Piercie; “for when I came

to myself, I found that I was wrapped in my cloak, but without my under

garment as your reverence may observe.”

So saying, he opened his cloak, forgetting, with his characteristical

inconsistency, that he showed his shirt stained with blood.

“How! cruel man,” said the monk, when he observed this confirmation of

his suspicions; “wilt thou deny the guilt, even while thou bearest on

thy person the blood thou hast shed?--Wilt thou longer deny that thy

rash hand has robbed a mother of a son, our community of a vassal, the

Queen of Scotland of a liege subject? and what canst thou expect, but

that, at the least, we deliver thee up to England, as undeserving our

farther protection?”

“By the Saints!” said the knight, now driven to extremity, “if this

blood be the witness against me, it is but rebel blood, since this

morning at sunrise it flowed within my own veins.”

“How were that possible, Sir Piercie Shafton,” said the monk, “since I

see no wound from whence it can have flowed?”

“That,” said the knight, “is the most mysterious part of the

transaction--See here!”

So saying, he undid his shirt collar, and, opening his bosom, showed the

spot through--which Halbert's sword had passed, but already cicatrized,

and bearing the appearance of a wound lately healed.

“This exhausts my patience, Sir Knight,” said the Sub-Prior, “and is

adding insult to violence and injury. Do you hold me for a child or an

idiot, that you pretend to make me believe that the fresh blood with

which your shirt is stained, flowed from a wound which has been healed

for weeks or months? Unhappy mocker, thinkest thou thus to blind us? Too

well do we know that it is the blood of your victim, wrestling with you

in the desperate and mortal struggle, which has thus dyed your apparel.”

The knight, after a moment's recollection, said in reply, “I will be

open with you, my father--bid these men stand out of ear-shot, and I

will tell you all I know of this mysterious business; and muse not, good

father, though it may pass thy wit to expound it, for I avouch to you it

is too dark for mine own.”

The monk commanded Edward and the two men to withdraw, assuring the

former that his conference with the prisoner should be brief, and giving

him permission to keep watch at the door of the apartment; without which

allowance he might, perhaps, have had some difficulty in procuring

his absence. Edward had no sooner left the chamber, than he despatched

messengers to one or two families of the Halidome, with whose sons

his brother and he sometimes associated, to tell them that Halbert

Glendinning had been murdered by an Englishman, and to require them to

repair to the Tower of Glendearg without delay. The duty of revenge in

such cases was held so sacred, that he had no reason to doubt they would

instantly come with such assistance as would ensure the detention of the

prisoner. He then locked the doors of the tower, both inner and outer,

and also the gate of the court-yard. Having taken these precautions, he

made a hasty visit to the females of the family, exhausting himself

in efforts to console them, and in protestations that he would have

vengeance for his murdered brother.

Chapter the Twenty-Seventh.

Now, by Our Lady, Sheriff, 'tis hard reckoning,

That I, with every odds of birth and barony

Should be detain'd here for the casual death

Of a wild forester, whose utmost having

Is but the brazen buckle of the belt

In which he sticks his hedge-knife.

OLD PLAY.

While Edward was making preparations for securing and punishing the

supposed murderer of his brother, with an intense thirst for vengeance,

which had not hitherto shown itself as part of his character, Sir

Piercie Shafton made such communications as it pleased him to the

Sub-Prior, who listened with great attention, though the knight's

narrative was none of the clearest, especially as his self-conceit led

him to conceal or abridge the details which were necessary to render it

intelligible.

“You are to know,” he said, “reverend father, that this rustical juvenal

having chosen to offer me, in the presence of your venerable Superior,

yourself, and other excellent and worthy persons, besides the damsel,

Mary Avenel, whom I term my Discretion in all honour and kindness, a

gross insult, rendered yet more intolerable by the time and place,

my just resentment did so gain the mastery over my discretion, that I

resolved to allow him the privileges of an equal, and to indulge him

with the combat.”

“But, Sir Knight,” said the Sub-Prior, “you still leave two matters

very obscure. First, why the token he presented to you gave you so much

offence, as I with others witnessed; and then again, how the youth, whom

you then met for the first, or, at least, the second time, knew so much

of your history as enabled him so greatly to move you.”

The knight coloured very deeply.

“For your first query,” he said, “most reverend father, we will, if you

please, pretermit it as nothing essential to the matter in hand; and

for the second--I protest to you that I know as little of his means of

knowledge as you do, and that I am well-nigh persuaded he deals with

Sathanas, of which more anon.--Well, sir--In the evening, I failed not

to veil my purpose with a pleasant brow, as is the custom amongst us

martialists, who never display the bloody colours of defiance in our

countenance until our hand is armed to fight under them. I amused the

fair Discretion with some canzonettes, and other toys, which could not

but be ravishing to her inexperienced ears. I arose in the morning, and

met my antagonist, who, to say truth, for an inexperienced villagio,

comported himself as stoutly as I could have desired.--So, coming to the

encounter, reverend sir, I did try his mettle with some half-a-dozen of

downright passes, with any one of which I could have been through his

body, only that I was loth to take so fatal an advantage, but rather,

mixing mercy with my just indignation, studied to inflict upon him

some flesh-wound of no very fatal quality. But, sir, in the midst of my

clemency, he, being instigated, I think, by the devil, did follow up

his first offence with some insult of the same nature. Whereupon, being

eager to punish him, I made an estramazone, and my foot slipping at the

same time,--not from any fault of fence on my part, or any advantage of

skill on his, but the devil having, as I said, taken up the matter

in hand, and the grass being slippery,--ere I recovered my position I

encountered his sword, which he had advanced, with my undefended

person, so that, as I think, I was in some sort run through the body.

My juvenal, being beyond measure appalled at his own unexpected and

unmerited success in this strange encounter, takes the flight and leaves

me there, and I fall into a dead swoon for the lack of the blood I

had lost so foolishly--and when I awake, as from a sound sleep, I find

myself lying, an it like you, wrapt up in my cloak at the foot of one

of the birch-trees which stand together in a clump near to this place.

I feel my limbs, and experience little pain, but much weakness--I put

my hand to the wound--it was whole and skinned over as you now see it--I

rise and come hither; and in these words you have my whole day's story.”

“I can only reply to so strange a tale,” answered the monk, “that it

is scarce possible that Sir Piercie Shafton can expect me to credit it.

Here is a quarrel, the cause of which you conceal--a wound received in

the morning, of which there is no recent appearance at sunset,--a grave

filled up, in which no body is deposited--the vanquished found alive

and well--the victor departed no man knows whither. These things,

Sir Knight, hang not so well together, that I should receive them as

gospel.”

“Reverend father,” answered Sir Piercie Shafton, “I pray you in the

first place to observe, that if I offer peaceful and civil justification

of that which I have already averred to be true, I do so only in devout

deference to your dress and to your order, protesting, that to any other

opposite, saving a man of religion, a lady or my liege prince, I would

not deign to support that which I had once attested, otherwise than with

the point of my good sword. And so much being premised, I have to add,

that I can but gage my honour as a gentleman, and my faith as a Catholic

Christian, that the things which I have described to you have happened

to me as I have described them, and not otherwise.”

“It is a deep assertion, Sir Knight,” answered the Sub-Prior; “yet,

bethink you, it is only an assertion, and that no reason can be alleged

why things should be believed which are so contrary to reason. Let me

pray you to say whether the grave, which has been seen at your place of

combat, was open or closed when your encounter took place?”

“Reverend father,” said the knight, “I will veil from you nothing, but

show you each secret of my bosom; even as the pure fountain revealeth

the smallest pebble which graces the sand at the bottom of its crystal

mirror, and as--”

“Speak in plain terms, for the love of heaven!” said the monk; “these

holiday phrases belong not to solemn affairs--Was the grave open when

the conflict began?”

“It was,” answered the knight, “I acknowledge it; even as he that

acknowledgeth--”

“Nay, I pray you, fair son, forbear these similitudes, and observe me.

On yesterday at even no grave was found in that place, for old Martin

chanced, contrary to his wont, to go thither in quest of a strayed

sheep. At break of day, by your own confession, a grave was opened in

that spot, and there a combat was fought--only one of the combatants

appears, and he is covered with blood, and to all appearance

woundless.”--Here the knight made a gesture of impatience.--“Nay, fair

son, hear me but one moment--the grave is closed and covered by the

sod--what can we believe, but that it conceals the bloody corpse of the

fallen duellist?”

“By Heaven, it cannot!” said the knight, “unless the juvenal hath slain

himself and buried himself, in order to place me in the predicament of

his murderer.”

“The grave shall doubtless be explored, and that by to-morrow's dawn,”

said the monk, “I will see it done with mine own eyes.”

“But,” said the prisoner, “I protest against all evidence which may

arise from its contents, and do insist beforehand, that whatever may be

found in that grave shall not prejudice me in my defence. I have been so

haunted by diabolical deceptions in this matter, that what do I know but

that the devil may assume the form of this rustical juvenal, in order

to procure me farther vexation?--I protest to you, holy father, it is

my very thought that there is witchcraft in all that hath befallen me.

Since I entered into this northern land, in which men say that sorceries

do abound, I, who am held in awe and regard even by the prime gallants

in the court of Feliciana, have been here bearded and taunted by a

clod-treading clown. I, whom Vincentio Saviola termed his nimblest and

most agile disciple, was, to speak briefly, foiled by a cow-boy, who

knew no more of fence than is used at every country wake. I am run, as

it seemed to me, through the body, with a very sufficient stoccata, and

faint on the spot; and yet, when I recover, I find myself without

either wem or wound, and, lacking nothing of my apparel, saving my

murrey-coloured doublet, slashed with satin, which I will pray may be

inquired after, lest the devil, who transported me, should have dropped

it in his passage among some of the trees or bushes--it being a choice

and most fanciful piece of raiment, which I wore for the first time at

the Queen's pageant in Southwark.”

“Sir Knight,” said the monk, “you do again go astray from this matter.

I inquire of you respecting that which concerns the life of another man,

and it may be, touches your own also, and you answer me with the tale of

an old doublet!”

“Old!” exclaimed the knight; “now, by the gods and saints, if there be

a gallant at the British Court more fancifully considerate, and more

considerately fanciful, but quaintly curious, and more curiously quaint,

in frequent changes of all rich articles of vesture, becoming one who

may be accounted point-de-vice a courtier, I will give you leave to term

me a slave and a liar.”

The monk thought, but did not say, that he had already acquired right

to doubt the veracity of the Euphuist, considering the marvellous tale

which he had told. Yet his own strange adventure, and that of Father

Philip, rushed on his mind, and forbade his coming to any conclusion. He

contented himself, therefore, with observing, that these were certainly

strange incidents, and requested to know if Sir Piercie Shafton had any

other reason for suspecting himself to be in a manner so particularly

selected for the sport of sorcery and witchcraft.

“Sir Sub-Prior,” said the Euphuist, “the most extraordinary circumstance

remains behind, which alone, had I neither been bearded in dispute, nor

foiled in combat, nor wounded and cured in the space of a few hours,

would nevertheless of itself, and without any other corroborative,

have compelled me to believe myself the subject of some malevolent

fascination. Reverend sir, it is not to your ears that men should tell

tales of love and gallantry, nor is Sir Piercie Shafton one who, to any

ears whatsoever, is wont to boast of his fair acceptance with the choice

and prime beauties of the court; insomuch that a lady, none of the least

resplendent constellations which revolve in that hemisphere of honour,

pleasure, and beauty, but whose name I here pretermit, was wont to call

me her Taciturnity. Nevertheless truth must be spoken; and I cannot but

allow, as the general report of the court, allowed in camps, and echoed

back by city and country, that in the alacrity of the accost, the tender

delicacy of the regard, the facetiousness of the address, the adopting

and pursuing of the fancy, the solemn close and the graceful fall-off,

Piercie Shafton was accounted the only gallant of the time, and so

well accepted among the choicer beauties of the age, that no silk-hosed

reveller of the presence-chamber, or plumed jouster of the tilt-yard,

approached him by a bow's length in the ladies' regard, being the

mark at which every well-born and generous juvenal aimeth his shaft.

Nevertheless, reverend sir, having found in this rude place something

which by blood and birth might be termed a lady, and being desirous to

keep my gallant humour in exercise, as well as to show my sworn devotion

to the sex in general, I did shoot off some arrows of compliment at

this Mary Avenel, terming her my Discretion, with other quaint and

well-imagined courtesies, rather bestowed out of my bounty than

warranted by her merit, or perchance like unto the boyish fowler, who,

rather than not exercise his bird-piece, will shoot at crows or magpies

for lack of better game----”

“Mary Avenel is much obliged by your notice,” answered the monk; “but to

what does all this detail of past and present gallantry conduct us?”

“Marry, to this conclusion,” answered the knight; “that either this my

Discretion, or I myself, am little less than bewitched; for, instead of

receiving my accost with a gratifying bow, answering my regard with a

suppressed smile, accompanying my falling off or departure with a

slight sigh--honours with which I protest to you the noblest dancers and

proudest beauties in Feliciana have graced my poor services--she hath

paid me as little and as cold regard as if I had been some hob-nailed

clown of these bleak mountains! Nay, this very day, while I was in the

act of kneeling at her feet to render her the succours of this pungent

quintessence, of purest spirit distilled by the fairest hands of the

court of Feliciana, she pushed me from her with looks which savoured of

repugnance, and, as I think, thrust at me with her foot as if to spurn

me from her presence. These things, reverend father, are strange,

portentous, unnatural, and befall not in the current of mortal affairs,

but are symptomatic of sorcery and fascination. So that, having given to

your reverence a perfect, simple, and plain account of all that I know

concerning this matter, I leave it to your wisdom to solve what may be

found soluble in the same, it being my purpose to-morrow, with the peep

of dawn, to set forward towards Edinburgh.”

“I grieve to be an interruption to your designs, Sir Knight,” said the

monk, “but that purpose of thine may hardly be fulfilled.”

“How, reverend father!” said the knight, with an air of the utmost

surprise; “if what you say respects my departure, understand that it

_must_ be, for I have so resolved it.”

“Sir Knight,” reiterated the Sub-Prior, “I must once more repeat, this

_cannot_ be, until the Abbot's pleasure be known in the matter.”

“Reverend sir,” said the knight, drawing himself up with great dignity,

“I desire my hearty and thankful commendations to the Abbot; but in this

matter I have nothing to do with his reverend pleasure, designing only

to consult my own.”

“Pardon me,” said the Sub-Prior; “the Lord Abbot hath in this matter a

voice potential.”

Sir Piercie Shafton's colour began to rise--“I marvel,” he said, “to

hear your reverence talk thus--What! will you, for the imagined death

of a rude, low-born frampler and wrangler, venture to impinge upon the

liberty of the kinsman of the house of Piercie?”

“Sir Knight,” returned the Sub-Prior, civilly, “your high lineage and

your kindling anger will avail you nothing in this matter--You shall

not come here to seek a shelter, and then spill our blood as if it were

water.”

“I tell you,” said the knight, “once more, as I have told you already,

that there was no blood spilled but mine own!”

“That remains to be proved,” replied the Sub-Prior; “we of the community

of Saint Mary's of Kennaquhair, use not to take fairy tales in exchange

for the lives of our liege vassals.”

“We of the house of Piercie,” answered Shafton, “brook neither threats

nor restraint--I say I will travel to-morrow, happen what may!”

“And I,” answered the Sub-Prior, in the same tone of determination, “say

that I will break your journey, come what may!”

“Who shall gainsay me,” said the knight, “if I make my way by force?”

“You will judge wisely to think ere you make such an attempt,” answered

the monk, with composure; “there are men enough in the Halidome to

vindicate its rights over those who dare infringe them.”

“My cousin of Northumberland will know how to revenge this usage to a

beloved kinsman so near to his blood,” said the Englishman.

“The Lord Abbot will know how to protect the rights of his territory,

both with, the temporal and spiritual sword,” said the monk. “Besides,

consider, were we to send you to your kinsman at Alnwick or Warkworth

to-morrow, he dare do nothing but transmit you in fetters to the Queen

of England. Bethink, Sir Knight, that you stand on slippery ground, and

will act most wisely in reconciling yourself to be a prisoner in this

place until the Abbot shall decide the matter. There are armed men enow

to countervail all your efforts at escape. Let patience and resignation,

therefore, arm you to a necessary submission.”

So saying, he clapped his hands, and called aloud. Edward entered,

accompanied by two young men who had already joined him, and were well

armed.

“Edward,” said the Sub-Prior, “you will supply the English Knight here

in this spence with suitable food and accommodation for the night,

treating him with as much kindness as if nothing had happened between

you. But you will place a sufficient guard, and look carefully that he

make not his escape. Should he attempt to break forth, resist him to

the death; but in no other case harm a hair of his head, as you shall be

answerable.”

Edward Glendinning replied,--“That I may obey your commands, reverend

sir, I will not again offer myself to this person's presence; for shame

it were to me to break the peace of the Halidome, but not less shame to

leave my brother's death unavenged.”

As he spoke, his lips grew livid, the blood forsook his cheek, and he

was about to leave the apartment, when the Sub-Prior recalled him and

said in a solemn tone,--“Edward, I have known you from infancy--I have

done what lay within my reach to be of use to you--I say nothing of what

you owe to me as the representative of your spiritual Superior--I say

nothing of the duty from the vassal to the Sub-Prior--But Father Eustace

expects from the pupil whom he has nurtured--he expects from Edward

Glendinning, that he will not by any deed of sudden violence, however

justified in his own mind by the provocation, break through the respect

due to public justice, or that which he has an especial right to claim

from him.”

“Fear nothing, my reverend father, for so in an hundred senses may I

well term you,” said the young man; “fear not, I would say, that I will

in any thing diminish the respect I owe to the venerable community by

whom we have so long been protected, far less that I will do aught

which can be personally less than respectful to you. But the blood of

my brother must not cry for vengeance in vain--your reverence knows our

Border creed.”

“'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will requite it,'” answered

the monk. “The heathenish custom of deadly feud which prevails in this

land, through which each man seeks vengeance at his own hand when the

death of a friend or kinsman has chanced, hath already deluged our vales

with the blood of Scottish men, spilled by the hands of countrymen and

kindred. It were endless to count up the fatal results. On the Eastern

Border, the Homes are at feud with the Swintons and Cockburns; in our

Middle Marches, the Scotts and Kerrs have spilled as much brave blood

in domestic feud as might have fought a pitched field in England, could

they have but forgiven and forgotten a casual rencounter that placed

their names in opposition to each other. On the west frontier, the

Johnstones are at war with the Maxwells, the Jardines with the Bells,

drawing with them the flower of the country, which should place their

breasts as a bulwark against England, into private and bloody warfare,

of which it is the only end to waste and impair the forces of the

country, already divided in itself. Do not, my dear son Edward, permit

this bloody prejudice to master your mind. I cannot ask you to think

of the crime supposed as if the blood spilled had been less dear

to you--Alas! I know that is impossible. But I do require you, in

proportion to your interest in the supposed sufferer, (for as yet the

whole is matter of supposition,) to bear on your mind the evidence on

which the guilt of the accused person must be tried. He hath spoken

with me, and I confess his tale is so extraordinary, that I should have,

without a moment's hesitation, rejected it as incredible, but that an

affair which chanced to myself in this very glen--More of that another

time--Suffice it for the present to say, that from what I have myself

experienced, I deem it possible, that, extraordinary as Sir Piercie

Shafton's story may seem, I hold it not utterly impossible.”

“Father,” said Edward Glendinning, when he saw that his preceptor

paused, unwilling farther to explain upon what grounds he was inclined

to give a certain degree of credit to Sir Piercie Shafton's story,

while he admitted it as improbable--“Father to me you have been in every

sense. You know that my hand grasped more readily to the book than to

the sword; and that I lacked utterly the ready and bold spirit which

distinguished----” Here his voice faltered, and he paused for a moment,

and then went on with resolution and rapidity--“I would say, that I was

unequal to Halbert in promptitude of heart and of hand; but Halbert

is gone, and I stand his representative, and that of my father--his

successor in all his rights,” (while he said this his eyes shot fire,)

“and bound to assert and maintain them as he would have done--therefore

I am a changed man, increased in courage as in my rights and

pretensions. And, reverend father, respectfully, but plainly and

firmly do I say, his blood, if it has been shed by this man, shall be

atoned--Halbert shall not sleep neglected in his lonely grave, as if

with him the spirit of my father had ceased forever. His blood flows

in my veins, and while his has been poured forth unrequited, mine will

permit me no rest. My poverty and meanness of rank shall not avail the

lordly murderer. My calm nature and peaceful studies shall not be his

protection. Even the obligations, holy father, which I acknowledge to

you, shall not be his protection. I wait with patience the judgment of

the Abbot and Chapter, for the slaughter of one of their most anciently

descended vassals. If they do right to my brother's memory, it is well.

But mark me, father, if they shall fail in rendering me that justice, I

bear a heart and a hand which, though I love not such extremities,

are capable of remedying such an error. He who takes up my brother's

succession must avenge his death.”

The monk perceived with surprise, that Edward, with his extreme

diffidence, humility, and obedient assiduity, for such were his general

characteristics, had still boiling in his veins the wild principles of

those from whom he was descended, and by whom he was surrounded. His

eyes sparkled, his frame was agitated, and the extremity of his desire

for vengeance seemed to give a vehemence to his manner resembling the

restlessness of joy.

“May God help us,” said Father Eustace, “for, frail wretches as we are,

we cannot help ourselves under sudden and strong temptation.--Edward, I

will rely on your word that you do nothing rashly.”

“That will I not,” said Edward,--“that, my better than father, I

surely will not. But the blood of my brother,--the tears of my

mother--and--and--and of Mary Avenel, shall not be shed in vain. I will

not deceive you, father--if this Piercie Shafton hath slain my brother,

he dies, if the whole blood of the whole house of Piercie were in his

veins.”

There was a deep and solemn determination in the utterance of Edward

Glendinning expressive of a rooted resolution. The Sub-Prior sighed

deeply, and for the moment yielded to circumstances, and urged the

acquiescence of his pupil no farther. He commanded lights to be placed

in the lower chamber, which for a time he paced in silence.

A thousand ideas, and even differing principles, debated with each other

in his bosom. He greatly doubted the English knight's account of

the duel, and of what had followed it. Yet the extraordinary and

supernatural circumstances which had befallen the Sacristan and himself

in that very glen, prevented him from being absolutely incredulous on

the score of the wonderful wound and recovery of Sir Piercie Shafton,

and prevented him from at once condemning as impossible that which

was altogether improbable. Then he was at a loss how to control the

fraternal affections of Edward, with respect to whom he felt something

like the keeper of a wild animal, a lion's whelp or tiger's cub, which

he has held under his command from infancy, but which, when grown to

maturity, on some sudden provocation displays his fangs and talons,

erects his crest, resumes his savage nature, and bids defiance at once

to his keeper and to all mankind.

How to restrain and mitigate an ire which the universal example of the

times rendered deadly and inveterate, was sufficient cause of anxiety

to Father Eustace. But he had also to consider the situation of

his community, dishonoured and degraded by submitting to suffer the

slaughter of a vassal to pass unavenged; a circumstance which of itself

might in those times have afforded pretext for a revolt among their

wavering adherents, or, on the other hand, exposed the community to

imminent danger, should they proceed against a subject of England of

high degree, connected with the house of Northumberland, and other

northern families of high rank, who, as they possessed the means, could

not be supposed to lack inclination, to wreak upon the patrimony of

Saint Mary of Kennaquhair, any violence which might be offered to their

kinsman.

In either case, the Sub-Prior well knew that the ostensible cause of

feud, insurrection, or incursion, being once afforded, the case would

not be ruled either by reason or by evidence, and he groaned in spirit

when, upon counting up the chances which arose in this ambiguous

dilemma, he found he had only a choice of difficulties. He was a monk,

but he felt also as a man, indignant at the supposed slaughter of young

Glendinning by one skilful in all the practice of arms, in which the

vassal of the Monastery was most likely to be deficient; and to aid the

resentment which he felt for the loss of a youth whom he had known

from infancy, came in full force the sense of dishonour arising to his

community from passing over so gross an insult unavenged. Then the light

in which it might be viewed by those who at present presided in the

stormy Court of Scotland, attached as they were to the Reformation, and

allied by common faith and common interest with Queen Elizabeth, was

a formidable subject of apprehension. The Sub-Prior well knew how they

lusted after the revenues of the Church, (to express it in the ordinary

phrase of the religious of the time,) and how readily they would grasp

at such a pretext for encroaching on those of Saint Mary's, as would

be afforded by the suffering to pass unpunished the death of a native

Scottishman by a Catholic Englishman, a rebel to Queen Elizabeth.

On the other hand, to deliver up to England, or, which was nearly the

same thing, the Scottish administration, an English knight leagued with

the Piercie by kindred and political intrigue, a faithful follower of

the Catholic Church, who had fled to the Halidome for protection, was,

in the estimation of the Sub-Prior, an act most unworthy in itself, and

meriting the malediction of Heaven, besides being, moreover, fraught

with great temporal risk. If the government of Scotland was now almost

entirely in the hands of the Protestant party, the Queen was still a

Catholic, and there was no knowing when, amid the sudden changes which

agitated that tumultuous country, she might find herself at the head of

her own affairs, and able to protect those of her own faith. Then,

if the Court of England and its Queen were zealously Protestant, the

northern counties, whose friendship or enmity were of most consequence

in the first instance to the community of Saint Mary's, contained many

Catholics, the heads of whom were able, and must be supposed willing, to

avenge any injury suffered by Sir Piercie Shafton.

On either side, the Sub-Prior, thinking, according to his sense of duty,

most anxiously for the safety and welfare of his Monastery, saw the

greatest risk of damage, blame, inroad, and confiscation. The only

course on which he could determine, was to stand by the helm like a

resolute pilot, watch every contingence, do his best to weather each

reef and shoal, and commit the rest to heaven and his patroness.

As he left the apartment, the knight called after him, beseeching he

would order his trunk-mails to be sent into his apartment, understanding

he was to be guarded there for the night, as he wished to make some

alteration in his apparel.

[Footnote: Sir Piercie Shafton's extreme love of dress was an attribute

of the coxcombs of this period. The display made by their forefathers

was in the numbers of their retinue; but as the actual influence of

the nobility began to be restrained both in France and England by the

increasing power of the crown, the indulgence of vanity in personal

display became more inordinate. There are many allusions to this change

of custom in Shakspeare and other dramatic writers, where the reader may

find mention made of

“Bonds enter'd into

For gay apparel against the triumph day.”

Jonson informs us, that for the first entrance of a gallant, “'twere

good you turned four or five hundred acres of your best land into two or

three trunks of apparel.”--_Every Man out of his Humour._

In the Memorie of the Somerville family, a curious instance occurs of

this fashionable species of extravagance. In the year 1537, when James

V. brought over his shortlived bride from France, the Lord Somerville

of the day was so profuse in the expense of his apparel, that the money

which he borrowed on the occasion was compensated by a perpetual annuity

of threescore pounds Scottish, payable out of the barony of Carnwarth

till doomsday, which was assigned by the creditor to Saint Magdalen's

Chapel. By this deep expense the Lord Somerville had rendered himself so

glorious in apparel, that the King, who saw so brave a gallant enter the

gate of Holyrood, followed, by only two pages, called upon several of

the courtiers to ascertain who it could be who was so richly dressed

and so slightly attended, and he was not recognised until he entered the

presence-chamber. “You are very brave, my lord,” said the King, as he

received his homage; “but where are all your men and attendants?” The

Lord Somerville readily answered, “If it please your Majesty, here they

are,” pointing to the lace that was on his own and his pages' clothes:

whereat the King laughed heartily, and having surveyed the finery more

nearly, bade him have away with it all, and let him have his stout band

of spears again.

There is a scene in Jonson's “Every Man out of his Humour,” (Act IV.

Scene 6.) in which a Euphuist of the time gives an account of the

effects of a duel on the clothes of himself and his opponent, and never

departs a syllable from the catalogue of his wardrobe. We shall insert

it in evidence that the foppery of our ancestors was not inferior to

that of our own time.

“_Fastidius_. Good faith, Signior, now you speak of a quarrel, I'll

acquaint you with a difference that happened between a gallant and

myself, Sir Puntarvolo. You know him if I should name him--Signor

Luculento.

“_Punt_. Luculento! What inauspicious chance interposed itself to your

two lives?

“_Fast_. Faith, sir, the same that sundered Agamemnon, and great Thetis'

son; but let the cause escape, sir. He sent me a challenge, mixt with

some few braves, which I restored; and, in fine, we met. Now indeed,

sir, I must tell you, he did offer at first very desperately, but

without judgment; for look you, sir, I cast myself into this figure;

now he came violently on, and withal advancing his rapier to strike, I

thought to have took his arm, for he had left his body to my election,

and I was sure he could not recover his guard. Sir, I mist my purpose in

his arm, rashed his doublet sleeves, ran him close by the left cheek

and through his hair. He, again, light me here--I had on a gold cable

hat-band, then new come up, about a murrey French hat I had; cuts my

hat-band, and yet it was massy goldsmith's work, cuts my brim, which,

by good fortune, being thick embroidered with gold twist and spangles,

disappointed the force of the blow; nevertheless it grazed on my

shoulder, takes me away six purls of an Italian cut-work band I wore,

cost me three pounds in the Exchange but three days before.

“_Punt_. This was a strange encounter.

“_Fast_. Nay, you shall hear, sir. With this, we both fell out and

breathed. Now, upon the second sign of his assault, I betook me to my

former manner of defence; he, on the other side, abandoned his body to

the same danger as before, and follows me still with blows; but I, being

loath to take the deadly advantage that lay before me of his left side,

made a kind of stramazoun, ran him up to the hilt through the doublet,

through the shirt, and yet missed the skin. He, making a reverse blow,

falls upon my embossed girdle,--I had thrown off the hangers a little

before,--strikes off a skirt of a thick-laced satin doublet I had, lined

with four taffetas, cuts off two panes embroidered with pearl, rends

through the drawings-out of tissue, enters the linings, and spiks the

flesh.

“_Car_. I wonder he speaks not of his wrought shirt.

“_Fast_. Here, in the opinion of mutual damage, we paused. But, ere

I proceed, I must tell you, signior, that in the last encounter, not

having leisure to put off my silver spurs, one of the rowels catched

hold of the ruffles of my boot, and, being Spanish leather and subject

to tear, overthrows me, rends me two pair of silk stockings that I put

on, being somewhat of a raw morning, a peach colour and another, and

strikes me some half-inch deep into the side of the calf: He, seeing the

blood come, presently takes horse and away; I having bound up my wound

with a piece of my wrought shirt--

“_Car_. O, comes it in there.

“_Fast_. Ride after him, and, lighting at the court gate both together,

embraced, and marched hand in hand up into the presence. Was not this

business well carried?

“_Maci_. Well! yes; and by this we can guess what apparel the gentleman

wore.

“_Punt_. 'Fore valour! it was a designment begun with much resolution,

maintained with as much prowess, and ended with more humanity.”]

“Ay, ay,” said the monk, muttering as he went up the winding stair,

“carry him his trumpery with all despatch. Alas! that man, with so many

noble objects of pursuit, will amuse himself like a jackanape, with a

laced jerkin and a cap and bells!--I must now to the melancholy work of

consoling that which is well-nigh inconsolable, a mother weeping for her

first-born.”

Advancing, after a gentle knock, into the apartment of the women, he

found that Mary Avenel had retired to bed, extremely indisposed, and

that Dame Glendinning and Tibb were indulging their sorrows by the side

of a decaying fire, and by the light of a small iron lamp, or cruize,

as it was termed. Poor Elspeth's apron was thrown over her head, and

bitterly did she sob and weep for “her beautiful, her brave,--the very

image of her dear Simon Glendinning, the stay of her widowhood and the

support of her old age.”

The faithful Tibb echoed her complaints, and, more violently clamorous,

made deep promises of revenge on Sir Piercie Shafton, “if there were a

man left in the south who could draw a whinger, or a woman that could

thraw a rape.” The presence of the Sub-Prior imposed silence on these

clamours. He sate down by the unfortunate mother, and essayed, by such

topics as his religion and reason suggested, to interrupt the current of

Dame Glendinning's feelings; but the attempt was in vain. She listened,

indeed, with some little interest, while he pledged his word and

his influence with the Abbot, that the family which had lost their

eldest-born by means of a guest received at his command, should

experience particular protection at the hands of the community; and

that the fief which belonged to Simon Glendinning should, with extended

bounds and added privileges, be conferred on Edward.

But it was only for a very brief space that the mother's sobs were

apparently softer, and her grief more mild. She soon blamed herself

for casting a moment's thought upon world's gear while poor Halbert

was lying stretched in his bloody shirt. The Sub-Prior was not more

fortunate, when he promised that Halbert's body “should be removed to

hallowed ground, and his soul secured by the prayers of the Church in

his behalf.” Grief would have its natural course, and the voice of the

comforter was wasted in vain.

Chapter the Twenty-Eighth.

He is at liberty, I have ventured for him!

-----------------------------if the law

Find and condemn me for't, some living wenches,

Some honest-hearted maids will sing my dirge,

And tell to memory my death was noble,

Dying almost a martyr.

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

The Sub-Prior of Saint Mary's, in taking his departure from the spence

which Sir Piercie Shafton was confined, and in which some preparations

were made for his passing the night as the room which might be most

conveniently guarded, left more than one perplexed person behind him.

There was connected with this chamber, and opening into it, a small

_outshot_, or projecting part of the building, occupied by a sleeping

apartment, which upon ordinary occasions, was that of Mary Avenel, and

which, in the unusual number of guests who had come to the tower on

the former evening, had also accommodated Mysie Happer, the Miller's

daughter; for anciently, as well as in the present day, a Scottish house

was always rather too narrow and limited for the extent of the owner's

hospitality, and some shift and contrivance was necessary, upon any

unusual occasion, to ensure the accommodation of all the guests.

The fatal news of Halbert Glendinning's death had thrown all former

arrangements into confusion. Mary Avenel, whose case required immediate

attention, had been transported into the apartment hitherto occupied by

Halbert and his brother, as the latter proposed to watch all night,

in order to prevent the escape of the prisoner. Poor Mysie had been

altogether overlooked, and had naturally enough betaken herself to the

little apartment which she had hitherto occupied, ignorant that the

spence, through which lay the only access to it, was to be the sleeping

chamber of Sir Piercie Shafton. The measures taken for securing him

there had been so sudden, that she was not aware of it, until she

found that the other females had been removed from the spence by

the Sub-Prior's direction, and having once missed the opportunity of

retreating along with them, bashfulness, and the high respect which she

was taught to bear to the monks, prevented her venturing forth alone,

and intruding herself on the presence of Father Eustace, while in secret

conference with the Southron. There appeared no remedy but to wait till

their interview was over; and, as the door was thin, and did not shut

very closely, she could hear every word that passed betwixt them.

It thus happened, that without any intended intrusion on her part, she

became privy to the whole conversation of the Sub-Prior and the English

knight, and could also observe from the window of her little retreat,

that more than one of the young men summoned by Edward arrived

successively at the tower. These circumstances led her to entertain most

serious apprehension that the life of Sir Piercie Shafton was in great

and instant peril.

Woman is naturally compassionate, and not less willingly so when youth

and fair features are on the side of him who claims her sympathy. The

handsome presence, elaborate dress and address, of Sir Piercie Shafton,

which had failed to make any favorable impression on the grave and lofty

character of Mary Avenel, had completely dazzled and bewildered the poor

Maid of the Mill. The knight had perceived this result, and, flattered

by seeing that his merit was not universally underrated, he had bestowed

on Mysie a good deal more of his courtesy than in his opinion her rank

warranted. It was not cast away, but received with a devout sense of his

condescension, and with gratitude for his personal notice, which,

joined to her fears for his safety, and the natural tenderness of her

disposition, began to make wild work in her heart.

“To be sure it was very wrong in him to slay Halbert Glendinning,” (it

was thus she argued the case with herself,) “but then he was a gentleman

born, and a soldier, and so gentle and courteous withal, that she was

sure the quarrel had been all of young Glendinning's own seeking; for

it was well known that both these lads were so taken up with that Mary

Avenel, that they never looked at another lass in the Halidome, more

than if they were of a different degree. And then Halbert's dress was

as clownish as his manners were haughty; and this poor young gentleman,

(who was habited like any prince,) banished from his own land, was first

drawn into a quarrel by a rude brangler, and then persecuted and like to

be put to death by his kin and allies.”

Mysie wept bitterly at the thought, and then her heart rising against

such cruelty and oppression to a defenceless stranger, who dressed

with so much skill, and spoke with so much grace, she began to consider

whether she could not render him some assistance in this extremity.

Her mind was now entirely altered from its original purpose. At first

her only anxiety had been to find the means of escaping from the

interior apartment, without being noticed by any one; but now she began

to think that Heaven had placed her there for the safety and protection

of the persecuted stranger. She was of a simple and affectionate, but at

the same time an alert and enterprising character, possessing more

than female strength of body, and more than female courage, though with

feelings as capable of being bewildered with gallantry of dress and

language, as a fine gentleman of any generation would have desired to

exercise his talents upon. “I will save him,” she thought, “that is the

first thing to be resolved--and then I wonder what he will say to the

poor Miller's maiden, that has done for him what all the dainty dames in

London or Holyrood would have been afraid to venture upon.”

Prudence began to pull her sleeve as she indulged speculations so

hazardous, and hinted to her that the warmer Sir Piercie Shafton's

gratitude might prove, it was the more likely to be fraught with danger

to his benefactress. Alas! poor Prudence, thou mayest say with our moral

teacher,

“I preach for ever, but I preach in vain.”

The Miller's maiden, while you pour your warning into her unwilling

bosom, has glanced her eye on the small mirror by which she has placed

her little lamp, and it returns to her a countenance and eyes, pretty

and sparkling at all times, but ennobled at present with the energy of

expression proper to those who have dared to form, and stand prepared

to execute, deeds of generous audacity. “Will these features--will

these eyes, joined to the benefit I am about to confer upon Sir Piercie

Shafton, do nothing towards removing the distance of rank between us?”

Such was the question which female vanity asked of fancy; and though

even fancy dared not answer in a ready affirmative, a middle conclusion

was adopted--“Let me first succour the gallant youth, and trust to

fortune for the rest.”

Banishing, therefore, from her mind every thing that was personal to

herself, the rash but generous girl turned her whole thoughts to the

means of executing this enterprise.

The difficulties which interposed were of no ordinary nature. The

vengeance of the men of that country, in cases of deadly feud, that

is, in cases of a quarrel excited by the slaughter of any of their

relations, was one of their most marked characteristics; and Edward,

however gentle in other respects, was so fond of his brother, that

there could be no doubt that he would be as signal in his revenge as

the customs of the country authorized. There were to be passed the inner

door of the apartment, the two gates of the tower itself, and the gate

of the court-yard, ere the prisoner was at liberty; and then a guide

and means of flight were to be provided, otherwise ultimate escape

was impossible. But where the will of woman is strongly bent on

the accomplishment of such a purpose, her wit is seldom baffled by

difficulties, however embarrassing.

The Sub-Prior had not long left the apartment, ere Mysie had devised a

scheme for Sir Piercie Shafton's freedom, daring, indeed, but likely to

be successful, if dexterously conducted. It was necessary, however, that

she should remain where she was till so late an hour, that all in the

tower should have betaken themselves to repose, excepting those whose

duty made them watchers. The interval she employed in observing

the movements of the person in whose service she was thus boldly a

volunteer.

She could hear Sir Piercie Shafton pace the floor to and fro, in

reflection doubtless on his own untoward fate and precarious situation.

By and by she heard him making a rustling among his trunks, which,

agreeable to the order of the Sub-Prior, had been placed in the

apartment to which he was confined, and which he was probably amusing

more melancholy thoughts by examining and arranging. Then she could hear

him resume his walk through the room, and, as if his spirits had been

somewhat relieved and elevated by the survey of his wardrobe, she could

distinguish that at one turn he half recited a sonnet, at another half

whistled a galliard, and at the third hummed a saraband. At length she

could understand that he extended himself on the temporary couch which

had been allotted to him, after muttering his prayers hastily, and in a

short time she concluded he must be fast asleep.

She employed the moment which intervened in considering her enterprise

under every different aspect; and dangerous as it was, the steady review

which she took of the various perils accompanying her purpose, furnished

her with plausible devices for obviating them. Love and generous

compassion, which give singly such powerful impulse to the female heart,

were in this case united, and championed her to the last extremity of

hazard.

It was an hour past midnight. All in the tower slept sound but those who

had undertaken to guard the English prisoner; or if sorrow and suffering

drove sleep from the bed of Dame Glendinning and her foster-daughter,

they were too much wrapt in their own griefs to attend to external

sounds. The means of striking light were at hand in the small apartment,

and thus the Miller's maiden was enabled to light and trim a small lamp.

With a trembling step and throbbing heart, she undid the door which

separated her from the apartment in which the Southron knight was

confined, and almost flinched from her fixed purpose, when she found

herself in the same room with the sleeping prisoner. She scarcely

trusted herself to look upon him, as he lay wrapped in his cloak, and

fast asleep upon the pallet bed, but turned her eyes away while she

gently pulled his mantle with no more force than was just equal to

awaken him. He moved not until she had twitched his cloak a second and

a third time, and then at length looking up, was about to make an

exclamation in the suddenness of his surprise.

Mysie's bashfulness was conquered by her fear. She placed her fingers

on her lips, in token that he must observe the most strict silence, and

then pointed to the door to intimate that it was watched.

Sir Piercie Shafton now collected himself and sat upright on his couch.

He gazed with surprise on the graceful figure of the young woman who

stood before him; her well-formed person, her flowing hair, and the

outline of her features, showed dimly, and yet to advantage, by the

partial and feeble light which she held in her hand. The romantic

imagination of the gallant would soon have coined some compliment proper

for the occasion, but Mysie left him not time.

“I come,” she said, “to save your life, which is else in great peril--if

you answer me, speak as low as you can, for they have sentinelled your

door with armed men.”

“Comeliest of miller's daughters,” answered Sir Piercie, who by this

time was sitting upright on his couch, “dread nothing for my safety.

Credit me, that, as in very truth, I have not spilled the red puddle

(which these villagios call the blood) of their most uncivil relation,

so I am under no apprehension whatever for the issue of this restraint,

seeing that it cannot but be harmless to me. Natheless, to thee, O most

Molendinar beauty, I return the thanks which thy courtesy may justly

claim.”

“Nay, but, Sir Knight,” answered the maiden, in a whisper as low as it

was tremulous, “I deserve no thanks unless you will act by my counsel.

Edward Glendinning hath sent for Dan of the Howlet-hirst, and young Adie

of Aikenshaw, and they are come with three men more, and with bow, and

jack, and spear, and I heard them say to each other, and to Edward, as

they alighted in the court, that they would have amends for the death of

their kinsman, if the monk's cowl should smoke for it--And the vassals

are so wilful now, that the Abbot himself dare not control them, for

fear they turn heretics, and refuse to pay their feu-duties.”

“In faith,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “it may be a shrewd temptation,

and perchance the monks may rid themselves of trouble and cumber,

by handing me over the march to Sir John Foster or Lord Hundson, the

English wardens, and so make peace with their vassals and with England

at once. Fairest Molinara, I will for once walk by thy rede, and if thou

dost contrive to extricate me from this vile kennel, I will so celebrate

thy wit and beauty, that the Baker's nymph of Raphael d'Urbino shall

seem but a gipsey in comparison of my Molinara.”

“I pray you, then, be silent,” said the Miller's daughter; “for if your

speech betrays that you are awake, my scheme fails utterly, and it is

Heaven's mercy and Our Lady's that we are not already overheard and

discovered.”

“I am silent,” replied the Southron, “even as the starless night--but

yet--if this contrivance of thine should endanger thy safety, fair and

no less kind than fair damsel, it were utterly unworthy of me to accept

it at thy hand.”

“Do not think of me,” said Mysie, hastily; “I am safe--I will take

thought for myself, if I once saw you out of this dangerous dwelling--if

you would provide yourself with any part of your apparel or goods, lose

no time.”

The knight _did_, however, lose some time, ere he could settle in his

own mind what to take and what to abandon of his wardrobe, each article

of which seemed endeared to him by recollection of the feasts and revels

at which it had been exhibited. For some little while Mysie left him

to make his selections at leisure, for she herself had also some

preparations to make for flight. But when, returning from the chamber

into which she had retired, with a small bundle in her hand, she found

him still indecisive, she insisted in plain terms, that he should either

make up his baggage for the enterprise, or give it up entirely. Thus

urged, the disconsolate knight hastily made up a few clothes into a

bundle, regarded his trunk-mails with a mute expression of parting

sorrow, and intimated his readiness to wait upon his kind guide.

She led the way to the door of the apartment, having first carefully

extinguished her lamp, and motioning to the knight to stand close behind

her, tapped once or twice at the door. She was at length answered by

Edward Glendinning, who demanded to know who knocked within, and what

was desired.

“Speak low,” said Mysie Happer, “or you will awaken the English knight.

It is I, Mysie Happer, who knock--I wish to get out--you have locked me

up--and I was obliged to wait till the Southron slept.”

“Locked you up!” replied Edward, in surprise.

“Yes,” answered the Miller's daughter, “you have locked me up into this

room--I was in Mary Avenel's sleeping apartment.”

“And can you not remain there till morning,” replied Edward, “since it

has so chanced?”

“What!” said the Miller's daughter, in a tone of offended delicacy, “I

remain here a moment longer than I can get out without discovery!--I

would not, for all the Halidome of St. Mary's, remain a minute longer in

the neighbourhood of a man's apartment than I can help it--For whom,

or for what do you hold me? I promise you my father's daughter has been

better brought up than to put in peril her good name.”

“Come forth then, and get to thy chamber in silence,” said Edward. So

saying, he undid the bolt. The staircase without was in utter darkness,

as Mysie had before ascertained. So soon as she stept out, she took hold

of Edward as if to support herself, thus interposing her person betwixt

him and Sir Piercie Shaffcon, by whom she was closely followed. Thus

screened from observation, the Englishman slipped past on tiptoe, unshod

and in silence, while the damsel complained to Edward that she wanted a

light.

“I cannot get you a light,” said he, “for I cannot leave this post; but

there is a fire below.”

“I will sit below till morning,” said the Maid of the Mill; and,

tripping down stairs, heard Edward bolt and bar the door of the now

tenantless apartment with vain caution.

At the foot of the stair which she descended, she found the object of

her care waiting her farther directions. She recommended to him the most

absolute silence, which, for once in his life, he seemed not unwilling

to observe, conducted him, with as much caution as if he were walking on

cracked ice, to a dark recess, used for depositing wood, and instructed

him to ensconce himself behind the fagots. She herself lighted her lamp

once more at the kitchen fire, and took her distaff and spindle, that

she might not seem to be unemployed, in case any one came into the

apartment.

From time to time, however, she stole towards the window on tiptoe, to

catch the first glance of the dawn, for the farther prosecution of her

adventurous project. At length she saw, to her great joy, the first peep

of the morning brighten upon the gray clouds of the east, and, clasping

her hands together, thanked Our Lady for the sight, and implored

protection during the remainder of her enterprise. Ere she had finished

her prayer, she started at feeling a man's arm across her shoulder,

while a rough voice spoke in her ear--“What! menseful Mysie of the Mill

so soon at her prayers?--now, benison on the bonny eyes that open so

early!--I'll have a kiss for good morrow's sake.”

Dan of the Howlet-hirst, for he was the gallant who paid Mysie this

compliment, suited the action with the word, and the action, as is usual

in such cases of rustic gallantry, was rewarded with a cuff, which

Dan received as a fine gentleman receives a tap with a fan, but which,

delivered by the energetic arm of the Miller's maiden, would have

certainly astonished a less robust gallant.

“How now, Sir Coxcomb!” said she, “and must you be away from your guard

over the English knight, to plague quiet folks with your horse-tricks!”

“Truly you are mistaken, pretty Mysie,” said the clown, “for I have not

yet relieved Edward at his post; and were it not a shame to let him stay

any longer, by my faith, I could find it in my heart not to quit you

these two hours.”

“Oh, you have hours and hours enough to see any one,” said Mysie; “but

you must think of the distress of the household even now, and get Edward

to sleep for a while, for he has kept watch this whole night.”

“I will have another kiss first,” answered Dan of the Howlet-hirst.

But Mysie was now on her guard, and, conscious of the vicinity of the

wood-hole, offered such strenuous resistance, that the swain cursed the

nymph's bad humour with very unpastoral phrase and emphasis, and ran up

stairs to relieve the guard of his comrade. Stealing to the door, she

heard the new sentinel hold a brief conversation with Edward, after

which the latter withdrew, and the former entered upon the duties of his

watch.

Mysie suffered him to walk there a little while undisturbed, until the

dawning became more general, by which time she supposed he might have

digested her coyness, and then presenting herself before the watchful

sentinel, demanded of him “the keys of the outer tower, and of the

courtyard gate.”

“And for what purpose?” answered the warder.

“To milk the cows, and drive them out to their pasture,” said Mysie;

“you would not have the poor beasts kept in the byre a' morning, and the

family in such distress, that there is na ane fit to do a turn but the

byre-woman and myself?”

“And where is the byre-woman?” said Dan.

“Sitting with me in the kitchen, in case these distressed folks want any

thing.”

“There are the keys, then, Mysie Dorts,” said the sentinel.

“Many thanks, Dan Ne'er-do-weel,” answered the Maid of the Mill, and

escaped down stairs in a moment.

To hasten to the wood-hole, and there to robe the English knight in a

short gown and petticoat, which she had provided for the purpose, was

the work of another moment. She then undid the gates of the tower, and

made towards the byre, or cow-house, which stood in one corner of the

courtyard. Sir Piercie Shafton remonstrated against the delay which this

would occasion.

“Fair and generous Molinara,” he said, “had we not better undo the

outward gate, and make the best of our way hence, even like a pair of

sea-mews who make towards shelter of the rocks as the storm waxes high?”

“We must drive out the cows first,” said Mysie, “for a sin it were to

spoil the poor widow's cattle, both for her sake and the poor beasts'

own; and I have no mind any one shall leave the tower in a hurry to

follow us. Besides, you must have your horse, for you will need a fleet

one ere all be done.”

So saying, she locked and double-locked both the inward and outward door

of the tower, proceeded to the cow-house, turned out the cattle, and,

giving the knight his own horse to lead, drove them before her out at

the court-yard gate, intending to return for her own palfrey. But the

noise attending the first operation caught the wakeful attention of

Edward, who, starting to the bartizan, called to know what the matter

was.

Mysie answered with great readiness, that “she was driving out the cows,

for that they would be spoiled for want of looking to.”

“I thank thee, kind maiden,” said Edward--“and yet,” he added, after a

moment's pause, “what damsel is that thou hast with thee?”

Mysie was about to answer, when Sir Piercie Shafton, who apparently

did not desire that the great work of his liberation should be executed

without the interposition of his own ingenuity, exclaimed from beneath,

“I am she, O most bucolical juvenal, under whose charge are placed the

milky mothers of the herd.”

“Hell and darkness!” exclaimed Edward, in a transport of fury

and astonishment, “it is Piercie Shafton--What! treason!

treason!--ho!--Dan--Jasper--Martin--the villain escapes!”

“To horse! to horse!” cried Mysie, and in an instant mounted behind the

knight, who was already in the saddle.

Edward caught up a cross-bow, and let fly a bolt, which whistled so

near Mysie's ear, that she called to her companion,--“Spur--spur, Sir

Knight!--the next will not miss us.--Had it been Halbert instead of

Edward who bent that bow, we had been dead.”

The knight pressed his horse, which dashed past the cows, and down the

knoll on which the tower was situated. Then taking the road down the

valley, the gallant animal, reckless of its double burden, soon conveyed

them out of hearing of the tumult and alarm with which their departure

filled the Tower of Glendearg.

Thus it strangely happened, that two men were flying in different

directions at the same time, each accused of being the other's murderer.

Chapter the Twenty-Ninth.

-------------Sure he cannot

Be so unmanly as to leave me here;

If he do, maids will not so easily

Trust men again.

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

The knight continued to keep the good horse at a pace as quick as the

road permitted, until they had cleared the valley of Glendearg, and

entered upon the broad dale of the Tweed, which now rolled before

them in crystal beauty, displaying on its opposite bank the huge gray

Monastery of St. Mary's, whose towers and pinnacles were scarce yet

touched by the newly-risen sun, so deeply the edifice lies shrouded

under the mountains which rise to the southward.

Turning to the left, the knight continued his road down to the northern

bank of the river, until they arrived nearly opposite to the weir,

or dam-dike, where Father Philip concluded his extraordinary aquatic

excursion.

Sir Piercie Shafton, whose brain seldom admitted more than one idea at

a time, had hitherto pushed forward without very distinctly considering

where he was going. But the sight of the Monastery so near to him,

reminded, him that he was still on dangerous ground, and that he must

necessarily provide for his safety by choosing some settled plan of

escape. The situation of his guide and deliverer also occurred to him,

for he was far from being either selfish or ungrateful. He listened, and

discovered that the Miller's daughter was sobbing and weeping bitterly

as she rested her head on his shoulder.

“What ails thee,” he said, “my generous Molinara?--is there aught that

Piercie Shafton can do which may show his gratitude to his deliverer?”

Mysie pointed with her finger across the river, but ventured not to

turn her eyes in that direction. “Nay, but speak plain, most generous

damsel,” said the knight, who, for once, was puzzled as much as his own

elegance of speech was wont to puzzle others, “for I swear to you that I

comprehend nought by the extension of thy fair digit.”

“Yonder is my father's house,” said Mysie, in a voice interrupted by the

increased burst of her sorrow.

“And I was carrying thee discourteously to a distance from thy

habitation?” said Shafton, imagining he had found out the source of her

grief. “Wo worth the hour that Piercie Shafton, in attention to his own

safety, neglected the accommodation of any female, far less of his most

beneficent liberatrice! Dismount, then, O lovely Molinara, unless thou

wouldst rather that I should transport thee on horseback to the house of

thy molendinary father, which, if thou sayest the word, I am prompt to

do, defying all dangers which may arise to me personally, whether by

monk or miller.”

Mysie suppressed her sobs, and with considerable difficulty muttered her

desire to alight, and take her fortune by herself. Sir Piercie Shafton,

too devoted a squire of dames to consider the most lowly as exempted

from a respectful attention, independent of the claims which the

Miller's maiden possessed over him, dismounted instantly from his horse,

and received in his arms the poor girl, who still wept bitterly, and,

when placed on the ground, seemed scarce able to support herself, or at

least still clung, though, as it appeared, unconsciously, to the support

he had afforded. He carried her to a weeping birch tree, which grew on

the green-sward bank around which the road winded, and, placing her on

the ground beneath it, exhorted her to compose herself. A strong touch

of natural feeling struggled with, and half overcame, his acquired

affectation, while he said, “Credit me, most generous damsel, the

service you have done to Piercie Shafton he would have deemed too dearly

bought, had he foreseen it was to cost you these tears and singults.

Show me the cause of your grief, and if I can do aught to remove

it, believe that the rights you have acquired over me will make your

commands sacred as those of an empress. Speak, then, fair Molinara,

and command him whom fortune hath rendered at once your debtor and your

champion. What are your orders?”

“Only that you will fly and save yourself,” said Mysie, mustering up her

utmost efforts to utter these few words.

“Yet,” said the knight, “let me not leave you without some token of

remembrance.” Mysie would have said there needed none, and most truly

would she have spoken, could she have spoken for weeping. “Piercie

Shafton is poor,” he continued, “but let this chain testify he is not

ungrateful to his deliverer.”

He took from his neck the rich chain and medallion we have formerly

mentioned, and put it into the powerless hand of the poor maiden,

who neither received nor rejected it, but, occupied with more intense

feelings, seemed scarce aware of what he was doing.

“We shall meet again,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “at least I trust so;

meanwhile, weep no more, fair Molinara, an thou lovest me.”

The phrase of conjuration was but used as an ordinary commonplace

expression of the time, but bore a deeper sense to poor Mysie's ear.

She dried her tears; and when the knight, in all kind and chivalrous

courtesy, stooped to embrace her at their parting, she rose humbly up to

receive the proffered honour in a posture of more deference, and meekly

and gratefully accepted the offered salute. Sir Piercie Shafton mounted

his horse, and began to ride off, but curiosity, or perhaps a stronger

feeling, soon induced him to look back, when he beheld the Miller's

daughter standing still motionless on the spot where they had parted,

her eyes turned after him, and the unheeded chain hanging from her hand.

It was at this moment that a glimpse of the real state of Mysie's

affections, and of the motive from which she had acted in the whole

matter, glanced on Sir Piercie Shafton's mind. The gallants of that age,

disinterested, aspiring, and lofty-minded, even in their coxcombry, were

strangers to those degrading and mischievous pursuits which are usually

termed low amours. They did not “chase the humble maidens of the plain,”

or degrade their own rank, to deprive rural innocence of peace and

virtue. It followed, of course, that as conquests in this class were no

part of their ambition, they were in most cases totally overlooked and

unsuspected, left unimproved, as a modern would call it, where, as

on the present occasion, they were casually made. The companion of

Astrophel, and flower of the tilt-yard of Feliciana, had no more idea

that his graces and good parts could attach the love of Mysie Happer,

than a first-rate beauty in the boxes dreams of the fatal wound which

her charms may inflict on some attorney's romantic apprentice in the

pit. I suppose, in any ordinary case, the pride of rank and distinction

would have pronounced on the humble admirer the doom which Beau Fielding

denounced against the whole female world, “Let them look and die;” but

the obligations under which he lay to the enamoured maiden, miller's

daughter as she was, precluded the possibility of Sir Piercie's treating

the matter _en cavalier_, and, much embarrassed, yet a little flattered

at the same time, he rode back to try what could be done for the

damsel's relief.

The innate modesty of poor Mysie could not prevent her showing too

obvious signs of joy at Sir Piercie Shafton's return. She was betrayed

by the sparkle of the rekindling eye, and a caress which, however

timidly bestowed, she could not help giving to the neck of the horse

which brought back the beloved rider.

“What farther can I do for you, kind Molinara?” said Sir Piercie

Shafton, himself hesitating and blushing; for, to the grace of Queen

Bess's age be it spoken, her courtiers wore more iron on their breasts

than brass on their foreheads, and even amid their vanities preserved

still the decaying spirit of chivalry, which inspired of yore the very

gentle Knight of Chaucer,

Who in his port was modest as a maid.

Mysie blushed deeply, with her eyes fixed on the ground, and Sir Piercie

proceeded in the same tone of embarrassed kindness. “Are you afraid to

return home alone, my kind Molinara?--would you that I should accompany

you?”

“Alas!” said Mysie, looking up, and her cheek changing from scarlet to

pale, “I have no home left.”

“How! no home!” said Shafton; “says my generous Molinara she hath no

home, when yonder stands the house of her father, and but a crystal

stream between?”

“Alas!” answered the Miller's maiden, “I have no longer either home or

father. He is a devoted servant to the Abbey--I have offended the Abbot,

and if I return home my father will kill me.”

“He dare not injure thee, by Heaven!” said Sir Piercie; “I swear to

thee, by my honour and knighthood, that the forces of my cousin of

Northumberland shall lay the Monastery so flat, that a horse shall not

stumble as he rides over it, if they should dare to injure a hair of

your head! Therefore be hopeful and content, kind Mysinda, and know you

have obliged one who can and will avenge the slightest wrong offered to

you.”

He sprung from his horse as he spoke, and, in the animation of his

argument, grasped the willing hand of Mysie, (or Mysinda as he had now

christened her.) He gazed too upon full black eyes, fixed upon his own

with an expression which, however subdued by maidenly shame, it was

impossible to mistake, on cheeks where something like hope began to

restore the natural colour, and on two lips which, like double rosebuds,

were kept a little apart by expectation, and showed within a line of

teeth as white as pearl. All this was dangerous to look upon, and Sir.

Piercie Shafton, after repeating with less and less force his request

that the fair Mysinda would allow him to carry her to her father's,

ended by asking the fair Mysinda to go along with him--“At least,” he

added, “until I shall be able to conduct you to a place of safety.”

Mysie Happer made no answer; but blushing scarlet betwixt joy and shame,

mutely expressed her willingness to accompany the Southron Knight,

by knitting her bundle closer, and preparing to resume her seat _en

croupe_. “And what is your pleasure that I should do with this?” she

said, holding up the chain as if she had been for the first time aware

that it was in her hand.

“Keep it, fairest Mysinda, for my sake,” said the Knight.

“Not so, sir,” answered Mysie, gravely; “the maidens of my country take

no such gifts from their superiors, and I need no token to remind me of

this morning.”

Most earnestly and courteously did the Knight urge her acceptance of

the proposed guerdon, but on this point Mysie was resolute; feeling,

perhaps, that to accept of any thing bearing the appearance of reward,

would be to place the service she had rendered him on a mercenary

footing. In short, she would only agree to conceal the chain, lest it

might prove the means of detecting the owner, until Sir Piercie should

be placed in perfect safety.

They mounted and resumed their journey, of which Mysie, as bold and

sharp-witted in some points as she was simple and susceptible in others,

now took in some degree the direction, having only inquired its general

destination, and learned that Sir Piercie Shafton desired to go to

Edinburgh, where he hoped to find friends and protection. Possessed of

this information, Mysie availed herself of her local knowledge to get as

soon as possible out of the bounds of the Halidome, and into those of a

temporal baron, supposed to be addicted to the reformed doctrines,

and upon whose limits, at least, she thought their pursuers would not

attempt to hazard any violence. She was not indeed very apprehensive of

a pursuit, reckoning with some confidence that the inhabitants of the

Tower of Glendearg would find it a matter of difficulty to surmount

the obstacles arising from their own bolts and bars, with which she had

carefully secured them before setting forth on the retreat.

They journeyed on, therefore, in tolerable security, and Sir Piercie

Shafton found leisure to amuse the time in high-flown speeches and long

anecdotes of the court of Feliciana, to which Mysie bent an ear not a

whit less attentive, that she did not understand one word out of three

which was uttered by her fellow-traveller. She listened, however, and

admired upon trust, as many a wise man has been contented to treat the

conversation of a handsome but silly mistress. As for Sir Piercie,

he was in his element; and, well assured of the interest and full

approbation of his auditor, he went on spouting Euphuism of more than

usual obscurity, and at more than usual length. Thus passed the morning,

and noon brought them within sight of a winding stream, on the side of

which arose an ancient baronial castle, surrounded by some large trees.

At a small distance from the gate of the mansion, extended, as in those

days was usual, a straggling hamlet, having a church in the centre.

“There are two hostelries in this Kirk-town,” said Mysie, “but the worst

is best for our purpose; for it stands apart from the other houses, and

I ken the man weel, for he has dealt with my father for malt.”

This _causa scientiae_, to use a lawyer's phrase, was ill chosen

for Mysie's purpose; for Sir Piercie Shafton had, by dint of his own

loquacity, been talking himself all this while into a high esteem for

his fellow-traveller, and, pleased with the gracious reception which she

afforded to his powers of conversation, had well-nigh forgotten that

she was not herself one of those high-born beauties of whom he was

recounting so many stories, when this unlucky speech at once placed

the most disadvantageous circumstances attending her lineage under his

immediate recollection. He said nothing, however. What indeed could

he say? Nothing was so natural as that a miller's daughter should be

acquainted with publicans who dealt with her father for malt, and all

that was to be wondered at was the concurrence of events which had

rendered such a female the companion and guide of Sir Piercie Shafton of

Wilverton, kinsman of the great Earl of Northumberland, whom princes

and sovereigns themselves termed cousin, because of the Piercie blood.

[Footnote: Froissart tells us somewhere, (the readers of romances are

indifferent to accurate reference,) that the King of France called one

of the Piercies cousin, because of the blood of Northumberland.] He felt

the disgrace of strolling through the country with a miller's maiden

on the crupper behind him, and was even ungrateful enough to feel some

emotions of shame, when he halted his horse at the door of the little

inn.

But the alert intelligence of Mysie Happer spared him farther sense of

derogation, by instantly springing from his horse, and cramming the ears

of mine host, who came out with his mouth agape to receive a guest of

the knight's appearance, with an imagined tale, in which circumstance on

circumstance were huddled so fast, as to astonish Sir Piercie Shafton,

whose own invention was none of the most brilliant. She explained to

the publican that this was a great English knight travelling from the

Monastery to the court of Scotland, after having paid his vows to Saint

Mary, and that she had been directed to conduct him so far on the road;

and that Ball, her palfrey, had fallen by the way, because he had been

over-wrought with carrying home the last melder of meal to the portioner

of Langhope; and that she had turned in Ball to graze in the Tasker's

park, near Cripplecross, for he had stood as still as Lot's wife with

very weariness; and that the knight had courteously insisted she should

ride behind him, and that she had brought him to her kend friend's

hostelry rather than to proud Peter Peddie's, who got his malt at

the Mellerstane mills; and that he must get the best that the house

afforded, and that he must get it ready in a moment of time, and that

she was ready to help in the kitchen.

All this ran glibly off the tongue without pause on the part of

Mysie Happer, or doubt on that of the landlord. The guest's horse was

conducted to the stable, and he himself installed in the cleanest

corner and best seat which the place afforded. Mysie, ever active and

officious, was at once engaged in preparing food, in spreading the

table, and in making all the better arrangements which her experience

could suggest, for the honour and comfort of her companion. He would

fain have resisted this; for while it was impossible not to be gratified

with the eager and alert kindness which was so active in his service,

he felt an undefinable pain in seeing Mysinda engaged in these menial

services, and discharging them, moreover, as one to whom they were

but too familiar. Yet this jarring feeling was mixed with, and perhaps

balanced by, the extreme grace with which the neat-handed maiden

executed these tasks, however mean in themselves, and gave to the

wretched corner of a miserable inn of the period, the air of a bower,

in which an enamoured fairy, or at least a shepherdess of Arcadia, was

displaying, with unavailing solicitude, her designs on the heart of

some knight, destined by fortune to higher thoughts, and a more splendid

union.

The lightness and grace with which Mysie covered the little round table

with a snow-white cloth, and arranged upon it the hastily-roasted capon,

with its accompanying stoup of Bourdeaux, were but plebeian graces in

themselves; but yet there were very flattering ideas excited by each

glance. She was so very well made, agile at once and graceful, with her

hand and arm as white as snow, and her face in which a smile contended

with a blush, and her eyes which looked ever at Shafton when he looked

elsewhere, and were dropped at once when they encountered his, that

she was irresistible! In fine, the affectionate delicacy of her whole

demeanour, joined to the promptitude and boldness she had so lately

evinced, tended to ennoble the services she had rendered, as if some

-----sweet engaging Grace

Put on some clothes to come abroad,

And took a waiter's place.

But, on the other hand, came the damning reflection, that these duties

were not taught her by Love, to serve the beloved only, but arose from

the ordinary and natural habits of a miller's daughter, accustomed,

doubtless, to render the same service to every wealthier churl who

frequented her father's mill. This stopped the mouth of vanity, and of

the love which vanity had been hatching, as effectually as a peck of

literal flour would have done.

Amidst this variety of emotions, Sir Piercie Shafton forgot not to ask

the object of them to sit down and partake the good cheer which she had

been so anxious to provide and to place in order. He expected that

this invitation would have been bashfully, perhaps, but certainly most

thankfully, accepted; but he was partly flattered, and partly piqued,

by the mixture of deference and resolution with which Mysie declined his

invitation. Immediately after, she vanished from the apartment, leaving

the Euphuist to consider whether he was most gratified or displeased by

her disappearance.