<* ^ ^ S -Tj ^%, .-' , I 8 , - F°« n H -t A 1 \ > Cy ing and soiled with moisture, outstretched upon the very altar before which the preceding dawn had seen her wedded. But years elapsed ere Maurice Champrest was seen again in the hamlet of Castel de Roche d'or ; and, when he was seen there, it was a sorry sight to many a noble eye, and the very stones cried " Wo !" when the Vassal's Wife was avenged on her destroyer. A SERVILE INSURRECTION. 205 CHAPTER II. They were dark and dismal days in the fair land of France. Foreign invasion was triumphant, domestic insurrection was rife. The terrible and fatal field of Poictiers, the field of the Black Prince, had stricken down at a single stroke the might of a great, a glorious nation ; her king a captive in a foreign dun- geon ; one third of the best and bravest nobles dead on the field of honor, or languishing in English fetters ; a weak and nerveless regent, on her throne ; and Charles, the bad king of Navarre, the counsellor, the nearest to his ear. Half of the realm at least was held directly under English sway, with garrisons of English archers in the towns, and the red-cross banner of St. George floating above her vanquished towers ; and in the provinces, still nominally French, armies of free companions sweeping the fields of their harvests far and near, plundering the cottage, pillaging the castle, levying con- tributions on open towns, storming by force strongholds — Eng- lish, Gascons, and Normans — led for the most part by men of name and renown — bastards, in many cases, of great and noble houses, such as the bourg de Maulion, and the bourg de Ker- anlouet, and a hundred others of scarcely inferior fame — had subjected the country scarcely less effectually than it had been done elsewhere by open, honorable warfare. To this appalling state of things a fresh horror was now added, where horror was least needed — and that the most tre- mendous of all horrors, a servile insurrection — the sudden, and spontaneous, and victorious outbreak of ignorant, down-trodden, vicious, cruel, frenzied, and brutal slaves! 206 the vassal's wife. The nobles themselves — who, had they been combined, and acted promptly and in unison, could have crushed the life out of the insurrection in a week — divided into hostile parties, dis- pirited by the wonderful successes of the victorious English, intimidated and crest-fallen — held themselves aloof the one from the other ; and, attempting to defend their isolated fortres- ses singly, without either concert or system, allowed themselves to be surprised in detail, and butchered upon their own hearth- stones, by the infuriated serfs. All horrors, all atrocities that can be conceived, were perpe- trated by the victors, maddened by long years of servitude and suffering, by deprivation of all the rights and decencies which belong of nature to every living man, and by the enforcement of droits so infamous and unnatural, that it is only wonderful how men should have so long endured them ! Not the least galling of these was that feudal right which permitted the seign- eur to compel the virgin bride on her wedding-day to his own bed, and then return her dishonored to the arms of her impas- sive husband — a right which not merely existed in abeyance, or, as in latter days, was compounded by a fine, but which was an every-day occurrence, a usage of the land — to enforce which was no more considered cruel or tyrannical than to collect rents, or tithes, or any other feudal dues — and which was not finally abolished until the reign of Louis XIV., when it was at length suppressed in those memorable assizes, known as the grands jours aV Auvergne, when many of the noblest of the land died by the hands of the common executioner for tyranny and per- secution. When, therefore, crimes like these, and worse, were perpe- trated daily under the sanction and authority of feudal law ; when they had been endured for years — not, indeed, without feelings of the direst bitterness and rage, but without loud com- plaint or general resistance, by all the serfs and villeyns of the WAR TO THE CASTLE. 207 land — what wonder was it that these miserable, trampled wretches, scarcely human, save in form, from the squalid wretchedness of their condition, and the studious care of their oppressors to prevent their progress or improvement — what wonder, I say, was it, that, seeing at length their opportunity, when their lords were distracted by foreign conquests, by the devastations of robber-bands, and by their own political dissen- sions or social feuds, they should have sprung to arms every- where — their cry, " War to the castle, peace to the cottage !" — seeking redress or revenge, and braving death willingly, as less intolerable than the wrongs they had been so long endu- ring in sullen desperation 1 What wonder was it, that, when victorious, they, who never had been spared, should have shown themselves unsparing ; that they, whose hearths had been to them no safeguards for any sanctity of domestic life, no asylums for any age or sex, should have wreaked upon the dwellers of the castles the wrongs which for ages had been the inheritance of the inmates of the cottages ; that they, whose wives and daughters had never found protection from worse than brutish violence in tender years, in innocence of unstained virtue, in the weakness of imploring beauty, should have requited, on the wives and daughters of their tyrants, pollution by pollution, infamy, and death 1 Such, such, alas ! is human nature ; and rare it is indeed that suffering at the hands of man teaches man moderation to the sufferers when it becomes his turn to suffer. Injustice hardens, not melts, the heart ; and we have it, from no less an authority than the word of Him who can not lie, that " persecution maketh. wise men mad" — but, of a surety, the wretched serfs and Jac- querie were far enough removed from wisdom, however they might be deemed mad, nor were many of their actions very far removed from madness. Knights crucified above the altars of their own castle-chapels, while their wives were dishonored, 208 THE VASSALS WIFE. tortured, and slain, with all extremities of cruelty, before their eyes ; infants tossed upon pikes, or burnt alive, in the presence of their frantic mothers ; women compelled to eat the flesh of their own husbands, roasted at their own kitchen-grates ere yet life was extinct ; the whole land filled with blood and ruin, and the smoke of conflagration going up night and day to the indig- nant and polluted heavens — these were the signs of those dark and awful times, these were the first fruits of the conquered liberty of the emancipated helots of the feudal system ! And when, nerved at length by the very extremity of peril, the nobles took up arms to make common cause against the common enemy, they found themselves isolated and hemmed in on all sides, unable to draw together so as to make head against the countless numbers of the enemy, which, like the waters of an inundation, increased hourly, and waxed wider, deeper, stronger, as it rolled onward. Large bodies could not be col- lected ; small bodies were cut off; till at length so completely were the proud and warlike nobles of the most warlike land in Europe cowed and disheartened by the triumph of their de- spised and degraded slaves, that fifty men, armed cap-a-pie, and mounted on their puissant destriers, who would, six months be- fore, have couched their lances confidently, and ridden scathe- less through thousands of the skinclad Jacquery — trampling them at leisure under the hoofs of their barded horses, and, in- vulnerable themselves, spearing them at their will from their lofty demipiques — now felt their proud hearts tremble at the mere blast of a peasant's horn, and fled ingloriously before an equal number of undisciplined and half-armed serfs ! About the period, however, of which I write, several encoun- ters had taken place, especially in Touraine, in the Beauvoisis, and the country about the Seine, between the chivalry and their insurgent villeyns, in which the former had been worsted, not so much by superior forces as by superior courage, discipline, THE BLACK RIDER. 209 and skill. And it came to be rumored far and near that there was one band, and that the fiercest and most cruel of all — con- sisting of above a thousand foot, spears, and crossbow-men, and led by a powerful man-at-arms, before whose lance everything was said to go down — at the head of nearly a hundred fully- equipped lances, which was in no respect unequal to the best arrays of the nobility with their feudal vassals. What was at first mere rumor, soon came to be accredited — soon came to be undoubted truth ; for, emboldened by their suc- cesses from attacking the parties of chivalry in detail, as they fell upon them traversing the country in the vain hope of com- binations, this great band now began to sit down before strong towns and fortified holds, to besiege them in due form of war, and were in every instance successful. Their numbers, too, increased with their success, for every knight or man-at-arms who fell, or was taken prisoner, mounted and armed a peasant ; and it was singular to observe with what skill and judgment the leader apportioned his best spoils to his best men : so that, developing his resources slowly — never admitting any man to enter his cavalry who had not approved himself a soldier, who could not ride well, and charge a lance fearlessly, nor enrolling any one among his footmen who was not well armed with a corslet or shirt-of-mail, and steel cap or sallet, with sword, dagger, and pike, or crossbow — he was soon at the head of two thousand excellent foot, and above three hundred lances, admirably mounted, who fought under his own immediate orders. Who he was, no one knew, or conjectured. It was reported that his own men were unacquainted with his name, and that his face, when the vizor of his helmet was raised, was covered by a sable mask. How much of truth or falsehood there might be in these vague rumors, no man seemed to know ; but it is certain that a mysterious and almost supernatural terror at- 210 THE VASSAL'S WIFE. tached to the " Black Rider," as lie was universally termed, whenever he was spoken of — a terror which perhaps he took a secret pleasure in augmenting, either from motives of policy or of pride. The strong suit of knight's armor which he wore, of the best Milan steel, was black as night from the crest to the spur, with- out relief of any kind, or device on the shield, or heraldric crest on the burgonet. The plume which he wore on his casque was similar to those affixed in modern days to hearses ; and another, its counterpart, towered between the ears of his charger, which was a coal-black barb, without one white hair in its glossy hide, barded with chamfront, poitrel, neck-plates, and bard proper, all of black steel, with funeral-housings of black cloth. Such was the man who alone of the leaders of the Jacquerie seemed to make war on a system, acting according to the dic- tates of the soundest judgment rather than, like the others, by wantonness or whim ; permitting no license, nor promiscuous individual pillaging, but causing all plunder to be brought to- gether for the common weal — thus making war support war, according to the prescribed plan of the greatest of modern con- querors — and subsisting his men on the spoils of the powerful and rich, without trespassing in any wise on the property of the poor, whose favor it was his object to conciliate. It came, too, to be understood, ere long, that his cruelty was no less systematic than his plundering. No wanton barbarity, no torturing, roast, crucifying, or the like, was ever perpetrated by his band ; and of himself, it was notorious that, except in open warfare or in the heat of battle, he had never dealt a blow against a man, or laid a rude hand on a woman, of the hated caste of nobles. Still, neither man nor woman ever escaped his rancorous and premeditated vengeance. Every male noble, of whatever age — gray-haired, or full- grown man, stripling, or child, or infant in the cradle — no NEITHER AGE NOR SEX SPACED. 211 sooner was he taken than he was hanged on the next tree if in the open field, or from the pinnacles of his own castle if within stone walls. Every female of noble birth — and to these, though he never looked on them himself, nor was tempted by the charms of the fairest — was delivered at once to the mercies of his men, sub- jected to the last dishonor ; and then, when life was intolerable to them, and death welcome, they were drowned in the nearest stream or lake, if in the open country, or cast from the battle- ments into the moat, if captured within the precincts of a fort- alice. So rigidly did he adhere to this last mode of execution, often carrying his victims along with the band for several days until he could find a suitable place for drowning them, that it was soon determined that he must have some secret motive, or strong vow, binding him to this strange course — the rather that there were many reasons for believing him to be a man naturally of a feeling and generous temper, hardened by circumstances into this vein of cold and adamantine cruelty. Though he had never been known to relent, tears had been known to fall fast through the bars of his avantaille, as he re- pulsed the outstretched arms and rejected the passionate en- treaties of some lovely, innocent maiden, imploring death itself as a boon, so she might save her honor. At such times, it was affirmed — and they were of no unusual occurrence — when he seemed on the point of relenting, he needed only to clasp in his mailed fingers a long, heavy tress of female hair — once of the loveliest shade of dark brown, verging almost upon black, but now bleached by exposure to the summer sun and the wintry storm — which he wore among the black plumes of his casque, when he became on the instant cold, iron, and impenetrable, as the proof-harness which he wore ; and the words would come from his lips slow, stern, 212 , the vassal's wife. irrevocable, speaking the miserable creature's doom, so that even she would plead no longer ! — "Away with her! away! For she, too, was beautiful, and innocent, and good ; and which of these availed her, that she should not perish ? Away with her, I say, and do your will with her ; but let me not look on her any more !" Up to this time, the insurrection had been confined to the northeast of France, and more especially to the Beauvoisis and the regions adjacent to the capital, the armed commons of which appeared ready to encourage and assist, if not openly to join them ; but, at the period when my tale commences, it began to spread like a conflagration, and rapidly extended itself in all directions. Auvergne still continued, however, free from disturbance, and the knights and nobles whose demesnes lay within that fair province went about their ordinary avocations and amusements, unmolested and unsuspicious of danger, without any more dis- play of military force than was usual in those dark and danger- ous times, and with no more than ordinary trains of feudal de- pendants and retainers. This, however, was now brought to a sudden and alarming conclusion by the occurrence of an incident so terrible and hid- eous in its character, that it struck a panic-terrorjnto every heart that heard tell of it, and that it still survives, though centuries have elapsed, as clear and distinct as if it had but just occurred, in the memories of the peasantry of Auvergne. It was a beautiful morning in the latter part of June, when the whole face of the country was overspread by a garb of the richest summer greenery, when the skies were glowing with perfect and cloudless azure, and when the atmosphere was per- fumed with the breath of flowers and vocal with the melody of birds. It was a morning when all nature seemed to be at peace, the bridal, as are old pock-words of the earth and sky — when A HAWKING-PARTY. 213 even the angry passions of man, the great destroyer, seem to be at rest, and when it is difficult to believe in the existence or commission of any violence or wrong. It was on such a morning that a gay cavalcade of knights and ladies issued from the gates of the castle of Roche d'or, with a numerous train of half-armed retainers ; with grooms, and foresters, and falconers ; with hounds, gazehounds, and spaniels, fretting in their leashes ; and goss-hawks, jer-falcons, peregrines, and marlins, horded upon their wrists, or cast upon frames suspended by thongs about the waists of the varlets who carried them. At the head of this gallant company rode a finely-formed man of stately presence, and apparelled in the rich garments of a person of distinction in an age when every station and rank of life had its distinctive garb, and when the sumptuary laws were enforced with much strictness, rendering it highly penal for one class to assume the dress of the station next above it. Velvet, and rich furs, and ostrich-plumes, rustled and waved in the garb of this puissant noble, and many a gem of rare price flashed from the hilts of his weapons, and even from the accoutrements of his splendid Andalusian charger. On either hand of him rode a lady, beautiful both of them, and young, but in styles of beauty utterly dissimilar : for one was dark-browed and black- haired, with the complexion of a clear-skinned brunette, suffused with a rich, sunny color, and large, languid black eyes ; while the other had a skin as white as snow, with the slightest pos- sible tinge of rose on the soft, rounded cheeks — eyes of the hues of the dewy violet — and long, streaming tresses of warm, golden brown. In the dark-haired lady it was easy to trace a resemblance, of both outline and complexion, to the gentleman who rode be- tween them, and it would not have needed a very keen observer to discover at a glance that they were brother and sister. And 214 the vassal's wife. such was the truth : for the personages were Raoul de Canillac, the marquis of Roche d'or ; Louise de Canillac, his lovely sis- ter ; and Clemente, his late-wedded wife, formerly Clemente Isaure de Saint Angely, who was the wonder of the country for beauty, and its idol for her charity and goodness. Next this lady, on the outer side, there rode one who was as much and as deservedly detested by the neighborhood as she was admired and beloved — a strange compound of all the foul and hideous vices which can render humanity detestable, unre- deemed by one solitary virtue, if bravery be excepted, which was a quality so general and necessary — being, in fact, almost unavoidable, from the peculiar nature of chivalrous institutions — that it must be regarded rather as a virtue of the age and military caste of nobles, than of this or that individual. He had earned himself a fearful reputation, and how well he had de- served no one could doubt who looked upon his face, all scathed and furrowed by the lines stamped on it by habitual indulgence in every hateful vice, habitual surrender to every fiery passion. A cousin of the marquis, and his nearest male relative, he had done much to deprave and corrupt his mind ; and though an accomplished and gallant gentleman, honorable, and affable, and companionable to his own caste, a fond husband, a kind brother, and a warm friend, he had succeeded in rendering him as cruel and unmerciful an oppressor of all beneath him as a feudal seigneur in those days could be, if his power was equalled by his will to do evil. He also was Canillac, the reproach and disgrace of an old and noble name, and was known far and wide, for his furious and frantic crimes — which seemed, so perfectly unprovoked were they at times and devoid of meaning, to arise from actual insanity — by the soubriquet of Canillac lejbu, the madman — a title of which, so shameless was he in his infa- mous renown, he actually appeared to glory, signing it as a por- tion of his name, or an honorable title of distinction. SIR LOUIS DE MONTFAUCON. 215 On the other side, next to Louise de Roche d'or, rode a tall and handsome youth, wearing the belt and spurs of knighthood, and gazing at times into the face of the beautiful girl with eyes full of deep, ardent affection, and speaking to her in those low, earnest tones which denote so certainly the existence of strong and pervading interest and affection. The knight, al- ready famous far beyond his years, for deeds of dauntless dar- ing, was Sir Louis de Montfaucon, a puissant baron of Auvergne, whose bands marched with those of Castel de Roche d'or, and the affianced husband of the young and fair Louise. Pages and equerries, with the usual attendants, followed, and the courtyard rang and re-echoed with the clang of hoofs, the neighing of coursers, the deep baying of the bloodhounds, and the screams of the frightened falcons. They issued from the castle-gates ; wound through the open park, and the dense woodland chase beyond it ; swept down a steep descent into a broad and fertile valley, watered by a great, clear river, which they crossed by a wooden bridge : traversed the narrow, sandy street of the village of Castel de Roche d'or, and, turning off short to the right, entered a little dell, through which a bright, clear rivulet murmured over its pebbly bed, on its way to join the larger river in the valley. The lower part of this little dell was principally open pastu- rage, dotted here and there with brakes and solitary bushes of hawthorn ; and along the margin of the rivulet there ran a fringe of willow and alder thickets, but a little higher up it degener- ated into a mere gorge or ravine, thickly overshadowed by the gnarled arms and dense, verduous umbrage of huge, immemo- rial oaks, the outskirts and advanced guard, as it were, of a vast oak-forest, which covered leagues on leagues of rough and broken country, to which this dell formed the readiest means of access. Just in the jaws of this pass, overhung by the oaks, stood a 216 the vassal's wife. small, gray, rustic chapel, supported on four clustered columns, with groined arches intersecting each other resting upon them, a small, arched canopy containing a bell on the summit of its steep, slated roof, and a low-browed door, with a round arch, decorated with the wolf-toothed carvings of the earliest Norman style. Immediately in front of the door, the little rivulet which watered the dell burst out of the other in a strong, gushing spring, which had been blessed by some saint of old, and, being surmounted by a vaulted canopy, was held to be peculiarly holy by the superstitious rustics of the region. This lovely spot, however, peaceful as it showed, and calm in its tranquil and sequestered security, had been the scene, some two or three years before, of a fearful and cruel crime : had witnessed the violent, seizure of a sweet, innocent, and rarely lovely bride, fresh from the marriage benediction, by this very Raoul de Canillac ; and the girl had escaped pollution only by self-immolation. It was a cursed deed — and cursed was the vengeance it provoked ! Just as the company I have described wheeled into the lower end of the little dell, conversing joyously together, and enjoy- ing the sweet influences of the season and the place, they were saluted by the long, keen blast of a bugle, well and clearly wind- ed, in that peculiarly note known at that period as the mort, being the call that announced the death of the game, whatever it was, which might be the object of pursuit. This call came from the oaks above the chapel, although no performer was seen, nor was there any baying of hounds or clamor of hunters, such as usually accompanies the termination of a chase. There was no privilege at that time more highly regarded by the nobles than the rights of the chase, nor was there any crime more jealously pursued and punished more vindictively than the SUDDEN* CHANGE OF SCENE. 217 infraction of the forest-laws ; so much so, indeed, that the death of a stag or wild-boar by unlicensed hands was visited with a far deeper meed of vengeance than the murder of a man ! It was with a face, therefore, inflamed by the fiercest ire, a flashing eye, and a knitted brow, that Raoul de Canillac un- sheathed his sword, and spurred his horse into a gallop, calling upon his men with a vehement and angry oath to follow him, for there were of a surety villeyns in the wood slaughtering the deer. The ladies of the party checked their horses on the instant in affright, while the men rushed forward in confusion, drawing their weapons, and casting loose the hounds and hawks which they had led or carried, in order to wield their arms with more advantage ; and between the shouts of the feudal retainers, the deep baying of the released bloodhounds, and the wild screams of the hawks, all that calm and peaceful solitude was trans- formed on the instant into a scene of the wildest turmoil and confusion. At this moment, just as the lord of Roche d'or spurred his horse up the slight eminence toward the little church, a man of great height and powerful frame stepped slowly forward from among the oaks, clad in a full suit of knightly armor, of plain, unornamented black steel, with no de- vice or bearing on his shield, and no crest on his casque, which was overshadowed by an immense plume of black ostrich-feath- ers. He had a two-handed sword slung across his shoulders, and carried a ponderous battle-axe in his right hand. Startled by this unexpected apparition, Raoul de Canillac checked his horse suddenly, exclaiming : " Treason ! fy ! trea- son ! Ride, ladies, for your lives ! — ride ! ride !" But this warning came too late : for, simultaneously with the appearance of the leader, above five hundred crossbow-men and lancers poured out from the wood on either flank, with their weapons ready ; and a body of fifty or sixty mounted men-at- 10 218 the vassal's wife. arms drew out from behind a spur of the hills at the entrance of the gorge, and effectually cut off their retreat. Entirely sur- rounded, escape was impossible, and resistance hopeless, so great was the numerical superiority of the enemy, and so per- fectly were they armed and accoutred for offence and defence, while the retainers of the lords had no defensive arms what- ever, nor any weapons except their swords and hunting-staves, and a few bows and arbalasts. The leader of the Jacquerie — for it needed not a second glance to inform Raoul de Canillac into whose hands he had fallen — waved his axe on high as a signal, and instantly a sin- gle crossbow was discharged ; and the bolt, striking the horse of the seigneur full in the centre of the chest, he went down on the instant : and before he could recover his feet, the marquis was seized by a dozen stout, hands, and bound securely hand and foot with stout hempen cords. On perceiving this, the elder nobleman, Canillac the mad- man, with the desperate and reckless fury for which he was so conspicuous, dashed forward, sword in hand, with his paternal war-cry, followed by a dozen or two of the armed servitors, as if to rescue his kinsman. Perhaps he perceived the hopeless- ness of their condition, and preferred selling his life dearly to surrendering only to be slaughtered in cold blood : and if such was his notion, he was not all unwise. Again the battle-axe was waved, and this time a close and well-aimed volley followed, the bolts taking effect fatally on the bodies of the old lord and several of his followers, three of whom with their chief were slain outright, while several others staggered back more or less severely wounded. With this, all resistance ended, the men throwing down their arms, and crying for quarter, which — as they were all, with the exception of two pages and an esquire, men of low birth — was granted, and they were discharged without further condi- the vassal's vengeance. 219 tion. To those of gentle origin, however, no such clemency- was extended. The pages and esquire were stripped of their costly garb, and immediately hanged up by the necks from the oak-trees, together with the young knight affianced to Made- moiselle Roche d'or, in spite of the entreaties and supplications of his beautiful betrothed. The ladies were then compelled to dismount, and their arms being bound behind their backs, were tied with ropes to the tails of their captors' horses ; and, together with Raoul de Can- iliac, whose feet were now released from their fetters, were dragged in painful and disgraceful procession back to the gates of the feudal fortalice from which they had so lately issued free and happy ! On the first summons of the leader of the Jacques — seeing their lord and the ladies captive, weak in numbers, dispirited, and without a leader — the garrison immediately surrendered : the portcullis was drawn up, the pontlevis lowered, and, with their wretched prisoners, the fierce marauders entered the walls, which, by their massive strength, might otherwise have long defied them. Meantime, not one word had been uttered by the leader of the party, who indicated his demands to his men merely by the wafture of his hand or the gesture of his head, which were promptly understood and implicitly obeyed. In compliance with a sign, the prisoners were now led after him into their own magnificent abode, and carried through long, winding pas- sages, and up an almost interminable stairway, to an apartment in the summit of a huge, square tower, overlooking the castle- moat, from a battlemented balcony, at the height of above a hundred feet. A dread foreboding shook the breast of Raoul de Canillac, as he was brought into that chamber, the scene of his outrageous cruelty to the lovely Marguerite in past years, and now to be the scene of its as cruel retribution. 220 the vassal's wife. The black warrior raised the vizor of his helmet, and gazed into the face of his former lord with the fixed, resolute, deter- mined scowl of Maurice Champrest, while the bad, bold oppres- sor shook before his captor with a visible, convulsive air. "Ay! tremble, murderer and tyrant — tremble!" thundered the fierce avenger ; " tremble ! for thy time is at hand : and, Marguerite — lovely and beloved Marguerite — right royally shall thou be now avenged ! Away with these ! away with them ! their doom is spoken !" And a scene of more than fiendish cruelty and violence en- sued. Those innocent and lovely women, subjected to the last dishonor before the eyes of the husband and brother — tortured with merciless ingenuity when their violators were satiate of their beauties — and then cast headlong from the bartizan into the moat which had received the corpse of the Vassal's Wife ! Raoul de Canillac, scourged till the flesh was literally torn from his bones, was plunged headlong after them ! Such was the Vassal's Vengeance! — and when he fell, shortly afterward, before the walls of Meaux, by the lance of the renowned Captal de Buch, his last words were : " I care not — I care not to live longer. My task was ended, my race won, when thou wert avenged, Marguerite — Marguerite !" and he perished with her name on his tongue. His crimes were great, but was not his temptation greater ? Pray we, that we be not tempted ! TRUE LOVE'S DEVOTION A TALE OF THE TIMES OF LOUIS QUINZE. PART I. There was a mighty stir in the streets of Paris, as Paris's streets were in the olden time. A dense and eager mob had taken possession, at an early hour of the day, of all the environs of the Bastile, and lined the way which led thence to the Place de Greve in solid and almost impenetrable masses. People of all conditions were there, except the very highest ; but the great majority of the concourse was composed of the low populace, and the smaller bourgeoisie. Multitudes of women were there, too, from the girl of sixteen to the beldam of sixty, nor had mothers been ashamed to bring their infants in their arms into that loud and tumultuous assemblage. Loud it was and tumultuous, as all great multitudes are, un- less they are convened by purposes too resolutely dark and solemn to find any vent in noise. When that is the case, let rulers beware, for peril is at hand — perhaps the beginning of the end. But this Parisian mob, although long before this period it had learned the use of barricades, though noisy, turbulent, and sometimes even violent in the demonstrations of its impatience, was anything but angry or excited. 222 true love's devotion. On the contrary, it seemed to be on the very tip-toe of pleas- urable expectation, and from the somewhat frequent allusions to notre bon rot, which circulated among the better order of spectators, it would appear that the government of the Fifteenth Louis was for the moment in unusually good odor with the good folks of the metropolis. What was the spectacle to which they were looking forward with so much glee — which had brought forth young delicate girls, and tender mothers, into the streets at so early an hour — which, as the day advanced toward ten o'clock of the morning, was tempting forth laced cloaks, and rapiers, and plumed hats, and here and there, in the cumbrous carriages of the day, the proud and luxurious ladies of the gay metropolis ? One glance toward the centre of the Place de Greve was sufficient to inform the dullest, for there uprose, black, grisly, horrible, a tall stout pile of some thirty feet in height, with a huge wheel affixed horizontally to the summit. Around this hideous instrument of torture was raised a scaf- fold hung with black cloth, and strewd with saw-dust, for the convenience of the executioners, about three feet lower than the wheel which surmounted it. Around this frightful apparatus were drawn up two compa- nies of the French guard, forming a large hollow-square facing outward, with muskets loaded, and bayonets fixed, as if they apprehended an attempt at rescue, although from the demeanor of the people, nothing appeared at that time to be further from their thoughts than anything of the kind. Above was the executioner-in-chief, with two grim, truculent- looking assistants, making preparations for the fearful operation they were about to perform, or leaning indolently on the instru- ments of slaughter. By and by, as the day wore onward, and the concourse kept still increasing both in numbers and in the respectability of THE PLACE DE GREVE. 223 those who composed it, something of irritation began to show itself, mingled with the eagerness and expectation of the popu- lace, and from some murmurs, which ran from time to time through their ranks, it would seem that they apprehended the escape of their victim. By this time the windows of all the houses which overlooked the precincts of that fatal square on which so much of noble blood has been shed through so many ages, were occupied by persons of both sexes, all of the middle, and some even of the upper classes, as eager to behold the frightful and disgusting scene, which was about to ensue, as the mere rabble in the open streets below. The same thing was manifest along the whole line of the thoroughfare by which the fatal procession would advance, with this difference alone, that many of the houses in that quarter belonging to the high nobility, and all with few exceptions being the dwellings of opulent persons, the windows, instead of being let like seats at the opera, to any who would pay the price, were occupied by the inhabitants, coming and going from their ordinary avocations to look out upon the noisy throng, when any louder outbreak of voices called their attention to the busy scene. Among the latter, in a large and splendid mansion, not far from the Porte St. Antoine, and commanding a direct view of the Place de la Bastille, with its esplanade, drawbridge, and principal entrance, a group was collected at one of the win- dows, nearly overlooking the gate itself, which seemed to take the liveliest interest in the proceedings of the day, although that interest was entirely unmixed with anything like the bru- tal expectation, and morbid love of horrible excitement which characterized the temper of the multitude. The most prominent persons of this group was a singularly noble-looking man, fast verging to his fiftieth year, if he had 224 true love's devotion. not yet attained it. His countenance, though resolute and firm, with a clear, piercing eye, lighted up at times, for a moment, by a quick, fiery flash, was calm, benevolent, and pensive in its ordinary mood, rather than energetical or active. Yet it was easy to perceive that the mind, which informed it, was of the highest capacity both of intellect and imagination. The figure and carriage of this gentleman would have suffi- ciently indicated that, at some period of his life he had borne arms and led the life of a camp — which, indeed, at that day was only to say that he was a nobleman of France — but a long scar on his right brow, a little way above the eye, losing itself among the thick locks of his fine waving hair, and a small round cicatrix in the centre of his cheek, showing where a pistol ball had found entrance, proved that he had been where blows were falling thickest, and that he had not spared his own person in the melee. His dress was very rich, according to the fashion of the day, though perhaps a fastidious eye might have objected that it partook somewhat of the past mode of the regency, which had just been brought to a conclusion as my tale commences, by the resignation of the witty and licentious Philip of Orleans. If, however, this fine-looking gentleman was the most prom- inent, he certainly was not the most interesting person of the company, which consisted, besides himself, of an ecclesiastic of high rank in the French church, a lady, now somewhat ad- vanced in years, but showing the remains of beauty which, in its prime, must have been extraordinary, and of a boy in his fifteenth or sixteenth year. For notwithstanding the eminent distinction, and high intel- lect of the elder nobleman, the dignity of the abbe, not unsup- ported by all which men look for as the outward and visible signs of that dignity, and the grace and beauty of the lady, it THE COUNT DE ST. RENAN's SON. 225 was upon the boy alone that the eye of every spectator would have dwelt, from the instant of its first discovering him. He was tall of his age, and very finely made, of proportions which gave promise of exceeding strength when he should ar- rive at maturity, but strength uncoupled to anything of weight or clumsiness. He was unusually free, even at this early period, from that heavy and ungraceful redundance of flesh which not unfrequently is the forerunner of athletic power in boys just bursting into manhood ; for he was already as con- spicuous for the thinness of his flanks, and the shapely hollow of his back, as for the depth and roundness of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, and the symmetry of his limbs. His head was well set on, and his whole bearing was that of one who had learned ease, and grace, and freedom, combined with dignity of carriage, in no school of practice and manner- ism, but from the example of those with whom he had been brought up, and by familiar intercourse from his cradle upward with the high-born and gently nurtured of the land. His long rich chestnut hair fell down in natural masses un- disfigured as yet by the hideous art of the court hair-dresser, on either side his fine broad forehead, and curled, untortured by the crisping-irons, over the collar of his velvet jerkin. His eyes were large and very clear, of the deepest shade of blue, with dark lashes, yet full of strong, tranquil light. All his fea- tures were regular and shapely, but it was not so much in the beauty of their form, or in the harmony of their coloring, that the attractiveness of his aspect consisted, as in the peculiarity and power of his expression. For a boy of his age, the pensiveness and composure of that expression were indeed almost unnatural, and they combined with a calm firmness and immobility of feature, which prom- ised, I know not what of resolution and tenacity of purpose. It was not gravity, much less sternness, or sadness, that lent 10* 226 true love's devotion. so powerful an expression to that young face ; nor was there a single line which indicated coldness or hardness of heart, or which would have led to a suspicion that he had been schooled by those hard monitors, suffering and sorrow. No, it was pure thoughtfulness, and that of the highest and most intellectual order, which characterized the boy's expression. Yet, though it was so thoughtful, there was nothing in the aspect whence to forebode a want of the more masculine quali- fications. It was the thoughtfulness of a worker, not of a dreamer — the thoughtfulness which prepares, not unfits a man for action. If the powers portrayed in that boy's countenance were not deceptive to the last degree, high qualities were within and a high destiny before him. But who, from the foreshowing and the bloom of sixteen years, may augur of the finish and the fruit of the threescore- and-ten, which are the sum of human toil and sorrow ? It was now nearly noon, when the outer drawbridge of the Bastile was lowered, and its gate opened ; and forth rode, two abreast, a troop of the musquetaires or lifeguard, in the bright steel casques and cuirases, with the musquetoons, from which they derived their name, unslung and ready for action. As they issued into the wider space beyond the bridge, the troop- ers formed themselves rapidly into a sort of hollow column, the front of which, some eight file deep, occupied the whole width of the street, two files in close order composing each flank, and leaving an open space in the centre completely surrounded by the horsemen. Into this space, without a. moment's delay, there was driven a low, black cart, or hurdle as it was technically called, of the rudest construction, drawn by four powerful black horses — a savage-faced official guiding them by the ropes which supplied the place of reins. On this ill-omened vehicle there stood three persons — the prisoner, and two of the armed wardens of THE CONDEMNED NOBLEMAN. 227 the Bastile — the former ironed very heavily, and the latter bristling with offensive weapons. Immediately in the rear of this car followed another troop of the lifeguard, which closed up in the densest and most serried order around and behind the victim of the law, so as to render any attempt at rescue useless. The person, to secure whose punishment so strong a military force had been produced, and to witness whose execution so vast a multitude was collected, was a tall, noble-looking man of forty or forty-five years, dressed in a rich mourning-habit of the day, but wearing neither hat nor mantle. His dark hair, mixed at intervals with thin lines of silver, was cut short behind, contrary to the usage of the times, and his neck was bare, the collar of his superbly-laced shirt being folded broadly back over the cape of his pourpoint. His face was very pale, and his complexion being naturally of the darkest, the hue of his flesh, from which all the healthful blood had receded, was strangely livid and unnatural in its ap- pearance. Still it did not seem that it was fear which had blanched his cheeks, and stolen all the color from his com- pressed lip, for his eye was full of a fierce, scornful light, and all his features were set and steady with an expression of the calmest and most iron resolution. As the fatal vehicle which bore him made its appearance on the esplanade without the gates of the prison, a deep hum of satisfaction ran through the assembled concourse, rising and deepening gradually into a savage howl like that of a hungry tiger. Then, then blazed out the haughty spirit, the indomitable pride of the French noble ! Then shame, and fear, and death itself, which he was looking even now full in the face, were all forgotten, all absorbed, in his overwhelming scorn of the people ! 228 The blood rushed in a torrent to his brow, his eye seemed to lighten forth actual fire, as he raised his right hand aloft — loaded although it was with such a mass of iron as a Greek a'hlete might have shunned to lift — and shook it at the clamor- ous mob, with a glare of scorn and fury that showed how, had he been at liberty, he would have dealt with the revilers of his fallen state. " Sacre canaille /" he hissed through his hard-set teeth — " back to your gutters and your garbage ; or follow, if you can, in silence, and learn, if ye lack not courage to look on, how a man should die !" The reproof told : for, though at the contemptuous tone and fell insult of the first words, the clamor of the rabble-rout waxed wilder, there was so much true dignity in the last sentiment he uttered, and the fate to which he was going was so hideous, that a key was struck in the popular heart, and thenceforth the tone of the spectators was changed altogether. It was the exultation of the people over the downfall and dis- grace of a noble, that had found tongue in that savage concla- mation ; it was the apprehension that his dignity, and the inter- est of his great name, would win him pardon from the partial justice of the king, that had rendered them pitiless and savage : and now that their own cruel will was about to be gratified, as they beheld how dauntlessly the proud lord went to a death of torture, they were stricken with a sort of secret shame, and followed the dread train in sullen silence. As the black car rolled onward, the haughty criminal turned his eyes upward — perchance from a sentiment of pride, which rendered it painful to him to meet the gaze, whether pitiful or triumphant, of the Parisian populace ; and as he did so, it chanced that his glance fell on the group which I have de- scribed as assembled at the windows of a mansion which he knew well, and in which, in happier days, he had passed gay THE WINDOW-GROUP. 229 and pleasant hours. Every eye of that group, with but one exception, was fixed upon himself, as he perceived on the in- stant ; the lady alone having turned her head away, as unable to look upon one in such a strait, whom she had known under circumstances so widely different. There was nothing, how- ever, in the gaze of all these earnest eyes that seemed to em- barrass, much less to offend, the prisoner. Deep interest, ear- nestness, perhaps horror, was expressed by one and all ; but that horror was not, nor in anywise partook of, the abhorrence which appeared to be the leading sentiment of the populace be- low. As he encountered their gaze, therefore, he drew himself up to his full height, and, laying his right hand upon his heart, bowed low and gracefully to the windows at which his friends of past days were assembled. The boy turned his eye quickly toward his father, as if to note what return he should make to that strange salutation. If it were so, he did not remain in doubt a moment, for that no- bleman bowed low and solemnly to his brother-peer with a very grave and sad aspect ; and even the ecclesiastic inclined his head courteously to the condemned criminal. The boy perhaps marvelled, for a look of bewilderment crossed his ingenuous features ; but it passed away in an in- stant, and, following the example of his seniors, he bent his ingenuous brow and sunny locks before the unhappy man, who never was again to interchange a salute with living mortal. It would seem that the recipient of that last act of courtesy was gratified beyond the expectation of those who offered it, for a faint flush stole over his livid features, from which the mo- mentary glow of indignation had now entirely faded, and a slight smile played upon his pallid lip, while a tear — the last he should ever shed — twinkled for an instant on his dark lashes. "True," he muttered to himself approvingly; "the nobles are true ever to their order !" . 230 true love's devotion. The eyes of the mob likewise had been attracted to the group above, by what had passed, and at first it appeared as if they had taken umbrage at the sympathy showed to the criminal by his equals in rank ; for there was manifested a little inclination to break out again into a murmured shout, and some angry words were bandied about, reflecting on the pride and party spirit of the proud lords. But the inclination was checked instantly, before it had time to render itself audible, by a word which was circulated, no one knew whence or by whom, through the crowded ranks — " Hush ! hush ! it is the good lord of St. Renan !" And there- with every voice was hushed — so fickle is the fancy of a crowd — although it is very certain that four fifths of those present knew not nor had ever heard the name of St. Renan, nor had the slightest suspicion what claims he who bore it had on either their respect or forbearance. The death-train passed on its way, however, unmolested by any further show of temper on the part of the crowd ; and the crowd itself, following the progress of the hurdle to the place of execution, was soon out of sight of the windows occupied by the family of the count de St. Renan. " Alas ! unhappy Kerguelen !" exclaimed the count, with a deep and painful sigh, as the fearful procession was lost to sight in the distance. " He knows not yet half the bitterness of that which he has to undergo." The boy looked up into his father's face with an inquiring glance, which he answered at once, still in the same subdued and solemn voice which he had used from the first. " By the arrangement of his hair and dress I can see that he imagines he is to die as a nobleman, by the axe. May Heaven support him when he sees the disgraceful wheel." " You seem to pity the wretch, Louis," cried the lady, who had not hitherto spoken, nor even looked toward the criminal THE SELF-AVENGER. 231 as he was passing by the windows — " and yet he was assuredly a most atrocious criminal. A cool, deliberate, cold-blooded poisoner ! Out upon it ! out upon it ! The wheel is fifty times too good for him !" " He was all that you say, Marie," replied her husband gravely ; " and yet I do pity him with all my heart, and grieve for him. I knew him well, though we have not met for many years, when we were both young, and there was no braver, no- bler, better man within the limits of fair France. I know, too, how he loved that woman, how he trusted that man — and then to be so betrayed ! It seems to me but yesterday that he led her to the altar, all tears of happiness, and soft maiden blushes. Poor Kerguelon ! he was sorely tried." " But still, my son, he was found wanting. Had he sub- mitted him as a Christian to the punishment the good God laid upon him — " " The world would have pronounced him a spiritless, dis- honored slave, father," said the count, answering the ecclesias- tic's speech before it was yet finished, " and gentlemen would have refused him the hand of fellowship." " Was he justified then, my father ?" asked the boy eagerly, who had been listening with eager attention to every word that had yet been spoken. " Do you think, then, that he was in the right ; that he could not do otherwise than to slay her ? I can understand that he was bound to kill the man who had basely wronged his honor — but a woman ! — a woman whom he had once loved too ! — that seems to me most horrible ; and the mode, by a slow poison ! living with her while it took effect ! eating at the same board with her ! sleeping by her side ! that seems even more than horrible, it was cowardly !" " God forbid, my son," replied the elder nobleman, " that I should say any man was justified who had murdered another in cold blood ; especially, as you have said, a woman, and by a 232 true love's devotion. method so terrible as poison. I only mean exactly what I said, that he was tried very fearfully, and that under such trial the best and wisest of us here below can not say how he would act himself. Moreover, it would seem, that mistaken as he was perhaps in the course which he seems to have imagined that honor demanded at his hands, he was more mistaken in the mode which he took of accomplishing his scheme of ven- geance. It was made very evident upon his trial that he did nothing, even to that wretched traitress, in rage or revenge, but all as he thought in honor. He chose a drug which con- sumed her by a mild and gradual decay, without suffering or spasm ; he gave her time for repentance, nay, it is clearly proved that he convinced her of her sin, reconciled her to the part he had taken in her death, and exchanged forgiveness with her before she passed away. I do not think myself that to commit a crime himself can clear one from dishonor cast upon him by another's act, but at the same time I can not look upon Kerguelen's guilt as of that brutal and felonious nature which calls for such a punishment as this — to be broken alive on the wheel, like a hired stabber — much less can I assent to the stigma which is attached to him on all sides, while that base, low-lived, treacherous, cogging miscreant, who fell too honor- ably by his honorable sword, meets pity — God defend us from such justice and sympathy ! — and is entombed with tears and honors, while the avenger is crushed, living, out of the very shape of humanity by the hands of the common hangman." The churchman's lips moved for a moment, as if he were about to speak in reply to the false doctrines which he heard enunciated by that upright and honorable man, and good father, but, ere he spoke, he reflected that those doctrines were held at that time, throughout Christian Europe, unquestioned, and confirmed by prejudice and pride beyond all the power of ar- gument or of religion to set them aside, or invalidate them. THE CODE OF CHIVALRY. 233 The law of chivalry, sterner and more inflexible than that Mo- saic code requiring an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, which demanded a human life as the sacrifice for every rash word, for every wrongful action, was the law paramount of every civilized land in that day, and in France perhaps most of all lands, as standing foremost in what was then deemed civilization. And the abbe well knew that discussion of this point would only tend to bring out the opinions of the count de St. Renan, in favor of the sanguinary code of honor, more decidedly, and consequently to confirm the mind of the young man more effectually in what he believed himself to be a fatal error. The young man, who was evidently very deeply interested in the matter of the conversation, had devoured every word of his father, as if he had been listening to the oracles of a God ; and, when he ceased, after a pause of some seconds, during which he was pondering very deeply on that which he had heard, he raised his intelligent face and said in an earnest voice — " I see, my father, all that you have alleged in palliation of the count's crime, and I fully understand you — though I still think it the most terrible thing I ever have heard tell of. But I do not perfectly comprehend wherefore you ransack our lan- guage of all the deepest terms of contempt which to heap upon the head of the chevalier de la Rochederrien ? He was the count's sworn friend, she was the count's wedded wife ; they both were forsworn and false, and both betrayed him. But in what was the chevalier's fault the greater or the viler ?" Those were strange days, in which such a subject could have been discussed between two wise and virtuous parents and a son, whom it was their chiefest aim in life to bring up to be a good and honorable man — that son, too, barely more than a boy in years and understanding. But the morality of those 234 true love's devotion. times was coarser and harder, and, if there was no more real vice, there was far less superficial delicacy in the manners of society, and the relations between men and women, than there is now-a-days. Perhaps the course lies midway ; for certainly if there was much coarseness then, there is much cant and much squeam- ishness now, which could be excellently well dispensed with. Beside this, boys were brought into the great world much earlier at that period, and were made men of at an age when they would have been learning Greek and Latin, had their birth been postponed by a single century. Then, at fifteen, they held commissions, and carried colors in the battle's front, and were initiated into all the license of the court, the camp, and the forum. So it came that the discussion of a subject such as that which I have described, was very naturally introduced even between parents and a beloved and only son by the circumstan- ces of the day. Morals, as regards the matrimonial contract, and the intercourse between the sexes, have at all times been lower and far less rigid among the French, than in nations of northern origin ; and never at any period of the world was the morality of any country, in this respect, at so low an ebb as was France under the reign of the Fifteenth Louis. The count de St. Renan replied, therefore, to his son with as little restraint as if he had been his equal in age, and equally acquainted with the customs and vices of the world, although intrigue and crime were the topics of which he had to treat. " It is quite true, Raoul," replied the count, " that so far as the unhappy lord of Kerguelen was concerned, the guilt of the chevalier de la Rochederrien was, as you say, no deeper, per- haps less deep than that of the miserable lady. He was, in- deed, bound to Kerguelen by every tie of friendship and honor ; he had been aided by his purse, backed by his sword, nay, I BASENESS AND INGRATITUDE. 235 have heard and believe, that he owed his life to him. Yet for all that he seduced his wife ; and to make it worse, if worse it could be, Kerguelen had married her from the strongest affec- tion, and till the chevalier brought misery, and dishonor, and death upon them, there was no wedded couple in all France so virtuous or so happy." " Indeed, sir !" replied Raoul, in tones of great emotion, staring with his large, dark eyes as if some strange sight had presented itself to him on a sudden. " I know well, Raoul, and if you have not heard it yet, you will soon do so, when you begin to mingle with men, that there are those in society, those whom the world regards, moreover, as honorable men, who affect to say that he who loves a wo- man, whether lawfully or sinfully, is at once absolved from all considerations except how he most easily may win — or in other words — ruin her; and consequently such men would speak slightly of the chevalier's conduct toward his friend, Kergue- len, and affect to regard it as a matter of course, and a mere affair of gallantry ! But I trust you will remember this, my son, that there is nothing gallant, nor can be, in lying, or deceit, or treachery of any kind. And further, that to look with eyes of passion on the wife of a friend, is in itself both a crime, and an act of deliberate dishonor." " I should not have supposed, sir," replied the boy, blushing- very deeply, partly it might be from the nature of the subject under discussion, and partly from the strength of his emotions, " that any cavalier could have regarded it otherwise. It seems to me that to betray a friend's honor is a far blacker thing than to betray his life — and surely no man with one pretension to honor would attempt to justify that." " I am happy to see, Raoul, that you think so correctly on this point. Hold to your creed, my dear boy, for there are who shall try ere long to shake it. But be sure that it is the 236 TRUE LOVE S DEVOTION. creed of honor. But, although I think La Rochederrien dis- graced himself even in this, it was not for this only that I termed him, as I deem him, the very vilest and most infamous of mankind. For when he had led that poor lady into sin ; when she had surrendered herself up wholly to his honor ; when she had placed the greatest trust — although a guilty trust, I admit — in his faith and integrity that one human being can place in another, the base dog betrayed her. He boasted of her weakness, of Kerguelen's dishonor, of his own infamy." " And did not they to whom he boasted of it," exclaimed the noble boy, his face flushing fiery red with excitement and in- dignation, " spurn him at once from their presence, as a thing unworthy and beyond the pale of law." " No, Raoul, they laughed at him, applauded his gallant suc- cess, and jeered at the lord of Kerguelen." " Great heaven ! and these were gentlemen !" " They were called such, at least ; gentlemen by name and descent they were assuredly, but as surely not right gentlemen at heart. Many of them, however, in cooler moments, spoke of the traitor and the braggart with the contempt and disgust he merited. Some friend of Kerguelen's heard what had passed, and deemed it his duty to inform him. The most un- happy husband called the seducer to the field, wounded him mortally, and — to increase yet more his infamy — even in the agony of death the slave confessed the whole, and craved for- giveness like a dog. Confessed the woman's crime — you mark me, Raoul ! — had he died mute, or died even with a falsehood in his mouth, as I think he was bound to do in such extremity, affirming her innocence with his last breath, he had saved her, and perhaps spared her wretched lord the misery of knowing certainly the depth of his dishonor." The boy pondered for a moment or two without making any answer ; and although he was evidently not altogether satisfied, AN INTRICATE QUESTION. 237 probably would not have again spoken, had not his father, who read what was passing in his mind, asked him what it was that he desired to know further. Raoul smiled at perceiving how completely his father under- stood him, and then said at once, without pause or hesitation : — " I understand you to say, sir, that you thought the wretched man of whom we spoke was bound, under the extremity in which he stood, to die with a falsehood in his mouth. Can a gentleman ever be justified in saying the thing that is not? Much more, can it be his bounden duty to do so ?" " Unquestionably, as a rule of general conduct, he can not. Truth is the soul of honor ; and without truth, honor can not exist. But this is a most intricate and tangled question. It never can arise without presupposing the commission of one guilty act — one act which no good or truly moral man would commit at all. It is, therefore, scarcely worth our while to examine it. But I do say, on my deliberate and grave opinion, that if a woman, previously innocent and pure, have sacrificed her honor to a man, that man is bound to sacrifice everything — his life without a question, and I think his truth also — in order to preserve her character, so far as he can, unscathed. But we will speak no more of this ; it is an odious subject, and one of which I trust you, Raoul, will never have the sad occasion to consider." " Oh, never, father, never I !" cried the ingenuous boy ; " I must first lose my senses, and become a madman." "All men are madmen, Raoul," said the churchman — who stood in the relation of maternal uncle to the youth — "who suffer their passions to have the mastery of them. You must learn, therefore, to be their tyrant ; for if you be not, be well assured that that they will be yours — and merciless tyrants they are to the wretches who become their subjects." " I will remember what you say, sir," answered the boy, 238 true love's devotion. " and, indeed, I am not like to forget it, for altogether this is the saddest day I ever have passed ; and this is the most hor- rible and appalling story that I have ever heard told. It was but just that the lord of Kerguelen should die, for he did a mur- der ; and since the law punishes that in a peasant, it must do so likewise with a noble. But to break him upon the wheel ! — it is atrocious ! I should have thought all the nobles of the land would have applied to the king to spare him that horror." " Many of them did apply, Raoul ; but the king, or his min- isters in his name, made answer that during the regency the count Horn was broken on the wheel for murder, and therefore that to behead the lord of Kerguelen for the same offence, would be to admit that the count was wrongfully condemned." " Out on it ! out on it ! what sophistry ! Count Horn mur- dered a banker, like a common thief, for his gold ; and this un- happy lord hath done the deed for which he must suffer in a mistaken sense of honor, and with all tenderness compatible with such a deed. There is nothing similar or parallel in the two cases ; and if there were, what signifies it now to Count Horn, whether he were condemned rightfully or not ? Are these men heathen, that they would offer a victim to the offended manes of the dead ? But is there no hope, my father, that his sentence may be commuted ?" " None whatever. Let us trust, therefore, that he has died penitent, and that his sufferings are already over ; and let us pray, ere we lay us down to sleep, that his sins may be forgiven to him, and that his soul may have rest." "Amen!" replied the boy, solemnly, at the same moment that the ecclesiastic repeated the same word — though he did so, as it would seem, less from the heart, and more as a matter of course. Nothing further was said on that subject, and in truth the conversation ceased altogether. A gloom was cast over the A CHANGE OF SUBJECT. 239 spirits of all present, both by the imagination of the horrors which were in progress at that very moment, and by the recol- lection of the preceding enormities of which this was but the consummation ; but the young viscount Raoul was so completely engrossed by the deep thoughts which that conversation had awakened in his mind, that his father, who was a very close observer, and correct judge of human nature, almost regretted that he had spoken, and determined, if possible, to divert him from the gloomy revery into which he had fallen. " Viscount," said he, after a silence which had endured now for many minutes, " when did you last wait upon Mademoiselle Melanie d'Argenson ?" Raoul's eyes brightened at the name, and again the bright blush, which I noticed before, crossed his ingenuous features ; but this time it was pleasure, not embarrassment, which col- ored his young face so vividly. "I called yesterday, sir," he answered, "but she was abroad with the countess, her mother. In truth, I have not seen her since Friday last." " Why, that is an age, Raoul ! Are you not dying to see her again by this time ? At your age, I was far more gallant." " With your permission, sir, I will go now and make my compliments to her." " Not only my permission, Raoul, but my advice to make your best haste thither. If you go straightways, you will be sure to find her at home, for the ladies are sure not to have ventured abroad with all this uproar in the streets. Take Mar- tin the equerry with you, and three of the grooms. What will you ride — the new Barb I bought for you last week! Yes! as well him as any ; and, hark you, boy, tell them to send Martin to me first : I will speak to him while you are beautifying yourself to please the beaux yeux of Mademoiselle Melanie." "I am not sure that you are doing wisely, Louis," said the 240 true love's devotiox. lady — as her son left the saloon, her eye following him wist- fully — "in bringing Raoul up as you are doing." " Nor I, Marie," replied her husband, gravely ; " we poor, blind mortals can not be sure of anything, least of all of any- thing the ends of which are incalculably distant. But in what particular do you doubt the wisdom of my method V " In talking to him as you do, as though he were a man al- ready ; in opening his eyes so widely to the sins and vices of the world ; in discussing questions with him such as those you spoke of with him but now. He is a mere boy, you will re- member, to hear tell of such things !" " Boys hear of such things early enough, I assure you — far earlier than you ladies would deem possible. For the rest, he must hear of them one day ; and I think it quite as well that he should hear of them, since hear he must, with the comments of an old man, and that old man his best friend, than find them out by the teachings and judge of them according to the light views of his young and excitable associates. He who is fore- warned is fore-wea.poned. I was kept pure, as it is termed — or, in other words, kept ignorant of myself and of the world I was destined to live in — until one fine day I was cut loose from the apron-strings of my lady-mother, and the tether of my abbe-tutor, and launched head-foremost into that vortex of temp- tation and iniquity, the world of Paris, like a ship without a chart or a compass. A precious race I ran in consequence, for a time ; and if I had not been so fortunate as to meet you, Ma- rie — whose bright eyes brought me out, like a blessed beacon, safe from that perilous ocean — I know not but I should have suffered shipwreck, both in fortune, which is a trifle, and in character, which is everything. No, no ; if that is all in which you doubt, your fears are causeless." " But that is not all. In this you may be right — I know not ; at all events, you are a fitter judge than I ! But are you THE YOUNG LOVERS. 241 wise in encouraging so very strongly his fancy for Melanie d'Argenson ?" " I' faith, it is something more than a fancy, I think : the boy loves her !" " I see that, Louis, clearly ; and you encourage it." " And wherefore should I not? She is a good girl — as good as she is beautiful !" " She is an angel !" "And her mother, Marie, was your most intimate, your bosom friend." " And now a saint in heaven !" " Well, what more ? She is as noble as a De Rohan or a Montmorency ; she is an heiress with superb estates adjoining our own lands of St. Renan ; she is, like our Raoul, an only child ; and what is the most of all, I think, although it is not the mode in this dear France of ours to attach much weight to that, it is no made-up match, no cradle-plighting between babes — to be made good, perhaps, by the breaking of hearts — but a genuine, natural, mutual affection between two young, sincere, innocent, artless persons ; and a splendid couple they will make. What can you see to alarm you in that prospect ?" " Her father." " The sieur d'Argenson ! Well, I confess, he is not a very charming person ; but we all have our own faults or weak- nesses : and, after all, it is not he whom Raoul is about to marry." " I doubt his good faith, very sorely." " I should doubt it too, Marie, did I see any cause which should lead him to break it. But the match is in all respects more desirable for him than it is for us ; for, though Mademoi- selle d'Argenson is noble, rich, and handsome, the viscount de Douarnenez might be well justified in looking for a wife far higher than the daughter of a simple sieur of Bretagne. Be 11 242 true love's devotion. sides, although the children loved before any one spoke of it — before any one saw it, indeed, save I — it was D'Argenson him- self who broke the subject. What, then, should induce him to play false ?" " I do not know ; yet I doubt — I fear him." "But that, Marie, is unworthy of your character — of your mind." " Louis, she is too beautiful !" " I do not think Raoul will find fault with her on that score." " Nor would one greater than Raoul." " Whom do you mean ?" cried the count, now for the first time startled. " I have seen eyes fixed upon her in deadly admiration, which never admire but they pollute the object of their admi- ration." " The king's, Marie ?" " The king's !" "And then—?" " And then I have heard it whispered that the baron de Beau- lieu has asked her hand of the sieur d'Argenson." " The baron de Beaulieu ! and who the devil is the baron de Beaulieu, that the sieur d'Argenson should doubt for the nine hundredth part of a minute between him and the viscount de Douarnenez for the husband of his daughter ?" " The baron de Beaulieu, count, is the very particular friend, the right-hand man, and most private minister, of his most Chris- tian majesty King Louis XV." " Ha ! is it possible ? Do you mean that — " "I mean even that — if, by that, you mean all that is most infamous and loathsome on the part of Beaulieu, all that is most licentious on the part of the king. I believe — nay, I am well- nigh sure — that there is such a scheme of villany on foot against that sweet, unhappy child ; and therefore would I pause a mother's apprehensions. 243 ere I urged too far my child's love toward her, lest it prove most unhappy and disastrous." "And do you think D'Argenson capable — "exclaimed her husband — " Of anything," she answered, interrupting him, " of anything that may serve his avarice or his ambition." "Ah ! it may be so. I will look to it, Marie ; I will look to it narrowly. But I fear that, if it be as you fancy, it is too late already ; that our boy's heart is devoted to her entirely ; that any break now, in one word, would be a heart-break !" " He loves her very dearly, beyond doubt," replied the lady ; " and she deserves it all, and is, I think, very fond of him like- wise." "And can you suppose for a moment that she will lend her- self to such a scheme of infamy?" " Never ! She would die sooner." " I do not apprehend, then, that there will be so much diffi- culty as you seem to fear. This business which brought all of us Bretons up to Paris, as claimants of justice for our prov- ince, or courters of the king's grace, as they phrase it, is fin- ished happily ; and there is nothing to detain any of us in this great wilderness of stone and mortar any longer. D'Argenson told me yesterday that he should set out homeward on Wednes- day next ; and it is but hurrying our own preparations a little to travel with them in one party. I will see him this evening, and arrange it." " Have you ever spoken with him concerning the contract, Louis ?" " Never, directly, or in the form of a solemn proposal. But we have spoken oftentimes of the evident attachment of the children, and he has ever expressed himself gratified, and seemed to regard it as a matter of course. But hush ! here comes the boy : leave us a while, and I will speak with him." 244 true love's devotion. Almost before his words were ended the door was thrown open, and young Raoul entered, splendidly dressed, with his rapier at his side, and his plumed hat in his hand — as likely a youth to win a fair maid's heart as ever wore the weapon of a gentleman. " Martin is absent, sir. He went out soon after breakfast, they tell me, to look after a pair of fine English carriage-horses for the countess my mother, and has not yet returned. I or- dered old Jean Francois to attend me, with the four other grooms." "Very well, Raoul. But look you — your head is young, and your blood hot. . You will meet, it is very like, all this canaille returning from the slaughter of poor Kerguelen. Now mark me, boy, there must be no vaporing on your part, or inter- fering with the populace ; and even if they should, as very probably they may, be insolent, and utter outcries and abuse against the nobility, even bear with them. On no account strike any person, nor let your servants do so, nor encroach upon their order ; unless, indeed, they should so far forget them- selves as to throw stones, or to strike the first blow." "And then, my father?" " Oh, then, Raoul, you are at liberty to let your good sword feel the fresh air, and to give your horse a taste of those fine spurs you wear. But even in that case, I should advise you to use your edge rather than your point. There is not much harm done in wiping a saucy burgher across the face to mend his manners, but to pink him through the body makes it an awk- ward matter. And I need not tell you by no means to fire, un- less you should be so beset and maltreated that you can not otherwise extricate yourself; yet you must have your pistols loaded. In these times it is necessary always to be provide^ against all things. I do not, however, tell you these things now because you are likely to be attacked ; but such events MELANIE D'ARGENSON. 245 are always possible, and one can not provide against such too early." " I will observe what you say, my father. Have I your per- mission now to depart ?" " Not yet, Raoul ; I would speak with you first a few words. This Mademoiselle Melanie is very pretty, is she not?" " She is the most beautiful lady I have ever seen," replied the youth, not without some embarrassment. "And as amiable and gentle as she is beautiful?" " Oh, yes, indeed, sir. She is all gentleness and sweetness, yet is full of mirth, too, and graceful merriment." " In one word, then, she seems to you a very sweet and lovely creature." " Doubtless she does, my father." "And I beseech you tell me, viscount, in what light do you appear in the eyes of this very admirable young lady ?" " Oh, sir !" replied the youth, now very much embarrassed, and blushing actually from shame. " Nay, Raoul, I did not ask the question lightly, I assure you, or in the least degree as a jest. It becomes very important that I should know on what terms you and this fair lady stand together. You have been visiting her now almost daily, I think, during these three months last past. Do you conceive that you are very disagreeable to her ?" " Oh ! I hope not, sir. It would grieve me much if I thought so i» " Well, I am to understand, then, that you think she is not blind to your merits, sir ?" " I am not aware, my dear father, that I have any merits which she should be called to observe." " Oh, yes, viscount ! That is an excess of modesty which touches a little, I am afraid, on hypocrisy. You are not alto- gether without merits. You are young, not ill-looking, nobly 246 TRUE LOVES DEVOTION. born, and will, in God's good time, be rich. Then you can ride well, and dance gracefully, and are not. generally ill-educated or unpolished. It is quite as necessary, my dear son, that a young man should not. undervalue himself, as that he should not think of his deserts too highly. Now, that you have some merits, is certain — for the rest, I desire frankness of you just now, and beg that you will speak out plainly. I think you love this young girl : is it not so, Raoul ?" " I do love her sir, very dearly — with my whole heart and spirit !" " And do you feel sure that this is not a mere transient liking — that it will last, Raoul ?" " So long as life lasts in my heart, so long will my love for her last, my father !" "And you would wish to marry her?" " Beyond all things in this world, my dear father." "And do you think that, were her tastes and views on the subject consulted, she would say likewise ?" " I hope she would, sir. But I have never asked her." "And her father — is he gracious when you meet him ?" " Most gracious, sir, and most kind ; indeed, he distinguishes me above all the other young gentlemen who visit there." "You would not, then, despair of obtaining his consent." " By no means, my father, if you would be so kind as to ask it." " And you desire that I should do so ?" " You will make me the happiest man in all France, if you will !" " Then go your way, sir, and make the best you can of it with the young lady. I will speak myself with the sieur d'Ar- genson to-night ; and I do not despair any more than you do, Raoul. But look you, boy, you do not fancy, I hope, that you are going to church with your lady-love to-morrow or the next the lover's departure. 247 day ! Two or three years hence, at the earliest, will be all in very good time. You must serve a campaign or two first, in order to show that you know how to use your sword." " In all things, my dear father, I shall endeavor to fulfil your wishes, knowing them to be as kindly as they are wise and prudent. I owe you gratitude for every hour since I was born, but for none so much as for this, for indeed you are going to make me the happiest of men." "Away with you then, Sir Happiness! Betake yourself on the wings of love to your bright lady ; and mind the advice of your favorite, Horace, to pluck the pleasures of the passing hour, mindful how short is the sum of mortal life !" The young man embraced his father gayly, and left the room with a quick step and a joyous heart ; and the jingling of his spurs, and the quick, merry clash of his scabbard on the marble staircase, told how joyously he descended its steps. A moment afterward his father heard the clear, sonorous tones of his fine voice calling to his attendants, and yet a few seconds later the lively clatter of his horse's hoofs on the re- sounding pavement. "Alas for the happy days of youth, which are so quickly flown !" exclaimed the father, as he participated in the hopeful and exulting mood of his noble boy ; " and alas for the promise of mortal happiness, which is so oft deceitful and a traitress !" He paused for a few moments, and seemed to ponder, and then added, with a confident and proud expression : " But I see not why one should forebode aught but success and happiness to this noble boy of mine. Thus far, everything has worked tow- ard the end as I would wish it. They have fallen in love nat- urally and of their own accord, and D'Argenson, whether he like it. or not, can not help himself. He must needs accedet proudly and joyfully, to my proposal ; he knows his estates to be in my power far too deeply to resist. Nay, more — though 248 true love's devotion. he be somewhat selfish, and ambitious, and avaricious, I know- nothing of him that should justify me in believing that he would sell his daughter's honor, even to a king, for wealth or title ! My good wife is all too doubtful and suspicious. — But, hark! here comes the mob, returning from that unfortunate man's ex- ecution ! I wonder how he bore it ?**' And with the words he moved toward the window, and, throwing it open, stepped out upon the spacious balcony. Here he learned speedily, from the conversation of the passing crowd, that, although dreadfully shocked and startled by the first inti- mation of the death he was to undergo, which he received from the sight of the fatal wheel, the lord of Kerguelen had died as becomes a proud, brave man, reconciled to the church, forgiv- ing his enemies, without a groan or a murmur, under the pro- tracted agonies of that most horrible of deaths, the breaking on the wheel ! Meanwhile the day passed onward ; and when evening came, and the last and most social meal of the day was laid on the domestic board, young Raoul had returned from his visit to the lady of his love, full of high hopes and happy anticipations. Afterward, according to his promise, the count de St. Renan went forth and held debate until a late hour of the night with the sieur d'Argenson. Raoul had not retired when he came home, too restless in his youthful ardor even to think of sleep. His father brought good tidings : the father of the lady had consented, and on their arrival in Bretagne the marriage-con- tract was to be signed in form. That was to Raoul an eventful day ; and never did he forget it, or the teachings he drew from it. That day was his fate. THE CASTLE OF ST. RENAN. 249 PART II. The castle of St. Renan, like the dwellings of many of the nobles of Bretagne and Gascony, was a superb old pile of solid masonry towering above the huge cliffs which guard the whole of that iron coast with its gigantic masses of rude masonry. So close did it stand to the verge of these precipitous crags on its seaward face, that whenever the wind from the westward blew angrily and in earnest, the spray of the tremendous billows which rolled in from the wide Atlantic, and burst in thunder at the foot of those stern ramparts, was dashed so high by the collision that it would often fall in salt, bitter rain, upon the es- planade above, and dim the diamond-paned casements with its cold mists. For leagues on either side, as the spectator stood upon the terrace above and gazed out on the expanse of the everlasting ocean, nothing was to be seen but the salient angles or deep recesses formed by the dark, gray cliffs, unrelieved by any spot of verdure, or even by that line of silver sand at their base, which often intervenes between the rocks of an iron coast and the sea. Here, however, there was no such inter- mediate step visible ; the black face of the rocks sunk sheer and abrupt into the water, which, by its dark-green hue, indi- cated to the practised eye, that it was deep and scarcely fath- omable to the very shore. In places, indeed, where huge caverns opening in front to the vast ocean, which had probably hollowed them out of the earth-fast rock in the course of succeeding ages, yawned in the mimicry of Gothic arches, the entering tide would rush, as it were, into the bowels of the land, roaring and groaning in 11* 250 true love's devotion*. those strange subterranean dungeons like some strong prisoner, Typhon, Enceladus, or Ephialtes, in his immortal agony. One of these singular vaults opened right, in the base of the rock on the summit of which stood the castle of St. Renan, and into this the billows rushed with rapidity so tumultuous and terrible that the fishers of that stormy coast avowed that a vortex was created in the bay by their influx or return seaward, which could be perceived sensibly at a league's distance ; and that to be caught in it, unless the wind blew strong and steadily off land, was sure destruction. However that might be, it is cer- tain that this great subterranean tunnel extended far beneath the rocks into the interior of the land, for at the distance of nearly two miles from the castle, directly eastward, in the bot- tom of a dark, wooded glen, which runs for many miles nearly parallel to the coast, there is a deep, rocky well, or natural cavity, of a form nearly circular, which, when the tide is up, is filled to overflowing with bitter sea-water, on which the bub- bles and foam-flakes show the obstacles against which it must have striven in its landward journey. At low water, on the contrary, " the Devil's Drinking-Cup," for so it is named by the superstitious peasantry of the neighborhood, presents noth- ing to the eye but a deep, black abyss, which the countryfolks, of course, assert to be bottomless. But, in truth, its depth is immense, as can easily be perceived, if you cast a stone into it, by the length of time during which it may be heard thundering from side to side, until the reverberated roar of its descent ap- pears to die away, not because it has ceased, but because the sound is too distant to be conveyed to human ears. On this side of the castle everything differs as much as it is possible to conceive from the view to the seaward, which is grim and desolate as any ocean scenery the world over. Few sails are ever seen on those dangerous coasts ; all vessels bound to the mouth of the Garonne, or southward to the shores COUNTRY AROUND ST. RENAN CASTLE. 251 of Spain, giving as wide a berth as possible to its frightful reefs and inaccessible crags, which to all their other terrors add that, from the extraordinary prevalence of the west wind on that part of the ocean, of being, during at least three parts of the year, a lee shore. Inland, however, instead of the bleak and barren surface of the ever-stormy sea, indented into long rolling ridges and dark tempestuous hollows, all was varied and smiling, and gratifying to every sense given by nature for his good to man. Imme- diately from the brink of the cliffs the land sloped downward southwardly and to the eastward, so that it was bathed during all the day, except a few late evening hours, in the fullest ra- diance of the sunbeams. Over this immense sloping descent the eye could range from the castle battlements for miles and miles, until the rich green champaign was lost in the blue haze of distance. And it was green and gay over the whole of that vast expanse, here with the dense and unpruned foliage of im- memorial forests, well stocked with every species of game, from the gaunt wolf and the tusky boar, to the fleet roebuck and the timid hare ; here with the trim and smiling verdure of rich orchards, in which nestled around their old, gray shrines the humble hamlets of the happy peasantry ; and everywhere with the long intersecting curves, and sinuous irregular lines of the old hawthorn hedges, thick set with pollard trees and hedge- row timber, which make the whole country, when viewed from a height, resemble a continuous tract of intermingled glades and coppices, and which have procured for an adjoining district the well-known, and in after-days far celebrated name of the Bocage. Immediately around the castle, on the edge as it were of this beautiful and almost boundless slope, there lay a large and well-kept garden in the old French style, laid out in a succes- sion of terraces, bordered by balustrades of marble, adorned at 252 true love's devotion. frequent intervals by urns and statues, and rendered accessible each from the next below by flights of ornamented steps of reg- ular and easy elevation ; pleached bowery walks, and high clipped hedges of holly, yew, and hornbeam, were the usual decorations of such a garden, and here they abounded to an extent that would have gladdened the heart of an admirer of the tastes and habits of the olden time. In addition to these, however, there were a profusion of flowers of the choicest kinds known or cultivated in those days — roses and lilies without number, and honeysuckles, and the sweet-scented cle- matis, climbing in bountiful luxuriance over the numberless seats and bowers which everywhere tempted to repose. Below this beautiful garden a wide expanse of smooth, green turf, dotted here and there with majestic trees, and at rarer in- tervals diversified with tall groves and verdant coppices, cov- ered the whole descent of the first hill to the dim wooded dell which has been mentioned as containing the singular cavity known throughout the country as the " Devil's Drinking-Cup." This dell, which was the limit of count de St. Renan's de- mesnes in that direction, was divided from the park by a rag- ged paling many feet in height, and of considerable strength, framed of rough timber from the woods, the space within being appropriated to a singular and choice breed of deer, imported from the East by one of the former counts, who, being of an adventurous and roving disposition, had sojourned for some time in the French settlements of Hindostan. Beyond this dell again, which was defended on the outer side by a strong and lofty wall of brick, all overrun with luxuriant ivy, the ground rose in a small rounded knoll, or hillock of small ex- tent, richly wooded, and crowned by the gray turrets and steep flagged roof of the old chateau d'Argenson. This building, however, was as much inferior in size and stateliness to the grand feudal fortalice of St. Renan, as the lit- THREE YEARS AFTER. 253 tie round-topped hill on which it stood, so slightly elevated above the face of the surrounding country as to detract nothing, at least in appearance, from its general slope to the southeast- ward, Avas lower than the great rock-bound ridge from which it overlooked the territories, all of which had in distant times obeyed the rules of its almost princely dwellers. The sun of a lovely evening in the latter part of July had already sunk so far down in the west that only one half of its great golden disk was visible above the well-defined, dark out- line of the seaward-crags, which, relieved by the glowing ra- diance of the whole western sky, stood out massive and solid like a huge purple wall, and seemed so close at hand that the spectator could almost persuade himself that he had but to stretch out his arm, in order to touch the great barrier, which was in truth several miles distant. Over the crest, and through the gaps of this continuous line of highland, the long level rays streamed down in the slope in one vast flood of golden glory, which was checkered only by the interminable length of shadows which were projected from every single tree, or scattered clump, from every petty eleva- tion of the soil, down the soft glimmering declivity. Three years had elapsed since the frightful fate of the un- happy lord of Kerguelen, and the various incidents, which in some sort took their origin from the nature of his crime and its consequence, affecting in the highest degree the happiness of the families of St. Renan and D'Argenson. Three years had elapsed — three years ! That is a little space in the annals of the world, in the life of nations, nay, in the narrow records of humanity. Three years of careless hap- piness, three years of indolent and tranquil ease, unmarked by any great event, pass over our heads unnoted, and, save in the gray hairs which they scatter, leave no memorial of their tran- sit, more than the sunshine of a happy summer day. They are, they are gone, they are forgotten. 254 true love's devotion. Even three years of gloom and sorrow, of that deep anguish which at the time the sufferer believes to be indelible and ever- lasting, lag on their weary, desolate course, and when they too are over-passed, and he looks back upon their transit, which seemed so painfully protracted, and, lo ! all is changed, and their flight also is now but as an ended minute. And yet, what strange and sudden changes altering the affairs of men, changing the hearts of mortals, yea, revolutionizing their whole intellects, and overturning their very natures — more than the devastating earthquake or the destroying lava transforms the face of the everlasting earth — have not been wrought, and again well nigh forgotten within that little period. Three years had passed, I say, over the head of Raoul de Douarnenez — the three most marked and memorable years in the life of every young man — and from the ingenuous and promising stripling, he had now become in every respect a man, and a bold and enterprising man, moreover, who had seen much and struggled much, and suffered somewhat — without which there is no gain of his wisdom here below — in his tran- sit, even thus far, over the billows and among the reefs and quicksands of the world. His father had kept his promise to that loved son in all things, nor had the sieur d'Argenson failed of his plighted faith. The autumn of that year, the spring of which saw Ker- guelen die in unutterable agony, saw Raoul de Douarnenez the contracted and affianced husband of the lovely and beloved Melanie. All that was wanted now to render them actually man and wife, to create between them that bond which, alone of mortal ties, man can not sunder, was the ministration of the church's holiest rite, and that, in wise consideration of their tender years, was postponed until the termination of the third summer. During the interval it was decided that Raoul, as was the A NEW COUNT DE ST. RENAN. 255 custom of the world in those days, especially among the nobil- ity, and most especially among the nobility of France, should bear arms in active service, and see something of the world abroad, before settling down into the easier duties of domestic life. The family of St. Renan, since the days of that ancestor who has been already mentioned as having sojourned in Pondi- cherry, had never ceased to maintain some relations with the East Indian possessions of France, and a relation of the house in no very remote degree was at this time military gov- ernor of the French East Indies, which were then, previous to the unexampled growth of the British empire in the East, im- portant, flourishing, and full of future promise. Thither, then, it was determined that Raoul should go in search of adventures, if not of fortune, in the spring following the signature of his marriage contract with the young demoi- selle d'Argenson. And, consequently, after a winter passed in quiet domestic happiness on the noble estates, whereon the gentry of Brittany were wont to reside in almost patriarchal state — a winter, every day of which the young lovers spent in company, and at every eve of which they separated more in love than they were at meeting in the morning — Raoul set sail in a fine frigate, carrying several companies of the line, invested with the rank of ensign, and proud to bear the colors of his king, for the shores of the still half-fabulous oriental world. Three years had passed, and the boy had returned a man, the ensign had returned a colonel, so rapid was the promotion of the nobility of the sword in the French army, under the an- cient regime ; and — greatest change of all, ay, and saddest — the viscount of Douarnenez had returned count de St. Renan. An infectious fever, ere he had been one year absent from the land of his birth, and had cut off his noble father in the very pride and maturity of his intellectual manhood ; nor had his 256 true love's devotion. mother lingered long behind him whom she had ever loved so fondly. A low, slow fever, caught from that beloved patient whom she had so affectionately nurtured, was as fatal to her, though not so suddenly, as it had proved to her good lord ; and when their son returned to France full of honors achieved, and gay anticipations for the future, he found himself an orphan, the lord in lonely and unwilling state of the superb demesnes which had so long called his family their owners. There never in the world was a kinder heart than that which beat in the breast of the young soldier, and never was a family more strictly bound together by all the kindly influences which breed love and confidence, and domestic happiness among all the members of it, than that of St Renan. There had been nothing austere or rigid in the bringing up of the gallant boy ; the father, who had at one hour been the tutor and the moni- tor, was at the next the comrade and the playmate, and at all times the true and trusted friend, while the mother had been ever the idolized and adored protectress, and the confidante of all the innocent schemes and artless joys of boyhood. Bitter, then, was the blow stricken to the very heart of the young soldier, when the first tidings which he received, on landing in his loved France, was the intelligence that those — all those, with but one exception — whom he most tenderly and truly loved, all those to whom he looked up with affection- ate trust for advice and guidance, all those on whom he relied for support in his first trials of young manhood, were cold and silent in the all-absorbing tomb. To him there was no hot, feverish ambition prompting him to grasp joyously the absolute command of his great heritage. In his heart there was none of that fierce yet sordid avarice which finds compensation for the loss of the scarce-lamented dead in the severance of the dearest natural bonds, in the pos- session of wealth, or the promise of power. Nor was this all, A YOUNG AND TRUSTING HEART. 257 for, in truth, so well had Raoul de Douarnenez been brought up, and so completely had wisdom grown up with his growth, that when, at the age of nineteen years, he found himself en- dowed with the rank and revenues of one of the highest and wealthiest peers of France, and in all but mere name his own master — for the abbe de Chastellar, his mother's brother, who had been appointed his guardian by his father's will, scarcely attempted to exercise even a nominal jurisdiction over him — he felt himself more than ever at a loss, deprived as he was, when he most needed it, of his best natural counsellor ; and instead of rejoicing, was more than half inclined to lament over the almost absolute self-control with which he found himself invested. Young hearts are naturally true themselves, and prone to put trust in others ; and it is rarely, except in a few dark and morose and gloomy natures, which are exceptions to the rule and standard of human nature, that man learns to be distrustful and suspicious of his kind, even after experience of fickleness and falsehood may have in some sort justified suspicions, until his head has grown gray. And this in an eminent degree was the case with Raoul de St. Renan, for henceforth he must be called by the title which his altered state had conferred upon him. His natural disposition was as trustful and unsuspicious as it was artless and ingenuous ; and from his early youth all the lessons which had been taught him by his parents tended to preserve in him unblemished and unbroken that bright gem, which once shattered never can be restored, confidence in the truth, the probity, the goodness of mankind. Some ruder schooling he had met in the course of his ser- vice in the eastern world — he had already learned that men, and — harder knowledge yet to gain — women also, can feign friendship, ay, and love, where neither have the least root in 258 true love's devotion. the heart, for purposes the vilest, ends the most sordid. He had learned that bosom friends can be secret foes ; that false loves can betray ; and yet he was not disenchanted with hu- manity, he had not even dreamed of doubting, because he had fallen among worldly-minded flatterers and fickle-hearted co- quettes, that absolute friendship and unchangeable love may exist, even in this evil world, stainless and incorruptible among all the changes and chances of this mortal life. If he had been deceived, he had attributed the failure of his hopes hitherto to the right cause — the fallacy of his own judg- ment, and the error of his own choice ; and the more he had been disappointed the more firmly had he relied on what he felt certain could not change, the affection of his parents, the love of his betrothed bride. On the very instant of his landing he found himself ship- wrecked in his first hope ; and on his earliest interview with his uncle, in Paris, he had the agony — the utter and appalling agony to undergo — of hearing that in the only promise which he had flattered himself was yet left to him, he was destined in all probability to undergo a deeper, deadlier disappointment. If Melanie d'Argenson had been a lovely girl, the good abbe said, when she was budding out of childhood into youth, so ut- terly had she outstripped all the promise of her girlhood, that no words could describe, nor imagination suggest to itself the charms of the mature yet youthful woman. There was no other beauty named, when loveliness was the theme, throughout all France, than that of the young betrothed of Raoul de Dou- arnenez. And that which was so loudly and so widely bruited abroad, could not fail to reach the ever open, ever greedy ears of the vile and sensual tyrant who sat on the throne of France, at that time heaping upon his people that load of suffering and anguish which was in after-times to be avenged so bitterly and bloodily upon the innocent heads of his unhappy descendants. THE ROYAL VOLUPTUARY. 259 Louis had, moreover, heard years before, nay, looked upon the nascent loveliness of Melanie d'Argenson, and, with that cold-blooded voluptuary, to look on beauty was to lust after it, to lust after it was to devote all the powers his despotism could command to win it. Hence as the abbe de Chastellar soon made his unfortunate nephew and pupil comprehend, a settled determination had arisen on the part of the odious despot to break off the marriage of the lovely girl with the young soldier whom it was well known that she fondly loved, and to have her the wife of one who would be less tender of his honor, and less reluctant to surrender, or less difficult to be deprived of a bride, too trans- cendency beautiful to bless the arms of a subject, even if he were the noblest of the noble. All this was easily arranged, the base father of Melanie was willing enough to sell his exquisite and virtuous child to the splendid infamy of becoming a king's paramour, and the yet baser chevalier de la Rochederrien was eager to make the shameful negotiation easy, and to sanction it to the eyes of the willingly hoodwinked world, by giving his name and rank to a woman, who was to be his wife but in name, and whose charms and virtue he had precontracted to make over to another. The infamous contract had been agreed upon by the princi- pal actors ; nay, the wages of the iniquity had been paid in ad- vance. The sieur d'Argenson had grown into the comte of the same, with the governorship of the town of Morlaix added, by the revenues of which to support his new dignities ; while the chevalier de la Rochederrien had become no less a per- sonage than the marquis de Ploermel, with a captaincy in the musquetaires, and Heaven knows what beside of honorary title and highly-gilded sinecure, whereby to reconcile him to such depth of sordid infamy as the meanest galley-slave could have 260 true love's devotion. scarce undertaken as the price of exchange between his fetters and his oars, and the great noble's splendor. Such were the tidings which greeted Raoul on his return from honorable service to his king — service for which he was thus repaid ; and, before he had even time to reflect on the con- sequences, or to comprehend the anguish thus entailed upon him, his eyes were opened instantly to comprehension of two or three occurrences which previously he had been unable to explain to himself, or even to guess at their meaning by any exercise of ingenuity. The first of these was the singular ignorance in which he had been kept of the death of his parents by the government officials in the East, and the very evident suppression of the letters which, as his uncle informed him, had been despatched to summon him with all speed homeward. The second was the pertinacity with which he had been thrust forward, time after time, on the most desperate and deadly duty — a pertinacity so striking, that, eager as the young sol- dier was, and greedy of any chance of winning honor, it had not failed to strike him that he was frequently ordered on duty of a nature which, under ordinary circumstances, is performed by volunteers. Occurrences of this kind are soon remarked in armies, and it had early become a current remark in the camp that to serve in Raoul's company was a sure passport either to promotion or to the other world. But to such an extent was this carried, that when time after time that company had been decimated, even the bravest of the brave experienced an involuntary sink- ing of the heart when informed that they were transferred or even promoted into those fatal ranks. Nor was this all, for twice it had occurred, once when he was a captain in command of a company, and again when he had a whole regiment under his orders as its colonel, that his superiors, after detaching him on duty so desperate that it THE FORLORN HOPE. 261 might almost be regarded as a forlorn hope, had entirely neg- lected either to support or recall him, but had left him exposed to almost inevitable destruction. In the first instance, not a man whether officer or private of his company had escaped, with the exception of himself. And he was found, when all was supposed to be over, in the last ditch of the redoubt which he had been ordered to defend to the uttermost, after it had been retaken, with his colors wrapped around his breast, still breathing a little, although so cruelly wounded that his life was long despaired of, and was only saved at last by the vigor and purity of an unblemished and unbro- ken constitution. On the second occasion, he had been suffered to contend alone for three entire days with but a single battal- ion against a whole oriental army ; but then, that which had been intended to destroy him had won him deathless fame, for by a degree of skill in handling his little force, which had by no means been looked for in so young an officer, although his courage and his conduct were both well known, he had suc- ceeded in giving a bloody repulse to the overwhelming masses of the enemy, and when at length he was supported — doubt- less when support was deemed too late to avail him aught — by a few hundred native horse and a few guns, he had converted that check into a total and disastrous route. So palpable was the case that although Raoul suspected nothing of the reasons which had led to that disgraceful affair, he had demanded an inquiry into the conduct of his superior ; and that unfortunate personage being clearly convicted of unmil- itary conduct, and having failed in the end which would have justified the means in the eyes of the voluptuous tyrant, was ruthlessly abandoned to his fate, and actually died on the scaf- fold with a gag in his mouth, as did the gallant Lally a few years afterward to prevent his revelation of the orders which he had received and for obeying which he perished. 262 true love's devotion. All this, though strange and even extraordinary, had failed up to this moment to awaken any suspicion of undue or trea- sonable agency in the mind of Raoul. But now as his uncle spoke the scales fell from his eyes, and he saw all the baseness, all the villany of the monarch and his satellites, in its true light. " Is it so ? Is it, indeed, so ?" he said mournfully. And it really appeared that grief at detecting such a dereliction on the part of his king, had a greater share in the feelings of the noble youth than indignation or resentment. " Is it indeed so ?" he said ; " and could neither my father's long and glorious services, nor my poor conduct, avail aught to turn him from such infamy 1 But tell me," he continued, the blood now mounting fiery red to his pale face, " tell me this, uncle, is she true to me ? is she pure and good? Forgive, me, Heaven, that I doubt her; but in such a mass of infamy where may a man look for faith or virtue ? Is Melanie true to rne, or is she, too, consenting to this scheme of infamous and loathsome guilt ?" " She was true, my son, when I last saw her," replied the good clergyman ; " and you may well believe that I spared no argument to urge her to hold fast to her loyalty and faith, and she vowed then, by all that was most dear and holy, that noth- ing should induce her ever to become the wife of Rochederrien. But they carried her off into the province, and have immured her, I have heard men say, almost in a dungeon, in her father's castle, for now above a twelvemonth. What has fallen out no one as yet knows certainly ; but it is whispered now that she has yielded, and the court scandal goes that she has either wedded him already, or is to do so now within a few days. It is said that they are looked for ere the month is out in Paris." " Then I will to horse, uncle," replied Raoul, " before this night is two hours older for St. Renan." " Great Heaven ! to what end, Raoul ? For the sake of all NO SUCH WORD AS CANNOT. 263 that is good — by your father's memory — I implore you, do nothing rashly !" " To know of my own knowledge if she be true or false, uncle." " And what matters it, Raoul ? My boy, my unhappy boy ! False or true, she is lost to you alike, for ever ! You have that against which to contend, which no human energy can conquer." " I know not the thing which human energy can not conquer, uncle ! It is years now ago that my good father taught me this — that there is no such word as cannot! I have proved it before now, uncle-abbe : I may, should I find it worth the while, prove it again, and that shortly. If so, let the guilty and the traitors look to themselves — they were best, for they shall need it !" Such was the state of St. Renan's affections and his hopes when he left the gay capital of France, within a few hours af- ter his arrival, and hurried down at the utmost speed of man and horse into Bretagne, whither he made his way so rapidly, that the first intimation his people received of his return from the East was his presence at the gates of the castle. Great, as may be imagined, was the real joy of the old, true- hearted servitors of the house, at finding their lord thus unex- pectedly restored to them, at a time when they had in fact almost abandoned every hope of seeing him again. The same infernal policy which had thrust him so often, as it were, into the very jaws of death — which had intercepted all the letters sent to him from home, and taken, in one word, every step that ingenuity could suggest to isolate him altogether in that distant world — had taken measures as deep and iniquitous at home to cause him to be regarded as one dead, and to obliterate all mem- ory of his existence. Three different times reports so circumstantial, and accom- 264 TRUE LOVE S DEVOTION. panied by such minute details of time and place, as to render it almost impossible for men to doubt their authenticity, had been circulated with regard to the death of the young soldier ; and as no tidings had been received of him from any more direct source, the last news of his fall had been generally received as true, no motive appearing why it should be discredited. His appearance, therefore, at the castle of St. Renan, was hailed as that of one who had been lost and was now found — of one who had been dead, and lo ! he was alive. The banc- loche of the old feudal pile rang forth its blithest and most jovial notes of greeting ; the banner, with the old armorial bear- ings of St. Renan, was displayed upon the keep ; and a few light pieces of antique artillery — falcons, and culverins, and demi-cannon, which had kept their places on the battlements since the days of the leagues — sent forth their thunders far and wide over the astonished country. So generally, however, had the belief of Raoul's death been circulated, and so absolute had been the credence given to the rumor, that when those unwonted sounds of rejoicing were heard to proceed from the long-silent walls of St. Renan, men never suspected that the lost heir had returned to enjoy his own again, but fancied that some new master had established his claim to the succession, and was thus celebrating his investiture with the rights of the counts of St. Renan. Nor was this wonderful, for ocular proof was scarcely enough to satisfy the oldest retainers of the family of the young lord's identity ; and indeed ocular proof was rendered in some sort dubious by the great alteration which had taken place in the appearance of the personage in question. Between the handsome stripling of sixteen and the grown man of twenty summers there is a greater difference than the same lapse of time will produce at any other period of human life. And this change had been rendered even greater than THE BOY A MAN. 265 usual by the burning climate to which Raoul had been exposed, by the stout endurance of fatigues which had prematurely en- larged and hardened his youthful frame, and above all by the dark experience which had spread something of the thoughtful cast of age over the smooth and gracious lineaments of boy- hood. When he left home, the viscount de Douarnenez was a slight, slender, graceful stripling, with a fair, delicate complexion, a profusion of light hair waving in soft curls over his shoulders, a light, elastic step, and a frame which, though it showed the promise already of strength to be attained with maturity, was conspicuous as yet for ease, and agility, and pliability, rather than for power or robustness. On his return, he had lost, it is true, no jot of his graceful- ness or ease of demeanor, but he had shot up and expanded into a tall, broad-shouldered, round-chested, thin-flanked man, with a complexion burned to the darkest hue of which a Euro- pean skin is susceptible, and which perhaps required the aid of the full, soft blue eye to prove it to be European — with a glance as quick, as penetrating, and at the same time as calm and steady, as that of the eagle when he gazes undazzled at the noontide splendor. His hair had been cut short to wear beneath the casque, which was still carried by cavaliers, and had grown so much darker, that this alteration alone would have gone far to defy the recognition of his friends. He wore a thick, dark mus- tache on his upper lip, and a large " royal," which we should now-a-days call an " imperial," on his chin. The whole aspect and expression of face, moreover, was al- tered, even in a greater degree than his complexion or his per- son. All the quick, sparkling play and mobility of feature, the sharp flash of rapidly-succeeding sentiments and strong emo- tions, expressed on the ingenuous face as soon as they were 12 266 TRUE LOVE S DEVOTION. conceived within the brain — all these had disappeared com- pletely — disappeared, never to return. The grave composure of the thoughtful, self-possessed, expe- rienced soldier, sufficient in himself to meet every emergency, every alternation of fortune, had succeeded the imaginative, im- pulsive ardor of the impetuous, gallant boy. There was a shadow, too, a heavy shadow of something.more than thought ; for it was, in truth, deep, real, heartfelt melan- choly, which lent an added gloom to the cold fixity of eye and lip — which had obliterated all the gay and gleeful flashes which used, from moment to moment, to light up the countenance so speaking and so frank in its disclosures. Yet it would have been difficult to say whether Raoul de St. Renan — grave, dark, and sorrowful, as he now showed — was not both a handsomer and more attractive person than he had been in his earlier days, as the gay and thoughtless viscount de Douarnenez. There was a depth of feeling as well as of thought now per- ceptible in the pensive brow and calm eye ; and if the ordinary expression of those fine and placid lineaments was fixed and cold, that coldness and rigidity vanished when his face was lighted up by a smile, as quickly as the thin ice of an April morning melts away before the first glitter of the joyous sun- beams. Nor were these smiles rare or forced, though not now as habitual as in those days of youth unalloyed by calamity, and unsunned by passion, which, once departed, never can return in this world ! The morning of the young lord's arrival passed gloomily enough. It was the very height of summer, it is true, and the sun was shining his brightest over field, and tree, and tower, and everything appeared to partake of the delicious influence of the charming weather, and to put on its blithest and most radiant apparel. THE CHANGES AT HOME. 267 Never perhaps had the fine grounds, with their soft, mossy, sloping lawns, and tranquil, brimful waters, and shadowy groves of oak and elm — great, immemorial trees — looked lovelier than they did that day to greet their long-absent master. But, inasmuch as nothing in this world is more delightful, nothing more unmixed in its means of conveying pleasure, than the return, after long wanderings in foreign climes, among vi- cissitudes, and cares, and sorrows, to an unchanged and happy home, where the same faces are assembled to smile on your late return which wept at your departure — so nothing can be imagined sadder or more depressing to the spirit than, so returning, to find all things inanimate unchanged, or if changed, more beautiful and brighter for the alteration, but all the living, breathing, sentient creatures — the creatures whose memory has cheered our darkest days of sorrow, whose love we desire most to find unaltered — gone, never to return, swallowed by the cold grave, deaf, silent, unresponsive to our fond affection ! Such was St. Renan's return to the house of his fathers. Until a few short days before, he had pictured to himself his father's moderate and manly pleasure, his mother's holy kiss and chastened rapture at beholding once again, at clasping to her happy bosom, the son, whom she sent forth a boy, returned a man worthy the pride of the most ambitious parent. All this Raoul de St. Renan had anticipated, and bitter, bitter was the pang when he perceived all this gay and glad antici- pation thrown to the winds irreparably. There was not a room in the old house, not a view from a single window, not a tree in the noble park, not a winding curve of a trout-stream glimmering through the coppices, but was in some way connected with his tenderest and most sacred recol- lections — but had a memory of pleasant hours attached to it — but recalled the sound of the kindliest and dearest words, couched in the sweetest tones — the sight of persons but to 268 true love's devotion. think of whom made his heart thrill and quiver to its inmost core. And for hours he had wandered through the long, echoing corridors, the stately and superb saloons, feeling their solitude as if it had been actual presence weighing upon his soul, and peopling every apartment with the phantoms of the loved and lost. Thus had the day lagged onward ; and, as the sun stooped toward the west, darker and sadder had become the young man's fancies, and he felt as if his last hope were about to fade out with the fading light of the declining day-god. So gloomy, indeed, were his thoughts — so sadly had he become inured to wo within the last few days — so certainly had the reply to ev- ery question he had asked been the very bitterest and most painful he could have met — that he had, in truth, lacked the courage to assure himself of that on which he could not deny to himself that his last hope of happiness depended. He had not ventured yet to ask even of his own most faithful servants whether Melanie d'Argenson — who was, he well knew, living scarcely three bow-shots distant from the spot where he stood — was true to him — was a maiden or a wedded wife ! And the old servitors, well aware of the earnest love which had existed between the young people, and of the contract which had been entered into with the consent of all parties, knew not how their young master now stood affected toward the lady, and consequently feared to speak on the subject. At length, when he had dined some hours, while he was sit- ting with the old bailiff, who had been endeavoring to seduce him into an examination of I know not what of rents and leases, dues and droits, seignorial and manorial — while the bottles of ruby-colored Bordeaux wine stood almost untouched before them — the young man made an effort, and raising his head suddenly after a long and thoughtful silence, asked his compan- UNWELCOME NEWS. 269 ion whether the comte d'Argenson was at that time resident at the chateau. " Oh, yes, monseigneur," the old man returned immediately, " he has been here all the summer, and the chateau has been full of gay company from Paris. Never such times have been known in my days : hawking-parties one day, and hunting- matches the next, and music and balls every night, and caval- cades of bright ladies, and cavaliers all ostrich-plumes and cloth of gold and tissue, that you would think our old woods here were converted into fairy-land. The young lady Melanie was wedded only three days since to the marquis de Ploermel ; but you will not know him by that name, I trow : he was the chev- alier only — the chevalier de la Rochederrien — when you were here before." "Ah, they are wedded, then," replied the youth, mastering his passions by a terrible exertion, and speaking of what rent his very heartstrings asunder, as if it had been a matter which concerned him not so much even as a thought ; " I heard it was about to be so shortly, but knew not that it had yet taken place." " Yes, monseigneur, three days since ; and it is very strange- ly thought of in the country, and very strange things are said on all sides concerning it." "As what, Matthieu?" " Why, the marquis is old enough to be her father, or some say her grandfather, for that matter ; and little Rosalie, her fille-de-chambre, has been telling all the neighborhood that Mademoiselle Melanie hated him with all her heart and soul, and would far rather die than go to the altar as his bride." " Pshaw ! is that all, good Matthieu ?" answered the youth, very bitterly — " is that all ? Why, there is nothing strange in that ; that is an every-day event. A pretty lady changes her mind, breaks her faith, and weds a man she hates and de- 270 true love's devotion. spises ! Well ! that is perfectly in rule ; that is precisely what is done every day at court ! If you could tell just the converse of this tale — that a beautiful woman had kept her in- clinations unchanged, her faith unbroken, her honor pure and bright — that she had rejected a rich man or a powerful man because he was base or bad, and wedded a poor and honorable one because she loved him — then, indeed, my good Matthieu, you would be telling something that would make men open their eyes wide enough, and marvel what should follow. Is this all that you call strange ?" " You are jesting at me, monseigneur, for that I am country bred," replied the steward, staring at his youthful master with big eyes of astonishment ; " you can not mean that which you say !" " I do mean precisely what I say, my good friend ; and I never felt less like jesting in the whole course of my life. I know that you good folk down here in the quiet country judge of these things as you have spoken ; but that is entirely on ac- count of your ignorance of court life, and what is now termed nobility. What I tell you is strictly true : that falsehood, and intrigue, and lying — that daily sales of honor — that adultery and infamy of all kinds — are every-day occurrences in Paris ; and that the wonders of the time are truth and sincerity, and keeping faith and honor ! This, I doubt not, seems strange to you, but it is true for all that." "At least, it is not our custom down here in Bretagne," re- turned the old man, " and that, I suppose, is the reason why it appears to be so extraordinary to us here. But you will not say, I think, monsieur le comte, that what else I shall tell you is nothing strange or new." " What else will you tell me, Matthieu ? Let us hear it, and then I shall be better able to decide." " Why, they say, monseigneur, that she is no more the mar- AN OLD MAN'S TALE. 271 quis de Ploermel's wife tlian she is yours or mine, except in name alone ; and that he does not dare to kiss her hand, much less her lips ; and that they have separate apartments, and are, as it were, strangers altogether ; and that the reason of all this is, that Ma'mselle Melanie is never to be his wife at all, but that she is to go to Paris in a few days, and to become the king's mistress ! Will you tell me that this is not strange — and more than strange, infamous — and dishonoring to the very name of man and woman ?" " Even in this, were it true, there would be nothing, I am grieved to say, very wondrous now-a-days — for there have been several base and terrible examples of such things, I am told, of late ; for the rest, I must sympathize with you in your disgust and horror of such doings, even if I prove myself thereby a mere country hobereau, and no man of the world, or of fashion. But you must not believe all these things to be true which you hear from the country gossips," he added, de- sirous still of shielding Melanie, so long as her guilt should be in the slightest possible degree doubtful, from the reproach which seemed already to attach to her. " I hardly can believe such things possible of so fair and modest a demoiselle as the young lady of D'Argenson : nor is it easy to me to believe that the count would consent to any arrangement so disgraceful, or that the chevalier de la Rocheder — I beg his pardon, the marquis de Ploermel, would marry a lady for such an infamous object. I think, therefore, good Matthieu, that, although there would not even in this be anything very wonderful, it is yet neither probable nor true." " Oh, yes, it is true ! I am well assured that it is true, mon- seigneur," replied the old man, shaking his head obstinately ; " I do not believe that there is much truth or honor in this lady either, or she would not so easily have broken one contract, or forgotten one lover !" 272 true love's devotion. " Hush, hush, Matthieu !" cried Raoul, " you forget that we were mere children at that time ; such early troth plightings are foolish ceremonials at the best ; besides, do you not see that you are condemning me also as well as the lady ?" " Oh, that is different — that is quite different!" replied the old steward, " gentlemen may be permitted to take some little liberties which with ladies are not allowable. But that a young demoiselle should break her contract in such wise is disgrace- ful. " Well, well, we will not argue it to-night, Matthieu," said the young soldier, rising and looking out of the great oriel win- dow over the sunshiny park ; " I believe I will go and walk out for an hour or two and refresh my recollections of old times. It is a lovely afternoon as I ever beheld in France or elsewhere." And with the word he took up his rapier which lay on a slab near the table at which he had been sitting, and hung it to his belt, and then throwing on his plumed hat carelessly, without putting on his cloak, strolled leisurely out into the glorious summer evening. For a little while he loitered on the esplanade, gazing out toward the sea, the ridgy waves of which were sparkling like emeralds tipped with diamonds in the grand glow of the setting sun. But ere long he turned thence with a sigh, called up perhaps by some fancied similitude between that bright and boundless ocean, desolate and unadorned even by a single pas- sing sail, and his own course of life so desert, friendless, and uncompanioned. Thence he strolled listlessly through the fine garden, inha- ling the rare odors of the roses, hundreds of which bloomed on every side of him, there in low bushes, there in trim standards, and not a few climbing over tall trellices and bowery alcoves in one mass of living bloom. He saw the happy swallows AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 273 darting and wheeling to and fro through the pellucid azure, in pursuit of their insect prey. He heard the rich mellow notes of the blackbirds and thrushes, thousands and thousands of which were warbling incessantly in the cool shadow of the yew and holly hedges. But his diseased and unhappy spirit took no delight in the animated sounds, or summer-teeming sights of rejoicing nature. No, the very joy and merriment, which seemed to pervade all nature, animate or inanimate around him, while he himself had no present joys to elevate, no future promises to cheer him, rendered him, if that were possible, darker and gloomier, and more mournful. The spirits of the departed seemed to hover about him, for- bidding him ever again to admit hope or joy as an inmate to his desolate heart ; and, wrapt in these dark phantasies, with his brow bent, and his eyes downcast, he wandered from ter- race to terrace through the garden, until he reached its farthest boundary, and then passed out into the park, through which he strolled, almost unconscious whither, until he came to the great deer-fence of the utmost glen, through a wicket of which, just as the sun was setting, he entered into the shadowy wood- land. Then a whole flood of wild and whirling thoughts rushed over his brain at once. He had strolled without a thought into the very scene of his happy rambles with the beloved, the faithless, the lost Melanie. Carried away by a rush of inex- plicable feelings, he walked swiftly onward through the dim wildwood path toward the Devil's Drinking-Cup. He came in sight of it — a woman sat by its brink, who started to her feet at the sound of his approaching footsteps. It was Melanie — alone — and if his eyes deceived him not, weeping bitterly. She gazed at him, at the first, with an earnest, half-alarmed, half-inquiring glance, as if she did not recognise his face, and, 8* 274 true love's devotion. perhaps, apprehended rudeness, if not danger, from the ap- proach of a stranger. Gradually, however, she seemed in part to recognise him. The look of inquiry and alarm gave place to a fixed, glaring, icy stare of unmixed dread and horror ; and when he had now come to within six or eight paces of her, still without speaking, she cried, in a wild, low voice — " Great God ! great God ! has he come up from the grave to reproach me ! I am true, Raoul ; true to the last, my be- loved !" And with a long, shivering, low shriek, she staggered, and would have fallen to the earth had he not caught her in his arms. But she had fainted in the excess of superstitious awe, and perceived not that it was no phantom's hand, but a most stal- wart arm of human mould that clasped her to the heart of the living Raoul de St. Renan. THE CONFIDENCE OF YOUTH. 275 PART III. "For there were seen in that dark wall, Two niches, narrow, dark, and tall. Who enters by such grisly door, Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more." — Walter Scott. It would be wonderful, were it not of daily occurrence, and to be observed by all who give attention to the characteristics of the human mind, how quickly confidence, even when shaken to its very foundations, and almost obliterated, springs up again, and recovers all its strength in the bosoms of the young of either sex. Let but a {ew more years pass over the heart, and when once broken, if it be only by a slight suspicion, or a half unreal cause, it will scarce revive again in a lifetime ; nor then, unless proofs the strongest and most unquestionable can be adduced to overpower the doubts which have well-nigh annihilated it. In early life, however, before long contact with the world has blunted the susceptibilities, and hardened the sympathies of the soul, before the constant experience of the treachery, the coldness, the ingratitude of men has given birth to universal doubt and general distrust, the shadow vanishes as soon as the cloud which cast it is withdrawn, and the sufferer again be- lieves, alas ! too often, only to be again deceived. Thus it was with St. Renan, who a few moments before had given up even the last hope, who had ceased, as he thought, to believe even in the possibility of faith or honor among men, of constancy, or purity, or truth, in women, no sooner saw his Me- lanie, whom he knew to be the wife of another, solitary and in tears, no sooner felt her inanimate form reclining on his bosom, 276 true love's devotion. than he was prepared to believe anything, rather than believe her false. Indeed, her consternation at his appearance, her evident dis- may, not unnatural in an age wherein skepticism and infidelity were marvellously mingled with credulity and superstition, her clear conviction that it was not. himself in mortal blood and being, did go far to establish the fact, that she had been deceived either casually or — which was far more probable — by foul ar- tifice, into the belief that her beloved and plighted husband was no longer with the living. The very exclamation which she uttered last, ere she sunk senseless into his arms, uttered, as she imagined, in the pres- ence of the immortal spirit of the injured dead, " I am true, Raoul — true to the last, my beloved !" rang in his ears with a power and a meaning which convinced him of her veracity. " She could not lie !" he muttered to himself, " in the pres- ence of the living dead ! God be praised ! she is true, and we shall yet be happy !" How beautiful she looked, as she lay there, unconscious and insensible even of her own existence. If time and maturity had improved Raoul's person, and added the strength and maj- esty of manhood to the grace and pliability of youth, infinitely more had it bestowed on the beauty of his betrothed. He had left her a beautiful girl just blooming out of girlhood, he found her a mature, full-blown woman, with all the flush and flower of complete feminine perfection, before one charm has become too luxuriant, or one drop of the youthful dew exhaled from the new expanded blossom. She had shot up, indeed, to a height above the ordinary stature of women — straight, erect, and graceful as a young poplar, slender, yet full withal, exquisitely and voluptuously rounded, and with every sinuous line and swelling curve of her soft form full of the poetry and beauty of both repose and motion. THE FAIR INSENSIBLE. 277 Her complexion was pale as alabaster ; even her cheeks, ex- cept when some sudden tide of passion, or some strong emotion sent the impetuous blood coursing thither more wildly than its wont, were colorless, but there was nothing sallow or sickly, nothing of that which is ordinarily understood by the word pal- lid, in their clear, warm, transparent purity ; nothing, in a word, of that lividness which the French, with more accuracy than we, distinguish from the healthful paleness which is so beauti- ful in southern women. Her hair, profuse almost to redundance, was perfectly black, but of that warm and lustrous blackness which is probably the hue expressed by the ancient Greeks by the term hyacinthine, and which in certain lights has a purplish metallic gloss play- ing over it, like the varying reflections on the back of the raven. Her strongly defined, and nearly straight eyebrows, were dark as night, as were the long, silky lashes which were displayed in clear relief against the fair, smooth cheek, as the lids lay closed languidly over the bright blue eyes. It was a minute or two before Melanie moved or gave any symptoms of recovering from her fainting fit, and during those minutes the lips of Raoul had been pressed so often and so warmly to those of the fair insensible, that had any spark of perception remained to her, the fond and lingering pressure could not have failed to call the " purple light of love," to her ingenuous face. At length a long, slow shiver ran through the form of the senseless girl, and thrilled, like the touch of the electric wire, every nerve in St. Renan's body. Then the soft rosy lips were unclosed, and forth rushed the ambrosial breath in a long, gentle sigh, and the beautiful bust heaved and undulated, like the bosom of the calm sea, when the first breathings of the coming storm steal over it, and wake, as if by sympathy, its deep pulsations. 27S true love's devotion. He clasped her closer to his heart, half-fearful that when life and perfect consciousness should be restored to that, ex- quisite frame, it would start from his embrace, if not in anger or alarm, at least as if from a forbidden and illicit pleasure. Gradually a faint rosy hue, slight as the earliest blushes of the morning sky, crept over her white cheeks, and deepened into a rich passionate flush ; and at the same moment the azure- tinctured lids were unclosed slowly, and the large, radiant, bright blue eyes beamed up into his own, half languid still, but gleaming through their dewy languor, with an expression which he must have been, indeed, blind to mistake for aught but the strongest of unchanged, unchangeable affection. It was evident that she knew him now ; that the momentary terror, arising rather, perhaps, from fear than from superstition, which had converted the young ardent soldier into a visitant from beyond those gloomy portals through which no visitant returns, had passed from her mind, and that she had already recognised, although she spoke not, her living lover. And though she recognised him, she sought not to withdraw herself from the enclosure of his sheltering arms, but lay there on his bosom, with her head reclined on his shoulder, and her eyes drinking long draughts of love from his fascinated gaze, as if she were his own, and that her appropriate place of refuge. " Oh! Raoul," she exclaimed, at length, in a low, soft whis- per, " is it, indeed, you — you, whom I have so long wept as dead — you, whom I was even now weeping as one lost to me for ever, when you are thus restored to me ?" " It is I, Melanie," he answered mournfully, " it is I, alive, and in health ; but better far had I been in truth dead, as they have told you, rather than thus a survivor of all happiness, of all hopes ; spared only from the grave to know you false, and myself forgotten." " Oh, no, Raoul, not false !" she cried wildly, as she started THE lovers' interview. 279 from his arms, " oh, not forgotten ! think you," she added, blush- ing crimson, " that had I loved any but you, that had I not loved you with my whole heart and being, I had lain thus on your bosom, thus endured your caresses ? Oh, no, no, never false ! nor for one moment forgotten ?" " But what avails it, if you do love no other — what profits it, if you do love me ? Are you not — are you not, false girl — alas ! that these lips should speak it — the wife of another — the promised mistress of the king ?" "I — I — Raoul !" she exclaimed, with such a blending of wonder and loathing in her face, such an expression of indig- nation on her tongue, that her lover perceived at once, that, whatever might be the infamy of her father, of her husband, of this climax of falsehood and self-degradation, she, at least, was guiltless. " The mistress of the king ! what king ? what mean you ? are you distraught V ' " Ha ! you are ignorant, you are innocent of that, then. You are not yet indoctrinated into the noble uses for which your honorable lord intends you. It is the town's talk, Mela- nie. How is it you, whom it most concerns, alone have not heard it ?" " Raoul," she said, earnestly, imploringly, " I know not if there be any meaning in your words, except to punish me, to torture me, for what you deem my faithlessness, but if there be, I implore you, I conjure you, by your father's noble name, by your mother's honor, show me the worst ; but listen to me first, for by the God that made us both, and now hears my words, I am not faithless." " Not faithless ? Are you not the wife of another ?" " No !" she replied enthusiastically. " I am not. For I am yours, and while you live I can not wed another. Whom God hath joined man can not put asunder." 280 TRUE LOVES DEVOTION. " I fear me that plea will avail us little," Raoul answered. 11 But say on, dearest Melanie, and believe that there is nothing you ean ask which I will not give you gladly — even if it were my own life-blood. Say on, so shall we best arrive at the truth of this intricate and black affair." " Mark me, then, Raoul, for every word I shall speak is as true as the sun in heaven. It is near two years now since we heard that you had fallen in battle, and that your body had been carried off by the barbarians. Long, long I hoped and prayed, but prayers and hopes were alike in vain. I wrote to you often, as I promised, but no line from you has reached me since the day when you sailed for India, and that made me fear that the dread news was true. But at the last, to make assurance doubly sure, all my own letters were returned to me six months since, with their seals unbroken, and an endorse- ment from the authorities in India that the person addressed was not to be found. Then hope itself was over ; and my father, who never from the first had doubted that you were no more — " " Out on him ! out on him ! the heartless villain !" the young man interrupted her indignantly. " He knows, as well as I myself, that I am living ; although it is no fault of his or his co- adjutors that I am so. He knows not as yet, however, that I am here; but he shall know it ere long to his cost, my Melanie." "At least," she answered in a faltering voice, "at least he swore to me that you were dead ; and never having ceased to persecute me, since the day that fatal tidings reached us, to be- come the wife of La Rochederrien, now marquis de Ploermel, he now became doubly urgent — " " And you Melanie ! you yielded ! I had thought you would have died sooner." " I had no choice but to yield, Raoul. Or at least but the choice of that old man's hand, or an eternal dungeon. The A HELLISH COMPACT. 281 lettres de cachet were signed, and you dead, and on the condi- tions I extorted from the marquis, I became in name, Raoul, only in name, by all my hopes of heaven ' the wife of the man whom you pronounce, wherefore, I can not dream, the basest of mankind. Now tell me." " And did it never strike you as being wonderful and most unnatural that this Ploermel, who is neither absolutely a dotard nor an old woman, should accept your hand upon this condition ?" " I was too happy to succeed in extorting it to think much of that," she answered. " Extorted /" replied Raoul bitterly ; " and how, I pray you, is this condition which you extorted ratified or made valid ?" " It is signed by himself, and witnessed by my own father, that, being I regard myself the wife of the dead, he shall ask no more of familiarity from me than if I were the bride of heaven !" " The double villains !" " But wherefore villains, Raoul ?" exclaimed Melanie. " I tell you, girl, it is a compact — a base, hellish compact — ■ with the foul despot, the disgrace of kings, the opprobrium of France, who sits upon the throne, dishonoring it daily ! A com- pact such as yet was never entered into by a father and a hus- band, even of the lowest of mankind ! A compact to deliver you a spotless virgin-victim to the vile-hearted and luxurious tyrant. Curses ! a thousand curses on his soul ! and on my own soul ! who have fought and bled for him, and all to meet with this, as my reward of service '" " Great God ! can these things be," she exclaimed, almost fainting with horror and disgust. " Can these things indeed be 1 But speak, Raoul, speak ; how can you know all this ?" " I tell you, Melanie, it is the talk, the very daily, hourly gossip of the streets, the alleys, nay, even the very kennels of 282 true love's devotion. Paris. Every one knows it — every one believes it, from the monarch in the Louvre to the lowest butcher of the Faubourg St. Antoine ! "And they believe it — of me, of me, they believe this infamy !" " With this addition, if any addition were needed, that you are not a deceived victim, but a willing and proud participator in the shame." "I will — that is — "she corrected herself, speaking very rapidly and energetically — "I would die sooner. But there is no need now to die. You have come back to me, and all will yet go well with us !" " It never can go well with us again," St. Renan answered gloomily. " The king never yields his purpose, he is as tena- cious in his hold as reckless in his promptitude to seize. And they are paid beforehand." " Paid !" exclaimed the girl, shuddering at the word. " What atrocity. How paid ?" " How, think you, did your good father earn his title and the rich governorship of Morlaix ? What great deeds were reward- ed to La Rochederrien by his marquisate, and this captaincy of musquetaires. You know not yet, young lady, what virtue there is now-a-days in being the accommodating father, or the convenient husband of a beauty !" " You speak harshly, St. Renan, and bitterly." " And if I do, have I not cause enough for bitterness and harshness ?" he replied almost angrily. " Not against me, Raoul." "I am not bitter against you, Melanie. And yet — and yet—" " And yet what, Raoul ?" " And yet had you resisted three days longer, we might have been saved — you might have been mine — " NOW OR NEVER ! 283 " I am yours, Raoul de St. Renan. Yours, ever and for ever ! No one's but only yours." " You speak but madness — your vow — the sacrament!*' " To the winds Avith my vow — to the abyss with the fraud- ful sacrament !" she cried, almost fiercely. " By sin it was ob- tained and sanctioned — in sin let it perish. I say — I swear, Raoul, if you will take me, I am yours." " Mine ? Mine ?" cried the young man, half bewildered. " How mine, and when ?" " Thus," she replied, casting herself upon his breast, and winding her arms around his neck, and kissing his lips pas- sionately and often. " Thus, Raoul, thus, and now !" He returned her embrace fondly once, but the next instant he removed her almost forcibly from his breast, and held her at arm's length. " No, no !" he exclaimed, " not thus, not thus ! If at all, honestly, openly, holily, in the face of day ! May my soul perish, ere cause come through me why you should ever blush to show your front aloft among the purest and the proudest. No, no, not thus, my own Melanie !" The girl burst into a paroxysm of tears and sobbing, through which she hardly could contrive to make her interrupted and faltering words audible. u If not now," she said at length, " it will never be. For, hear me, Raoul, and pity me, to-morrow they are about to drag me to Paris." The lover mused for several moments very deeply, and then replied, " Listen to me, Melanie. If you are in earnest, if you are true, and can be firm, there may yet be hapoiness in store for us, and that very shortly." " Do you doubt me, Raoul ?" " I do not doubt you, Melanie. But ever as in my own wildest rapture, even to gain my own extremest bliss, I would 284 true love's devotion. not do aught that could possibly cast one shadow on your pure renown, so, mark me, would I not take you to my heart were there one spot, though it were but as a speck in the all-glorious sun, upon the brightness of your purity." *' I believe you, Raoul. I feel, I know that my honor, that my purity is all in all to you." " I would die a thousand deaths," he made answer, " ere even a false report should fall on it, to mar its virgin whiteness. Marvel not then that I ask as much of you." " Ask anything, St. Renan. It is granted." " In France we can hope for nothing. But there are other lands than France. We must fly; and thanks to these docu- ments which you have wrung from them, and the proofs which I can easily obtain, this cursed marriage can be set aside, and then, in honor and in truth you can be mine, mine own Me- lanie." " God grant it so, Raoul." " It shall be so, beloved. Be you but firm, and it may be done right speedily. I will sell the estates of St. Renan — by a good chance, supposing me dead, the lord of Yrvilliac was in treaty for it with my uncle. That can be arranged forthwith. Conduct yourself according to your wont, cool and as distant as may be with this villain of Ploermel ; avoid above all things to let your father see that you are buoyed by any hope, or moved by any passion. Treat the king with deliberate scorn, if he approach you over-boldly. Beware how you eat or drink in his company, for he is capable of all things, even of drug- ging you into insensibility, and here," he added, taking a small poniard, of exquisite workmanship, with a gold hilt and scab- bard, from his girdle, and giving it to her, " wear this at all times, and if he dare attempt violence, were he thrice a king, use it .'" M 1 will — I will — trust me, Raoul ! I will use it, and that to LITTLE ROSE FAVERNEY. 285 his sorrow ! My heart is strong, and my hand brave now — now that I know you to be living. Now that I have hope to nerve me, I will fear nothing, but dare all things." 11 Do so, do so, my beloved, and you shall have no cause to fear, for I will be ever near you. I will tarry here but one day ; and ere you reach Paris, I will be there, be certain. Within ten days, I doubt not I can convert my acres into gold, and ship that gold across the narrow straits ; and that done, the speed of horses, and a swift ship will soon have us safe in England ; and if that land be not so fair, or so dear as our own France, at least there are no tyrants there, like this Louis ; and there are laws, they say, which guard the meanest man as safely and as surely as the proudest noble." " A happy land, Raoul. I would we were there even now." " We will be there ere long, fear nothing. But tell me, whom have you near your person on whom we may rely. There must be some one through whom we may communicate in Paris. It may be that I shall require to see you." "Oh! you remember Rose, Raoul — little Rose Faverney, who has lived with me ever since she was a child — a pretty little black-eyed damsel." " Surely I do remember her. Is she with you yet ? That will do admirably, then, if she be faithful, as I think she is ; and unless I forget, what will serve us better yet, she loves my page Jules de Marlien. He has not forgotten her, I promise you." "Ah! Jules — we grow selfish, I believe, as we grow old, Raoul. I have not thought to ask after one of your people. So Jules remembers little Rose, and loves her yet ; that will indeed, secure her, even had she been doubtful, which she is not. She is as true as steel — truer, I fear, than even I ; for she reproached me bitterly four evenings since, and swore she would be buried alive, much more willingly imprisoned, than 286 true love's devotion. be married to the marquis de Ploermel, though she was only plighted to the vicomte Raoul's page ! Oh ! we may trust in her with all certainty." " Send her, then, on the very same night that you reach Paris, so soon as it is dark, to my uncle's house in the place de St. Louis. I think she knows it, and let her ask — not for me — but for Jules. Ere then I will know something definite of our future ; and fear nothing, love, all shall go well with us. Love such as ours, with faith, and right, and honesty, and honor to support it, can not fail to win, blow what wind may. And now, sweet Melanie, the night is wearing onward, and I fear that they may miss you. Kiss me, then, once more, sweet girl, and farewell." " Not for the last, Raoul," she cried, with a gay smile, cast- ing herself once again into her lover's arms, and meeting his lips with a long, rapturous kiss. " Not by a thousand, and a thousand ! But now, angel, fare- well for a little space. I hate to bid you leave me, but I dare not ask yon to stay ; even now I tremble lest you should be missed and they should send to seek you. For were they but to suspect that I am here and have seen you, it would, at the best, double all our difficulties; fare you well, sweetest Melanie." " Fare you well," she replied ; " fare you well, my own best beloved Raoul," and she put up the glittering dagger, as she spoke, into the bosom of her dress ; but as she did so, she paused and said, " I wish this had not been your first gift to me, Raoul, for they say that such gifts are fatal, to love at least, if not to life." "Fear not! fear not!" answered the young man, laughing gayly, " our love is immortal. It may defy the best steel blade that was ever forged on Milan stithy to cut it asunder. Fare you — but, hush ! who comes here ; it is too late, yet fly — fly, Melanie !" AN UNWELCOME INTRUDER. 287 But she did not fly, for as he spoke, a tall, gayly-dressed cavalier burst through the coppice on the side next the chateau d'Argenson, exclaiming: "So, my fair cousin! — this is your faith to my good brother of Ploermel is it ?" But, before he spoke, she had whispered to Raoul, " It is the chevalier de Pontrein, de Ploermel's half-brother. Alas ! all is lost." " Not so ! not so !" answered her lover, also in a whisper, " leave him to me, I will detain him. Fly, by the upper path- way and through the orchard to the chateau, and remember — you have not seen this dog. So much deceit is pardonable. Fly, I say, Melanie. Look not behind for your life, whatever you may hear, nor tarry. All rests now on your steadiness and courage." " Then all is safe," she answered firmly and aloud, and with- out casting a glance toward the cavalier, who was now within ten paces of her side, or taking the smallest notice of his words, she kissed her hand to St. Renan, and bounded up the steep path, in the opposite direction, with so fleet a step as soon car- ried her beyond the sound of all that followed, though that was neither silent nor of small interest. " Do you not hear me, madam. By Heaven ! but you carry it off easily !" cried the young cavalier, setting off at speed, as if to follow her. " But you must run swifter than a roe if you look to 'scape me ;" and with the words he attempted to rush past Raoul, of whom he affected, although he knew him well, to take no notice. But in that intent he was quickly frustrated, for the young count grasped him by the collar as he endeavored to pass, with a grasp of iron, and said to him in an ironical tone of excessive courtesy. " Sweet sir, I fear you have forgotten me, that you should give me the go-by thus, when it is so long a time since we have met, and we such dear friends, too." 288 TRUE LOVES DEVOTION. But the young man was in earnest, and very angry, and struggled to release himself from St. Renan's grasp, until, hav- ing no strong reasons for forbearance, but many for the reverse, Raoul, too, lost his temper. " By Heaven !" he exclaimed, " I believe that you do not know me, or you would not dare to suppose that I would suffer you to follow a lady who seeks not your presence or society." " Let me go, St. Renan !" returned the other fiercely, laying his hand on his dagger's hilt. " Let me go, villain, or you shall rue it !" " Villain !" Raoul repeated calmly, " villain ! It is so you call me, hey ?" and he did instantly release him, drawing his sword as he did so. " Draw, De Pontrien — that word has cost you your life !" " Yes, villain !" repeated the other, " villain to your teeth ! But you lie ! it is your life that is forfeit — forfeit to my broth- er's honor !" " Ha ! ha !" laughed Raoul, savagely. " Ha-ha-ha-ha ! your brother's honor ! who the devil ever heard before of a pandar's honor — even if he were Sir Pandarus to a king? Sa ! sa ! have at you !" Their blades crossed instantly, and they fought fiercely, and with something like equality for some ten minutes. The chev- alier de Pontrien was far more than an ordinary swordsman, and he was in earnest, not angry, but savage and determined, and full of bitter hatred, and a fixed resolution to punish the familiarity of Raoul with his brother's wife. But that was a thing easier proposed than executed ; for St. Renan, who had left France as a boy already a perfect master of fence, had learned the practice of the blade against the swordsmen of the East, the finest swordsmen of the world, and had added to skill, science, and experience, the iron nerves, the deep breath, and the unwearied strength of a veteran. A FATAL COMBAT. 289 If lie fought slowly, it was that he fought carefully — that he meant the first wound to be the last. He was resolved that De Pontrien never should return home again to divulge what he had seen, and he had the coolness, the skill, and the power to carry out his resolution. At the end of ten minutes he attacked. Six times within as many seconds he might have inflicted a severe, perhaps a deadly wound on his antagonist ; and he, too, perceived it, but it would not have been surely mortal. " Come, come !" cried De Pontrien, at last, growing impa- tient and angry at the idea of being played with. " Come, sir, you are my master, it seems ; make an end of this." " Do not be in a hurry," replied St. Renan, with a deadly smile, " it will come soon enough. There ! will that suit you?" And with the word he made a treble feint and lounged home. So true was the thrust that the point pierced the very cavity of his heart. So strongly was it sent home that the hilt smote heavily on his breast-bone. He did not speak or groan, but drew one short, broken sigh, and fell dead on the instant. " The fool !" muttered St. Renan. " Wherefore did he med- dle where he had no business 1 But what the devil shall I do with him ? He must not be found, or all will out — and that were ruin." As he spoke, a distant clap of thunder was heard to the east- ward, and a few heavy drops of rain began to fall, while a heavy mass of black thunder-clouds began to rise rapidly against the wind. " There will be a fierce storm in ten minutes, which will soon wash out all this evidence," he said, looking down at the trampled and blood-stained greensward. " One hour hence, and there will not be a sign of this, if I can but dispose of him. Ha !" he added, as a quick thought struck him, " the Devil's Drinking-Cup ! Enough ! it is done !" 13 290 true love's devotion. Within a minute's space he had swathed the corpse tightly in the cloak, which had fallen from the wretched man's shoul- ders as the fray began, bound it about the waist by the scarf, to which he attached firmly an immense block of stone, which lay at the brink of the fearful well, which was now — for the tide was up — brimful of white boiling surf, and holding his breath atween resolution and abhorrence, hurled it into the abyss. It sunk instantly, so well was the stone secured to it ; and the fate of the chevalier de Pontrien never was suspected, for that fatal pool never gave up its dead, nor will until the judg- ment-day. Meantime the flood-gates of heaven were opened, and a mimic torrent, rushing down the dark glen, soon obliterated every trace of that stern, short, affray. Calmly Raoul strode homeward, and untouched by any con- science, for those were hard and ruthless times, and he had undergone so much wrong at the hands of his victim's nearest relatives, and dearest friends, that it was no great marvel if his blood were heated, and his heart pitiless. " I will have masses said for his soul in Paris," he muttered to himself; and therewith, thinking that he had more than dis- charged all a Christian's duty, he dismissed all further thoughts of the matter, and actually hummed a gay opera-tune as he strode homeward through the pelting storm, thinking how soon he should be blessed by the possession of his own Melanie. No observation was made on his absence, by either the steward or any of the servants, on his return, though he was well-nigh drenched with rain, for they remembered his old half-boyish, half-romantic habits, and it seemed natural to them that on his first return, after so many years of wandering, to scenes endeared to him by innumerable fond recollections, he should wander forth alone to muse with his own soul in secret. There was great joy, however, in the hearts of the old ser- A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE. 291 vitors and tenants in consequence of his return, and on the fol- lowing morning, and still on the third day, that feeling of joy and security continued to increase, for it soon got abroad that the young lord's grief and gloominess of mood were wearing hourly away, and that his lip, and his whole countenance, were often lighted up with an expression which showed, as they fondly augured, that days and years of happiness were yet in store for him. It was not long before the tidings reached him that the house of D'Argenson was in great distress concerning the sudden and unaccountable disappearance of the chevalier de Pontrien, who had walked out, it was said, on the preceding afternoon, prom- ising to be back at supper-time, and who had not been heard of since. Raoul smiled grimly at the intimation, but said nothing, and the narrator judging that St. Renan was not likely to take of- fence at the imputations against the family of Ploermel, pro- ceeded to inform him, that in the opinion of the neighborhood there was nothing very mysterious, after all, in the disappear- ance of the chevalier, since he was known to be very heavily in debt, and was threatened with deadly feud by the old Sieur de Plouzurde, whose fair daughter he had deceived to her un- doing. Robinet the smuggler's boat, had been seen off the Penmarcks when the moon was setting, and no one doubted that the gay gallant was by this time off the coast of Spain. To all this, though he affected to pay little heed to it, Raoul inclined an eager and attentive ear, and as a reward for his patient listening, was soon informed, furthermore, that the bride- groom marquis and the beautiful bride, being satisfied, it was supposed, of the chevalier's safety, had departed for Paris, their journey having been postponed only in consequence of the research for the missing gentleman, from the morning when it should have taken place, to the afternoon of the same day. 292 For two days longer did Raoul tarry at St. Renan, apparently as free from concern or care about the fair Melanie de Ploer- mel, as if he had never heard her name. And on this point alone, for all men knew that he once loved her, did his conduct excite any observation, or call forth comment. His silence, however, and external nonchalance were attributed at all hands to a proper sense of pride and self-respect ; and as the territo- rial vassals of those days held themselves in some degree en- nobled or disgraced by the high bearing or recreancy of their lords, it was very soon determined by the men of St. Renan that it would have been very disgraceful and humiliating had their lord, the lord of Duarnenez and St. Renan, condescended to trouble his head about the little demoiselle d'Argenson. Meanwhile our lover, whose head was in truth occupied about no other thing than that very same little demoiselle, for whom he was believed to feel a contempt so supreme, had thor- oughly investigated all his affairs, thereby acquiring from his old steward the character of an admirable man of business, had made himself perfectly master of the real value of his estates, droits, dues, and all connected with the same, and had packed up all his papers, and such of his valuables as were movable, so as to be transported easily by means of pack-horses. This done, leaving orders for a retinue of some twenty of his best and most trusty servants to follow him as soon as the train and relays of horses could be prepared, he set off with two followers only to return riding post, as he had come from Paris. He was three days behind the lady of his love at starting ; but the journey from the western extremity of Bretagnc to the metropolis is at all times a long and tedious undertaking ; and as the roads and means of conveyance were in those days, he found it no difficult task to catch up with the carriages of the marquis, and to pass them on the road long enough before they reached Paris. PREPARATIONS FOR FLIGHT. 293 Indeed, though he had set out three days behind them, he succeeded in anticipating their arrival by as many, and had succeeded in transacting more than half the business on which his heart was bent, before he received the promised visit from the pretty Rose Faverney, who, prompted by her desire to re- new her intimacy with the handsome page, came punctual to her appointment. He had not, of course, admitted the good old churchman, his uncle, into all his secrets ; he had not even told him that he had seen the lady, much less what were his hopes and views concerning her. But he did tell him that he was so deeply mortified and wounded by her desertion, that he had determined to sell his estates, to leave France for ever, and to betake himself to the new American colonies on the St. Lawrence. There was not in the state of France in those days much to admire, or much to induce wise men to exert their influence over the young and noble, to induce them to linger in the neigh- borhood of a court which was in itself a very sink of corrup- tion. It was with no great difficulty, therefore, that Raoul ob- tained the concurrence of his uncle, who was naturally a friend to gallant and adventurous daring. The estates of St. Renan, the old castle and the home park, with a few hundred acres in its immediate vicinity only excepted, were converted into gold with almost unexampled rapidity. A part of the gold was in its turn converted into a gallant brigantine of some two hundred tons, which was despatched at once along the coast of Douarnenez bay, there to take in a crew of the hardy fishermen and smugglers of that stormy shore, all men well known to Raoul de St. Renan, and well content to follow their young lord to the world's end, should such be his will. Here, indeed, I have anticipated something the progress of events, for hurry it as much as he could in those days, St. 294 true love's devotion. Renan could not, of course, work miracles ; and though the brigantine was purchased, where she lay ready to sail, at Calais, the instant the sale of St. Renan was determined, with- out awaiting the completion of the transfer, or the payment of the purchase-money, many days had elapsed before the news could be sent from the capital to the coast, and the vessel de- spatched to Brittany. Everything was, however, determined ; nay, everything was in process of accomplishment before the arrival of the fair lady and her nominal husband, so that at the first interview with Rose, Raoul was enabled to lay all his plans before her, and to promise that within a month at the farthest, everything would be ready for their certain and safe evasion. He did not fail, however, on that account to impress upon the pretty maiden — who, as Jules was to accompany his lord, though not a hint of whither had been breathed to any one, was doubly devoted to the success of the scheme — that a method must be arranged by which he could have daily inter- views with the lovely Melanie ; and this she promised that she would use all her powers to induce her mistress to permit, say- ing, with a gay laugh, that her permission gained, all the rest was easy. The next day, the better to avoid suspicion, Raoul was pre- sented to the king, in full court, by his uncle, on the double event of his return from India, and of his approaching departure for the colony of Acadie, for which it was his present purpose to sue for his majesty's consent and approbation. The king was in great good humor, and nothing could have been more flattering or more gracious than Raoul de St. Renan's reception. Louis had heard that very morning of the fair Melanie's arrival in the city, and nothing could have fallen out more apropos than the intention of her quondam lover to depart AN ACCOMMODATING SOVEREIGN. 295 at this very juncture, and that, too, for an indefinite period, from the land of his birth. Rejoicing inwardly at his good fortune, and of course, ascri- bing the conduct of the young man to pique and disappointment, the king, while he loaded him with honors and attentions, did not neglect to encourage him in his intention of departing on a very early day, and even offered to facilitate his departure by making some remissions in his behalf from the strict regula- tions of the Douane. All this was perfectly comprehensible to Raoul ; but he was far too wise to suffer any one, even his uncle, to perceive that he understood it ; and while he profited to the utmost by the readiness which he found in high places to smooth away all the difficulties from his path, he laughed in his sleeve as he thought what would be the fury of the licentious and despotic sovereign when he should discover that the very steps which he had taken to remove a dangerous rival, had actually cast the lady into that rival's arms. Nor had this measure of Raoul's been less effectual in spar- ing Melanie much grief and vexation, than it had proved in facilitating his own schemes of escape ; for on that very day, within an hour after his reception of St. Renan, the king caused information to be conveyed to the marquis de Ploermel that the presentation of madame should be deferred until such time as the vicomte de St. Renan should have set sail for Acadie, which it was expected would take place within a month at the furthest. That evening when Rose Faverney was admitted to the young lord's presence, through the agency of the enamored Jules, she brought him permission to visit her lady at midnight in her own chamber ; and she brought with her a plan, sketched by Melanie's own hand, of the garden, through which, by the aid of a master-key and a rope-ladder, he was to gain access to her presence. 296 true love's devotion. " My lady says, Monsieur Raoul," added the merry girl, with a light laugh, " that she admits you only on the faith that you will keep the word which you plighted to her, when last you met, and on the condition that I shall be present at all your interviews with her." " Her honor were safe in my hands," replied the young man, " without that precaution. But I appreciate the motive, and accept the condition." "You will remember, then, my lord — at midnight. There will be one light burning in the window, when that is extin- guished, all will be safe, and you may enter fearless ? Will you remember ?" " Nothing but death will prevent me. Nor that, if the spir- its of the dead may visit what they love best on earth. So tell her, Rose. Farewell !" Four hours afterward St. Renan stood in the shadow of a dense trellice in the garden, watching the moment when that love-beacon should expire. The clock of St. Germain l'Aux- erre struck twelve, and on the instant all was darkness. An- other minute and the lofty wall was scaled, and Melanie was in the arms of Raoul. It was a strange, grim, gloomy, gothic chamber, full of queer niches and recesses of old stone-work. The walls were hung with gilded tapestries of Spanish leather, but were interrupted in many places by the antique stone groinings of alcoves and cupboards, one of which, close beside the mantlepiece, was closed by a curiously carved door of heavy oak-work, itself sunk above a foot within the embrasure of the wall. Lighted as it was only by the flickering of the wood-fire on the hearth, for the thickness of the walls, and the damp of the old vaulted room, rendered a fire acceptable, even at midsum- mer, that antique chamber appeared doubly grim and ghostly ; but little cared the young lovers for its dismal seeming ; and THE lovers' interviews. 297 if they noticed it at all, it was but to jest at the contrast of its appearance with the happy hours which they passed within it. Happy, indeed, they were — almost too happy — though as pure and guiltless as if they had been hours spent within a nunnery of the strictest rule, and in the presence of a sainted abbess. Happy, indeed, they were ; and, although brief, oft repeated. For, henceforth, not a night passed but Raoul visited his Me- lanie, and tarried there enjoying her sweet converse, and bear- ing to her every day glad tidings of the process of his schemes, and the certainty of their escape, until the approach of morn- ing warned him to make good his retreat ere envious eyes should be abroad to make espials. And ever the page, Jules, kept watch at the ladder-foot in the garden : and the true maiden, Rose, who ever sate within the chamber with the lovers during their stolen interviews, guarded the door, with ears as keen as those of Cerberus. A month had passed, and the last night had come, and all was successful — all was ready. The brigantine lay manned and armed, and at all points prepared for her brief voyage at an instant's notice at Calais. Relays of horses were at each post on the road. Raoul had taken formal leave of the de- lighted monarch. His passport was signed — his treasures were on board his good ship — his pistols were loaded — his horses were harnessed for the journey. For the last time he scaled the ladder — for the last time he stood within the chamber. Too happy ! ay, they were too happy on that night, for all was done, all was won; and nothing but the last step remained, and that step so easy. The next morning Melanie was to go forth, as if to early mass, with Rose and a single valet. The valet was to be mastered and overthrown as if in a street broil, the lady, with her damsel, was to step into a light caleche, 13* 298 true love's devotion. which should await her, with her lover mounted at its side, and hie! for Calais — England — without the risk — the possibility of failure. That night he would not tarry. He told his happy tidings, clasped her to his heart, bid her farewell till to-morrow, and in another moment would have been safe — a step sounded close to the door. Rose sprang to her feet, with her finger to her lip, pointing with her left hand to the deep cupboard-door. She was right — there was not time to reach the window — at the same instant, as Melanie relighted the lamp, not to be taken in mysterious and suspicious darkness, the one door closed upon the lover just as the other opened to the husband. But rapid and light as were the motions of Raoul, the treach- erous door by which he had passed into his concealment, trem- bled still as Ploermel entered. And Rose's quick eye saw that he marked it. But if he saw it, he gave no token, made no allusion to the least doubt or suspicion; on the contrary, he spoke more gayly and kindly than his wont. He apologized for his untimely in- trusion, saying that her father had come suddenly to speak with them, concerning her presentation at court, which the king had appointed for the next day, and wished, late as it was, to see her in the saloon below. Nothing doubting the truth of his statement, which Raoul's intended departure rendered probable, Melanie started from her chair, and telling Rose to wait, for she would be back in an instant, hurried out of the room, and took her way toward the great staircase. The marquis ordered Rose to light her mistress, for the cor- ridor was dark ; and as the girl went out to do so, a suppressed shriek, and the faint sounds of a momentary scuffle followed, and then all was still. A hideous smile flitted across the face of De Ploermel, as he " FIEL HASTA, LA MUERTE !" 299 cast himself heavily into an arm-chair, opposite the door of the cupboard in which St. Renan was concealed, and taking up a silver bell which stood on the table, rung it repeatedly and loudly for a servant. " Bring wine," he said, as the man entered. " And, hark you, the masons are at work in the great hall, and have left their tools and materials for building. Let half a dozen of the grooms come up hither, and bring with them brick and mortar. I hate the sight of that cupboard, and before I sleep this night, it shall be built up solid with a good wall of mason-work ; and so here's a health to the rats within it, and a long life to them!" and he quaffed off the wine in fiendish triumph. He spoke so loud, and that intentionally that Raoul heard every word that he uttered. But if he hoped thereby to terrify the lover into discovering himself, and so convicting his fair and innocent wife, the vil- lain was deceived. Raoul heard every word — knew his fate — knew that one word, one motion would have saved him ; but that one word, one motion would have destroyed the fair fame of his Melanie. The memory of the death of that unhappy Lord of Kerguelen came palpably upon his mind in that dread moment, and the comments of his dead father. " I, at least," he muttered between his hard set teeth, " I at least will not be evidence against her. I will die silent — jiel hasta, la muerte /" And when the brick and mortar were piled by the hands of the unconscious grooms, and when the fatal trowels clanged and jarred around him, he spake not — stirred not — gave no sign. Even the savage wretch, De Ploermel, unable to believe in the existence of such chivalry, such honor, half doubted if he 300 true love's devotion. "were not deceived, and the cupboard were not untenanted by the true victim. Higher and higher rose the wall before the oaken door ; and by the exclusion of the light of the many torches by which the men were working, the victim must have marked, inch by inch, the progress of his living immurement. The page, Jules, had climbed in silence to the window's ledge, and was looking in, an unseen spectator, for he had heard all that passed from without, and suspected his lord's presence within the fatal pre- cinct. But as he saw the wall rise higher — higher — as he saw the last brick fastened in its place solid, immovable from with- in, and tnat without strife or opposition, he doubted not but that there was some concealed exit by which St. Renan had es- caped, and he descended hastily and hurried homeward. Now came the lady's trial — the trial that shall prove to De Ploermel whether his vengeance was complete. She was led in with Rose, a prisoner. Lettres de cachet had been obtained, when the treason of some wretched subordinate had revealed the secret of her intended flight with Raoul ; and the officers had seized the wife by the connivance of the shameless hus- band. " See !" he said, as she entered, " see, the fool suffered him- self to be walled up there in silence. There let him die in agony. You, madam, may live as long as you please in the Bastile, au secret" She saw that all was lost — her lover's sacrifice was made — she could not save him ! Should she, by a weak divulging Of the truth, render his grand devotion fruitless ? Never ! Her pale cheek did not turn one shade the paler, but her keen eye flashed living fire, and her beautiful lip writhed with loathing and scorn irrepressible. " It is thou who art the fool !" she said, " who hast made all a woman's vengeance. 301 this coil, to wall up a poor cat in a cupboard, as it is thou who art the base knave and shameless pandar, who has attempted to do murther, and all to sell thine own wife to a corrupt and loathsome tyrant !" All stood aghast at her fierce words, uttered with all the elo- quence and vehemence of real passion, but none so much as Rose, who had never beheld her other than the gentlest of the gentle. Now she wore the expression, and spoke with the tone of a young Pythoness, full of the fury of the god. She sprang forward as she uttered the last words, extricating herself from the slight hold of the astonished officers, and rushed toward her cowed and craven husband. " But in all things, mean wretch," she continued, in tones of fiery scorn, " in all things thou art frustrate — thy vengeance is naught, thy vile ambition naught, thyself and thy king, fools, knaves, and frustrate equally, and now," she added snatching the dagger which Raoul had given her from the scabbard, " now die, infamous, accursed pandar !" and with the word she buried the keen weapon at one quick and steady stroke to the very hilt in his base and brutal heart. Then, ere the corpse had fallen to the earth, or one hand of all those that were stretched out to seize her had touched her person, she smote herself mortally with the same reeking weapon, and only crying out in a clear, high voice, " Bear wit- ness, Rose, bear witness to my honor ! Bear witness all that I die spotless !" fell down beside the body of her husband, and expired without a struggle or a groan. Awfully was she tried, and awfully she died. Rest to her soul, if it be possible. The caitiff marquis de Ploermel perished, as she had said in all things frustrated ; for though his vengeance was in very deed complete, he believed that it had failed, and in his very agony that failure was his latest and his worst regret. 302 true love's devotion. On the morrow, when St. Renan returned not to his home, the page gave the alarm, and the fatal wall was torn down, but too late. The gallant victim of love's honor was no more. Doomed to a lingering death he had died speedily, though by no act of his own. A blood vessel had burst within, through the vio- lence of his own emotions. Ignorant of the fate of his sweet Melanie, he had died as he had lived, the very soul of honor ; and when they buried him, in the old chapel of his Breton cas- tle, beside his famous ancestors, none nobler lay around him ; and the brief epitaph they carved upon his stone was true, at least, if it were short and simple, for it ran only thus — Uaoni he St. fotnan. iTiel Ijastit la Jttuerte. LEGENDS SCOTLAND. PASSAGES FROM THE LIFE OF MARY STUART, CHASTELAR. "Fired by an object so sublime, What could I choose but strive to climb ? And as I strove I fell. At least 't is love, when hope is gone, Through shame and ruin to love on." — Anon. The last flush of day had not yet faded from the west, al- though the summer moon was riding above the verge of the eastern horizon, in a flood of mellow glory, with the diamond- spark of Lucifer glittering in solitary brightness at her side. It was one of those enchanting evenings which, peculiar to the southern lands of Europe, visit, but at far and fleeting intervals, the sterner clime of Britain. Not Italy, however, could her- self have boasted a more delicious twilight than this, which now was waning into night, above the rude magnificence of Scotland's capital. The fantastic dwellings of the city, ridge above ridge, loomed broadly to the left, partially veiled by those wreaths of vapor, which have been the origin of its provincial name ; while, far above the misty indistinctness of the town, the glorious castle towered aloft upon its craggy throne, dis- playing a hundred fronts of massive shadow, and as many sa- lient angles jutting abruptly into sight. The lovely vale of the 306 CHASTELAR. King's park, with its velvet turf and shadowy foliage, shone out in quiet lustre from beneath the dark-gray buttresses of Arthur's seat ; while from the trim alleys and pleached evergreens, which at that day formed a belt of lawn, and shrubbery, and royal garden, around the venerable pile of Holyrood, the rich song of the throstle — the nightingale of Scotland — came in repeated bursts upon the ear. Delightful as such an evening must naturally be to all who have hearts awake to the influence of sweet sounds and lovely sights, how inexpressibly soothing must it seem to one who, languishing beneath the ungenial atmosphere of a northern re- gion, and sighing for the bluer skies and softer breezes of his fatherland, feels himself at once transported, by the unusual aspect of the heavens, to the distant home of his regrets ! It was, perhaps, some fancied similarity to the nights in which he had been wont to court the favor of the high-born dames of France with voice and instrument, that had awakened the mel- ody of some foreign cavalier, more suitable perchance to the light murmurs of the Seine than to the distant booming of the seas that lash the coasts of Scotland. Such, however, was the illusion produced by the unwonted softness of the hour, that the tinkling of a lute and the full, manly voice of the singer did not at the moment seem so inconsistent to the spirit of the country and of the times as in truth it was. The words were French, and the air, though sweet, so melancholy, that it left a vague sensation of pain upon the listener — as though none but a heart diseased could give birth to notes so plaintive. " Pensez a moi ! pensez a moi ! — noble dame — Pensez a moi!" — the burden of the strain swelled clearly audible in the deepest tones of feeling, although the intermediate words were lost amid the accompaniment of the silver strings. Never, perhaps, since the unfortunate Chatelain de Coney first chanted his extempo- raneous farewell to the lady of his heart, had his simple words THE SERENADE. 307 been sung with taste or execution more appropriate to their sub- ject. In truth, it was impossible to listen to the lay without feeling a conviction that the heart of the minstrel was in his song. There were, moreover, moments in which a practised ear might have discovered variations, not in the tune only, but in the words, as the singer exerted his unrivalled powers to adapt the text, which he had chosen, to his own peculiar cir- cumstances ; nor would it have required more than a common degree of fancy to have traced the sounds, " O Reine Marie !" mingling with the proper refrain of the chant, although it would have been less easy to distinguish whether the fervent expression with which the words were invested was applied to an object of mortal idolatry or of immortal adoration. It would seem, how- ever, that there were listeners near, to whom this doubt had not so much as once occurred ; for in a shadowy bower, not far distant from the spot where the concealed musician sang, there stood a group of ladies, drinking with breathless eagerness ev- ery note that issued from his lips. Foremost in place, as first in rank, was one whose charms have been said and sung, not by the poet and the romancer only, but by the muse of history herself, who almost seems to have dipped her graver pencil in the hues of fiction when describing Mary Stuart of Scotland. Her form, rather below than above the middle stature of the female form, was fashioned with such perfect elegance, that it was equally calculated to exhibit the extremes of grace and majesty. Her ringlets of the deepest auburn, glancing in the light with a glossy, golden lustre, and melting into shadows of dark chestnut ; the statue-like contour of her Grecian head ; her eyes, on which no man had ever gazed with impunity to his heart — more languid and at the same time far more brilliant than those of created beauty ; her mouth, whose wreathed smile might have almost tempted angels to descend and worship ; her swan-like neck of dazzling whiteness ; and, above all, the glo- 308 CHASTELAR. rious blending of feminine ease with regal dignity — of conde- scension and affability toward the meanest of her fellow-men, with the exalted consciousness of all that was due, not to her rank, but to herself — combined to render her perhaps the love- liest, as after-events proved her beyond a doubt the most unfor- tunate, of queens or women. Sorrow at this time had scarcely cast a shadow on that transparent brow ; or, if an occasional rec- ollection of the ill-fated Francis did leave a trace behind, it was a sadness of that gentle and spiritualized description which is, perhaps, a more attractive expression to be marked in the fea- tures of a lovely woman, than the full blaze of happiness and self- enjoyment. Simple almost to plainness in her attire, the queen of Scotland moved before her four attendant Maries, ten thou- sand times more lovely from the contrast of her unadornment to the gorgeous dresses of those noble dames, who had been se- lected to be near her person, with especial regard, not to ex- alted rank alone, or to the distinctive name, which they bore in common with their royal mistress, but to intellect, and beauty, and all those accomplishments which, general as they are in our day, were then at least as highly valued for their rarity, as for their intrinsic merits. A robe of sable velvet, with the closely-fitted corsage peculiar to the age in which she lived, a falling ruff from the fairest looms of Flanders, and the pictu- resque head-gear which has ever borne her name, with its dou- ble tressure of pearls, and a single string of the same precious jewels around her neck, completed Mary's dress, while rust- ling trains of many-colored satin, guarded with costly laces and stomachers studded with gems, bracelets, and carcanets, and chains of goldsmith's work, gleamed on the persons of her la- dies. Still the demeanor of the little group was more in ac- cordance to the simplicity of the mistress than to the splendor of the others. No rigid etiquette was there ; none of that high and haughty ceremonial which, in the courtly festivals of the PENSEZ A M0I. 309 rival queen of England, froze up the feelings even of those trusted few who bore with the caprices, in seeking for the favors, of Elizabeth. The titles of grace and majesty were lisped indeed by the lips of the fair damsels, but the character of their re- marks, the polished raillery, the light laugh, and the freedom of intercourse, were rather those of the younger members of a family toward an elder sister, than of a court-circle toward a powerful queen. As the last notes of the song died away, she who was nearest to Mary's person whispered in a sportive tone, " Your grace has heard that lute before — " " In France, Carmichael," answered Mary, with a breath so deeply drawn as almost to resemble a sigh, " in our beautiful France ; when, when shall I look upon that lovely land again." While she was yet speaking the music recommenced. A dash of impatience was mingled with the plaintive sweetness of the strain, and the words •' pensez a moi" swept past their ears with all the energy of disappointed feelings. " It is the voice — " " Of the sieur de Chastelar," interrupted the queen ; " we would thank the gentleman for his minstrelsey. Seyton, ma mignonne, hie thee across yon woodbine-maze, and summon this night-warbler to our presence." With an arch smile the lively girl bounded forward, and was for an instant lost among the foliage of the garden. " Dost thou remember, Carmichael," said the queen, whose thoughts had been reflected by the well-remembered strains — " dost thou remember our sylvan festivals in the lovely groves of Versailles, with hound and hawk for noonday pastime, and the lute, the song, and the unfettered dance upon the green sward, beneath moons unclouded by the hazy gloom of this dark Scotland's ?" " And does your grace remember," laughed the other in re- ply, " a certain fete in which the palm of minstrelsey was award- 310 CHASTELAR. ed by your royal hand to a masked hunter of the forest ? Yet was his bearing somewhat gentle for a ranger of the green- wood, and his hand was passing white to have handled the tough bow-string ? Does your grace's memory serve to recall the air whose executions gained that prize of harmony ? Me- thinks it did run somewhat thus," — and she warbled the same notes which had formed the burthen of the serenade. Whether some distant recollections conjured up the mantling color to the cheeks of Mary, or whether she dreaded the mis- construction of the serenader, on his hearing his own tender words repeated in a voice of female melody, it was with brow, neck and bosom of the deepest crimson that she turned to Mary Carmichael — " Peace, silly minion !" she said, with momentary dignity ; " wouldst have it said that Mary of Scotland is so light of bear- ing as to trill love-ditties in reply to unseen ballad-mongers V Nay, weep not neither, Marie ; if I spoke somewhat shortly, 'twas that the gentleman was even then approaching. Cheer up, my girl ; thou hast, we know it well, a kind, a gentle, and a trusty heart, though nature has coupled the gift to that of a thoughtless head and random tongue. Take not on thus, or I shall blame myself in that I checked thee, though surely not unkindly. Mary of Stuart loves better far to look upon a smiling lip than a wet eye, even if it be a stranger's — much, less that of one whom she loves — as I love thee, Carmi- chael." There was, perhaps, no circumstance more remarkable than the power which, at every period of her momentous life, Mary appears to have possessed of winning, as it were at a glance, the affections of all who came in contact with her. The deep devotion, not of the barons and the military chiefs alone, who bled in defence of her cause, but of the ladies, the pages, the chamberlains of her court, nay, of the very grooms and servi- queen mart's winning manner. 311 tors, with whom she could have held no intercourse beyond a smile or inclination of the head, in return for their lowly obei- sance, was ever ready for the proof, when circumstances might demand its exercise. Not shown by outward acts of hero- ism only, or by those deeds which men are wont to perform, no less at the instigation of their wishes for renown, or of ri- valry with some more famed competitor, this devotion was con- stantly manifested in the eagerness of all around her to exe- cute even the most menial duties to Mary's satisfaction ; in the promptness to anticipate her slightest wish ; in the lively joy which one kind word from her could awaken, as if by magic, on every brow ; and, above all, in the utter despondency which seemed to sink down upon those whom she might deem it ne- cessary to check, even with the slightest remonstrance. In the present instance the sensitive girl, to whom the queen had ut- tered her commands in the nervous quickness of , excitement, rather than with any feeling of harshness or offended pride, felt, it was evident, more bitterness of grief at the rebuke of one whom she loved no less than she revered, than she would have expe- rienced beneath the pressure of some real calamity. As quickly, however, as the sense of sorrow had been excited, did it pass away, before the returning smiles, the soft caresses, and the winning manners of the most fascinating of women the most amiable of superiors. Scarcely had the tears of Mary Carmichael ceased to flow, when the footsteps, which for some moments previously had been heard approaching, sounded close at hand ; the branches of the embowering shrubbery were gently put asunder, and the lady Seyton stood again before the queen, attended by a gen- tleman of noble aspect, and whose very gesture was fraught with that easy and graceful politeness which, perhaps, showed even more to advantage in that iron age and warlike country, displayed, as it often was, in contrast to the rude demeanor and 312 CHASTELAR. stern simplicity of the warrior lords of Scotland, than in his native France. The sieur de Chastelar was at this time in the very prime of youthful manhood, and might have been some few years, and but few, the senior of the lovely being before whose presence he bent in adoration humbler, and more fervently expressed, than the reverence due from a mere subject to a mortal queen. Tall and fairly-proportioned, with a countenance in which almost feminine softness of expression was blended, with an aspect of the eye and lip, which proved the vicinity of bolder and more manly qualities, slumbering but not extinct, he seemed at the first glance a man most eminently qualified to win a fe- male heart. And who, that looked upon the broad and massive brow, and the quick glance of that eye, fraught with intelligence, could doubt but that the mind within was equal to the more perishable beauties of the form in which it was encompassed 1 And when to all this was added, that the sieur de Chastelar had already won a name in his green youth that ranked with those of gray-haired veterans in the lists of glory ; that in all manly exercises, as in all softer accomplishments, he owned no superior ; that the most skilful master of defence, the far- famed Vicentio Saviola, confessed De Chastelar his equal in the quickness of eye, the readiness of hand and foot which had combined to render him the most distinguished swordsman of the day ; that the wildest and most untameable chargers that ever were compelled to undergo the manege, might as well have striven to shake off a portion of themselves, as to dismount De Chasteler by any display of violence and power ; that his hand could draw the clothyard arrow to the head, and speed it to its aim as truly as the fleetest archer that ever twanged a bow in Sherwood ; that he moved in the stately measure of the pavon, or the livelier galliarde, with that grace peculiar to his nation ; that, in the richness of his voice, his execution and taste on THE QUEEN'S YOUTHFUL LOVER. 313 lute or guitar, he might have vied with the sons of Italy her- self ; in short, that all perfections which were deemed most re- quisite to form a gentleman were united in De Chastelar, what female heart, that was not proof to all the allurements of love or fancy, could hope to make an adequate resistance 1 Young, handsome, romantic, ardent in his hopes, enthusiastic almost to madness in his affections, he had been captivated years before in the gay salons of the French capitol, by the beauty and irre- sistible fascinations of the princess. In the intercourse of French society, which even in the times of the Medici, as it has been in all succeeding ages, was far more liberal in its distinctions, and less restricted by the formalities of etiquette, than in any other court, a thousand op- portunities had occurred, by which the youthful cavalier had profited to rivet the attention of the princess ; at every carousel he bore her colors ; in every masque he introduced some delicate allusion, some soft flattery, palpable to her alone ; in every con- test of musical skill, which yet survived in Paris, the sole rem- nant of the troubadours, some covert traces of his passion might be discovered, if not by every ear, at least by that of Mary. Intoxicated as she was, at this stage of her life, by the adula- tion of all, by the consciousness of beauty, power, and rank, far above all her fellows, the queen of Scotland owed much of her misery in after-years to the unclouded brilliancy of her youth- ful prospects, and to the wide distinction between the manners of that court, in which her happiest hours were spent; and of her northern subjects, by whom her gaiete de cour, her love for society less formal than the routine of courts, and her predilec- tions for all innocent amusements, were ever looked upon in the light of grave derelictions from decorum and morality. That she had regarded the gallant boy, whose accomplish- ments were so constantly before her eyes, with favorable incli- nations was not to be doubted ; and that at times she had lav- 14 314 CHASTELAR. ished upon him marks of her good will in rather too profuse a degree, was no less true ; but whether this line of conduct was dictated merely by a natural impulse, which ever leads us to distinguish those whom we approve from the common herd of our acquaintance, or by a warmer feeling, can never now be ascertained. It mattered not, however, to the youth, from which cause the conduct of the lovely princess was derived ; it was enough for him that she had marked his attentions, that she had deigned to look upon him with favorable eyes, that she might at some future period learn to love. Not long, however, was it permitted to him to indulge in those fair but fallacious dreams ; the marriage of the Scottish princess with the royal Francis was ere long publicly announced, the ceremonies of the betrothal, and lastly of the wedding itself, were solemnized with all the pomp and splendor of the might- iest, realm in Europe, and the aspirations of the united nations ascended in behalf of Francis and his lovely bride. It was then, for the first time, that Mary was rendered fully aware of the misery which her unthinking freedom had entailed upon the ardent nature of De Chastelar ; it was then, for the first time, that she learned how deep and powerful had been the passion which he had nourished in his heart of hearts — that she was awakened to a consciousness that she was loved, not wisely, but too well. Heretofore she had believed, that the eagerness of the gay and gallant Frenchman to display his equestrian skill, his musical accomplishments, before her pres- ence, and as it were in her behalf, and the devotedness with which he turned all his powers to a single object, were rather to be attributed to a desire of gaining general approbation as a gentle cavalier, a slave to beauty, and a favored servant of earth's loveliest lady, than to a passion, the romance of which, considering the wide distinction of their sphere, would have amounted to actual insanity. Now she perceived, to her deep THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER. 315 regret, that the arrow had been shot home, and that the barb had taken hold too firmly to be disengaged by a sudden effort, how vehement soever. She saw, in the pale cheek and hollow eye, that he had cherished hopes which reason and reality must bid him discard, at once and for ever ; but which he yet had not the fortitude to tear up by the roots, and cast into oblivion. For a time he had wandered about, a spectre of his former person, among the festivities and happiness of all around him, paler every day, and more abstracted in his mien ; then he had exiled himself at once from rejoicings in which he could have no share, and had buried his hopes, his anxieties, his misery, in the loneliness of his own secluded chamber. Thus had passed weeks and months ; and when at length he had come forth again to join the world and all its vanities, he was, as it seemed to all, a wiser and a sadder man. The queen, ever kind and affectionate in her disposition, imagining that he had struggled with the demon which possessed him, and cast his hopeless love behind him, met his return to the courtly circle with her wonted condescension. On his prefer- ring his request to be installed her chamberlain, willing to mark her high sense of his imagined integrity, in thus man- fully shaking off his weakness, she granted his request ; and trusting that his own acuteness would readily perceive the dis- tinction between royal favor to a trusted servant and feminine affections to a preferred lover, assumed nothing of formality or etiquette, more than had characterized their former days of un- restricted intercourse. Her own first trial followed ; the first year of her nuptials had not yet flown, when the gallant Fran- cis, the earliest, the worthy object of her young love, sickened with a disease which from its very commencement permitted but slight hopes of his recovery. Then came the wretched- ness of anxiety, hoping all things, yet too well aware that all 316 CHASTELAR. was hopeless ; the vvatchings by his feverish bed, when watch- ing, it was too obvious, could be of no avail ; the agony when the announcement that all was over, long foreseen, but never to be endured, burst on her mind ; the long, heart-rending sor- row, the repinings after pleasures that were never to return ; and, last of all, the cold, stern carelessness of despair. She awoke at length from her lethargy of wo ; awoke to leave the lovely climate which she had learned almost to deem her own; to be torn from the friends whom she had loved, and the society of which she had been the brightest gem, to return to a country which, though it was the country of her birth, had never con- jured up to her imagination any pictures save of a gloomy hue and melancholy nature. A few who had served her in the sunny land of France ad- hered to her with unshaken resolution, despising all inconve- niences, setting at naught all dangers, save that separation from a mistress, whom, to have attended once, was to love for ever. Among those few was De Chastelar. The alteration in her condition had undoubtedly suggested to the widowed queen the necessity of an alteration in her conduct toward De Chastelar, particularly when it was added, that familiarity between a crea- ture so young and lovely as herself and a gentleman so noble, even in his melancholy, as the chamberlain, would have at once excited the indignation of her stern and rigid subjects. In these circumstances it would perhaps have been a wiser, though not a more considerate plan, to have confided the cause of her embarrassment to the causer of it, and to have requested his absence from her court. It was not, however, in Mary's nature to give pain, if she could possibly avoid it, to the mean- est animal, much less to a friend valued and esteemed, as he who was the innocent cause of her anxiety. She adopted, therefore, what, being always the most easy, is ever the most dangerous, an intermediate course. In public De Chastelar A WOUNDED HEART. 317 received no marks of approbation from the queen, much less of regard from the woman ; but in her hours of retirement, when surrounded by the ladies of her court, the most of whom had followed her footsteps northward from gay Paris, she delighted to efface from his mind the recollections of neglect before the eyes of the censorious Scots, by a delicacy of atten- tion, and a warmth of friendship, which, while it fully an- swered her end of soothing his wounded feelings, led him to cherish ideas most fatal in the end to his own happiness, and to that of the fair being whom he so adored. It was with a heightened color and throbbing breast that Mary turned to ad- dress her unconfessed lover, yet there was no nutter in the clear, soft voice with which she spoke. " We would thank," she said, " the sieur de Chastelar for the delightful sounds by which he has rendered our walk on this sweet evening even more agreeable than the mild air and cloudless heaven could have done without his minstrelsey. Yet 'twas a mournful strain, De Chastelar," she continued, " and one which, if we err not, flows from a wounded heart. Would that we knew the object of so true a servant's worship, that we might whisper our royal pleasure in her ear, that she should list the suit of one whom we regard so highly. Is she in truth so obdurate, this fair of thine, De Chastelar ? she must be hard of heart to slight so gallant a cavalier." " Not so, your grace," replied the astonished lover, in a voice scarcely less sonorous than the music he had made so lately. " She to whom all my vows are paid, she who has ever owned the passionate aspirations of a devoted heart, is as pre-eminently raised in all the sweet and amiable sentiments of the mind as is unrivalled beauty above all mortal beings." For an instant the queen was dumb ; she had hoped, by affecting ignorance of his sentiments, that she should have been enabled to make him comprehend the madness, the utter 318 CHASTELAR. inutility of his passion, and she felt that she had failed; that words had been addressed to her, which, however she might feign to others that she had not perceived their bearing, he must be well aware she could not possibly have failed to un- derstand. It was with an altered mien, and with an air of cold and haughty dignity, that she again addressed him as she passed onward toward the palace. " We wish thee, then, fair sir, a better fortune hereafter, and until then good night." Without uttering a syllable in reply, he bowed himself almost to the earth ; nor did he raise his head again until the form he loved to look upon had vanished from his sight : then slowly lifting his eyes he gazed wistfully after her, dashed his hand violently upon his brow, and turning aside rushed hastily from the spot. An hour had scarcely elapsed before the lights were extin- guished throughout the vaulted halls of Holyrood ; the guards were posted for the night, the officers had gone their rounds, the ladies of the royal circle were dismissed, and all was dark- ness and silence. In Mary's chamber a single lamp was burn- ing in a small recess, before a beautifully-executed painting of the virgin, but light was not sufficient to penetrate the ob- scurity which reigned in the many angles and alcoves of that irregular apartment, although the moonbeams were admitted through the open casement. Her garb of ceremony laid aside, her lovely shape scantily veiled by a single robe of spotless linen, her auburn tresses flowing in unrestrained luxuriance almost to her feet, if she had been a creature of perfect human beauty, when viewed in all the pomp of royal pageantry, she now appeared a being of su- pernatural loveliness. Her small white feet, unsandalled, glided over the rich carpet with a grace which a slight degree of fancy might have deemed the motion peculiar to the inhabit- ants of another world. For an instant, ere she turned to her the quehn's prayer. 319 repose, she leaned against the carved mull ions of the window, and gazed pensively, and it might be sadly, upon the garden, where she had so lately parted from the unhappy youth, whose life was thus embittered by that very feeling which, above all others, should have been its consolation. Withdrawing her eyes from the moonlit scene, she knelt before the lamp and the shrine which it illuminated, and her whispered orisons arose pure as the source from which they flowed ; the prayers of a weak and humble mortal, penitent for every trivial error, breath- ing all confidence to Him who alone can protect or pardon ; the prayers of a queen for her numerous children, and last, and holiest of all, a woman's prayers for her unfortunate admirer. Yes, she prayed for Chastelar, that strength might be given to him from on high, to bear the crosses of a miserable life, and that by Divine mercy the hopeless love might be uprooted from his breast. The words burst passionately from her lips, her whole frame quivered with the excess of her emotion, and the big tears fell like rain from her uplifted eyes. While she was yet. in the very flood of passion a sigh was breathed, so clearly audible, that the conviction flashed like lightning on her soul, that this most secret prayer was listened to by other ears than those of heavenly ministers. Terror, acute terror took posses- sion of her mind, banishing, by its superior violence, every less engrossing idea. She snatched the lamp from its niche, waved it slowly around the chamber, and there, in the most hal- lowed spot of her widowed chamber, a spy upon her unguarded moments, stood a dark figure. Even in that moment of astonish- ment and fear, as if by instinct, the beautiful instinct of purely female modesty, she snatched a velvet mantle from the seat on which it had been cast aside, and veiled her person even be- fore she spoke — "O God! it is De Chastelar!" " Sweet queen," replied the intruder, " bright, beautiful ruler of my destinies, pardon — " 320 CHASTELAR. " What ho !" she screamed, in notes of dread intensity, " a moi,a moi mes Francais. My guards ! Seyton ! Carmichael ! Fleming ! will ye leave your queen alone ! alone Avith treach- ery and black dishonor ! Villain ! slave !" she cried, turning her flashing eyes upon him, her whole form swelling as it were with all the fury of injured innocence, " didst thou dare to think that Mary — Mary, the wife of Francis — the anointed queen of Scotland, would brook thine infamous addresses ? Nay, kneel not, or I spurn thee ! What ho ! will no one aid in mine extremity ?" " Fear naught from me," faltered the wretched Chastelar, but with a voice like that of some inspired Pythoness she broke in — "Fear! thinkst thou that I could fear a thing, an abject coward thing like thee ? a wretch that would exult in the in- famy of one whom he pretends to love ? Fear thee ! by heav- ens ! if I could have feared, contempt must have forbidden it." " Nay, Mary, hear me ! hear me but one word, if that word cost my life — " " Thy life ! hadst thou ten thousand lives, they would be but a feather in the scale against thy monstrous villany. What ho !" again she cried, stamping with impotent anger at the de- lay of her attendants, " treason ! my guards ! treason !" At length the passages rang with the hurried footsteps of the startled inmates of the palace ; with torch and spear, and bran- dished blades, they rushed into the apartment ; page, sentinel, and chamberlain, ladies with dishevelled hair, and faces blanched with terror. The queen stood erect in the centre of the room, pointing, with one white arm bare to the shoulder, toward the wretched culprit, who, with folded arms, and head erect, awaited his doom in unresisting silence. His naked rapier, with which alone he might have foiled the united efforts of his enemies, lay at his feet ; his brow was white as sculptured marble, and no less rigid, but his eyes glared THE QUEEN A WOMAN. 321 wildly, and his lips quivered as though he would have spoken The queen, still furious at the wrong which he had done her fame, marked the expression. " Silence !" she cried — " degra- ded ! wouldst thou meanly beg thy forfeit life ? Wert thou my father, thou shouldst die to-morrow ! Hence with the villain ! Bid Maitland execute the warrant. Ourself — ourself will sign it — away ! Chastelar dies at daybreak !" " 'Tis well," replied he, calmly, "it is well — the lips I love the best pronounce my doom, and I die happy, since I die for Mary. Wouldst thou but pity the offender, while thou dost doom the offence, De Chastelar would not exchange his short- ened span of life, and violent death, for the brightest crown in Christendom. My limbs may die — my love will live for ever ! Lead on, minions ; I am more glad to die than ye to slay! Mary, beautiful Mary, think — think hereafter upon Chastelar !" The guards passed onward ; last of the group, unfettered and unmoved, De Chastelar stalked after them. Once, ere he stooped beneath the low-browed portal, he paused, placed both hands on his heart, bowed lowly, and then pointed upward, as he chanted once again the words, " Pensez a mat, noble dame, pensez a ?noi." As he vanished from her presence she waved her hand impatiently to be left alone — and all night long she traversed and re-traversed the floor of her chamber, in parox- ysms of the fiercest despair. The warrant was brought to her — silently, sternly, she traced her signature beneath it; not a sign of sympathy was on her pallid features, not a tremor shook her frame ; she was passionless, majestic, and unmoved. The secretary left the chamber on his fatal errand, and Mary was again a woman. Prostrate upon her couch she lay, sobbing and weeping as though her very soul was bursting from her bosom, defying all consolation, spurning every offer at remedy. 14* 322 CHASTELAR. " 'Tis done !" she would say, " 'tis done ! 1 have preserved my fame, and murdered mine only friend !" The morning dawned slowly, and the heavy bells of all the churches clanged the death-peal of De Chastelar. The tramp of the cavalry defiling from the palace-gates struck on her heart as though each hoof dashed on her bosom. An hour passed away, the minute-bells still tolling ; the roar of a culverin swept heavily downward from the castle, and all was over. He had died as he had lived, undaunted — as he had lived, devoted ! " Mary, divine Mary," were his latest words, " I love in death, as I loved in life, thee, and thee only." The axe drank his blood, and the queen of Scotland had not a truer servant left behind than he, whom, for a moment's frenzy, she was compelled to slay. Yet was his last wish satisfied ; for though the queen might not relent, the woman did forgive ; and in many a mournful hour did Mary think on Chastelar. RI Z ZIO. Bru. Do you know them \ Luc. No, sir ; their hats are plucked about their brows, And half their faces buried in their cloaks, That by no means I may discover them By any marks of favor. — Julius Cesar. The shadows of an early evening, in the ungenial month of March, were already gathering among the narrow streets and wynds of the Scottish metropolis. There was a melancholy air of solitude about the grim and dusky edifices, which tow- ered to the height of twelve or thirteen stories against the gray horizon. No lights streamed from the casements, no voices sounded in loud revelry or chastened merriment from the dwel- lings of the gloomy quarter in which the scene of our narrative is laid. The cheerless aspect of the night, together with the drizzling rain, which fell in silent copiousness, had banished every human being from the streets ; and, except the smoke which eddied from the dilapidated chimneys, and was instantly beat down to earth by the violence of the shower, there was no sign of any other inhabitants, than the famished dogs which were snarling over the relics of some thrice-picked bone. Suddenly the sharp clatter of hoofs, in rapid motion over the broken pavement, rose above the splashing of the flooded gut- ters, betokening the approach of men ; and ere a minute had elapsed two horsemen, gallantly mounted, rode hotly up the street. The foremost bestriding, with the careless ease of an accomplished rider, a jennet, whose thin jaws, expanded nos- tril, and flashing eye, no less than the deerlike springiness of its gait, and its unrivalled symmetry, proclaimed it sprung from the best blood of the desert, was of a figure that could not be 324 rizzio. looked upon, however slightly, without awakening a sense of interest, perhaps of admiration, in all beholders. His countenance, of an oval form, and of a darker hue than the blue-eyed sons of northern latitudes are wont to exhibit — the full and somewhat wild expression of his dark eye, the melancholy smile which played upon his curling lip, pencilled mustache, and the peaked beard — contributing to form a face that Antonio Vandyke would have loved to paint, and after ages to admire, when invested with the life of his rich coloring. His dress of russet velvet slashed with satin, his feathered cap, with its gay fanfarona* and enamelled medal, his jeweled rapier, and the bright spurs in his falling buskins, were well adapted to the agile limbs and slender, though symmetrical proportions of the horseman. The second rider was a boy, whose black and scarlet liveries — the well-known colors of all servitors of the Scottish crown — were but imperfectly hidden by the frieze cloak which had been cast over them, evidently for the purposes of conceal- ment, rather than of comfort ; yet he, too, like the gallant whom he followed — if any faith was to be placed in the evidence of raven hair and olive complexion — owed his birth to some more southern clime. After winding rapidly through several dim and unfrequented lanes, the leading horseman, checking his speed, gazed around him with a doubtful and bewildered eye. 11 Madre di Dio" he exclaimed at length, " what a night is here ; a thousand curses on this learned fool, that he must dwell in such a den of thieves as this ; or rather a thousand curses on the blind and heretical Scots, that drive a man of wisdom, beyond their shallow comprehension, to bed with the * The Fanfarona was a richly-fashioned chain of goldsmith's work, not worn about the neck, but twisted in two or more circuits around the rim of the cap, or bonnet, and terminating in a heavy medal. It was probably of Spanish origin, but was much in vogue in the courts of Mary and Elizabeth. AN ANCIENT MANSION. 325 very outcasts of society. Pietro, what ho !" and he raised his voice above the key in which he had pitched his soliloquy, " knowest thou the dwelling of this sage — this Johan Dami- etta ? methought that I had noted the spot, yet have these sordid lanes banished the recollection. Presto, time fails already." Without uttering a syllable in reply, the page sprung from his horse, and pointed to the doorway of a mansion, dilapidated even more than those in its vicinity, yet bearing in its site the marks of having been constructed in former days for the resi- dence of some proud baron. Nor even now — although all the appliances of comfort were utterly neglected, although the casements were void of glass, and the chimneys sent up no volumes from a cheerful hearth — were the external defences of the pile forgotten ; heavy bars of iron crossed and recrossed the deep-set embrasure which once had held the windows, and the oaken gate was clenched with many a massive nail and plate of rusted iron. The cavalier alighted, cast the rein to his servitor, and with the single word " Prudence," ascended the stone steps, and struck thrice at measured intervals upon the wicket with his rapier's hilt. The door flew open, but without the agency, as it appeared, of any living being, and, as the visiter entered, was closed again behind him with a heavy crash. A narrow passage was before him, scarcely rendered visible by the flickering light of a cresset suspended from the ceiling, and nourished, as it seemed, with spirit, rather than with the richer food of oil. Uncertain, however, as was the illumina- tion, it served to show a second door, even more strongly con- structed than the first, fronting the intruder at the distance of some ten paces ; while the wall, perforated with loops for mus- ketry, or more probably, if the remote antiquity of the building were considered, for arrows, proved that the hostile intruder 32G rizzio. had effected but little in forcing his way through the outward entrance. It would be wrong, in the description of this diffi- cult passage, to omit the mention of certain orifices, or slits, extending in length from the floor even to the ceiling of the side-walls, but not exceeding a single inch in width, as they may tend perhaps to cast some light upon an invention of the darkest ages of Scottish history, the reality of which has been considered doubtful by acute antiquarians. From the upper extremity of these slits protruded on either side the blades of six enormous swords, which, being placed alternately, and worked by some concealed machinery, must inevitably hew to atoms, when once set in motion, any obstacle to their appalling sway. This was the dreaded swordmill first discovered by the wizard baron Soulis, and thence invested with superstitious error, which was needless, at the least, when the actual horrors of the engine were considered. It is, however, probable, that these gigantic relics of an earlier age were no longer capa- ble of being rendered available at the period of which we write ; at all events they hung in rusty blackness, suspended like the sword of Damocles above the head of the intruder, rendering his position awful, at least, if not in reality insecure. Notwithstanding the warlike and turbulent character of Scotland during the reign of Mary, there was nevertheless enough of the uncommon in the defences of this dark and dan- gerous entrance to have riveted the attention of a man less anx- iously engaged than was the foreign cavalier. Apparently un- dismayed by the wild contrivances around him, the gallant strode forward to repeat his signal on the inner wicket, when a broad glare of crimson light, produced by some chemical preparation, considered in that dark age supernatural, was shot into his very face from an aperture above, clearly displaying to some con- cealed observer the form and features of his visiter. "Ha!" cried a voice so shrill and grating as to produce a THE CONJURER'S CELL. 327 painful impression on the nerves of the hearer. " Thou art come hither, Sir Italian ; enter, then — enter in the name of Albunazar! — enter, the hour is propitious, and thou art waited for !" The door revolved noiselessly on its hinges, and a few steps brought the Italian to the chamber of the sage. It was a small and central cell, without the slightest visible communication with the outward air. Books of strange characters and instru- ments of singular device were scattered on the floor, the tables, and the seats ; astrolabes, globes of the terrestrial and celestial world, crucibles, and vials of rare and potent mixtures, lay be- side discolored bones, reptiles, and loathsome things from trop- ical climes, some stuffed, and others carefully preserved in spirit. A huge furnace glimmered in the corner, covered with vessels containing, doubtless, alembics of unearthly power; a large black cat — to which inoffensive animal wild notions of infernal origin were then attached — and a gigantic owl, perched on a fleshless skull, completed the ornaments of this receptacle of superstitious quackery, which was rendered as light as day by the aid of some composition, burning in a lamp so brilliantly as to dazzle the firmest eye. In the midst of this confused as- semblage of things, useless and revolting alike to reason and humanity, the master-spirit of his tribe was seated — a small old man, whose massive forehead, pencilled with the deep lines of thought, would have betokened a profound and powerful mind, had not the quick flash of the small and deeply-seated eye belied, by its crafty and malignant glances, all symptoms of a noble nature. " Hail, Signor David !" he said, but without raising his eyes from the retort over which he was poring. " Hail ! methought that thou didst hold the wisdom of the sage mere quackery ! Ha! out upon such changeful, feather-pated knaves, who scoff before men at that which they respect — ay, which they trem- 328 rizzio. ble at in private ! — tremble ! well mayst thou tremble — for thy doom is fixed ! See," he cried, in a fearfully unnatural tone, as he raised the metallic rod with which he had been stirring the contents of the glass vessel, and exhibited it dripping with some crimson-colored liquid — " see ! it is gore — thy gore, Sig- nor David ! — ha, ha, ha!" and he laughed with fiendish glee at the evident discomposure of his guest. " Nay, nay, good father — " he began, when the other cut him off abruptly — " ' Good father !' — ha, ha, ha ! Good devil ! Fool, dost think that thou canst change the destinies that were eternal, before so vain a thing as thou wast in existence, by thine unmeaning flatteries 1 I spit upon such courtesies ! ' Good father !' listen to my words, and mark if I be good. Thou hast risen by mean- ness, and flattery, and cringing, and vice ; thou hast disgraced thy rise by insolence and folly — weak, drivelling folly; and thou sh alt fall — ha, ha, ha ! — fall like a dog! Look to thy- self! — ' Good father!' Begone, or thou shalt hear more, and that which thou wilt like even less than this — begone !" " I meant not to offend thee," replied the astonished courtier, " and I pray thee be not distempered. I have broken in on thy retirement to witness that unearthly skill of which men speak, and I would ask of thee in courtesy mine horoscope, that I may so report thee — " " Thou ! thou report me, David Rizzio ! the wire-pinching, sonned-jingling, base-born scullion, report of Johan Damietta ! Get thee away! I know thee! Begone — nay, if thou wilt have it, listen : bloody shall be thine end, and base. A bastard foeman is in thy house of life. Tremble at the name — " " Rather," interrupted the Italian, enraged at the language of the conjurer, " rather let that bastard tremble at the name of Rizzio ; and thou, old man, I leave thee as I came, undaunted by thy threats, and unconvinced by thy jugglery." THE WARNING. 329 "To-night! to-night!" hissed the old man, in notes of hor- rible malignity — "to-night shalt thou know if Damietta be a juggler! If thou wouldst live — for I would have thee live, poor worm — fly from the hatred of the Scottish nobles! — away !" " Know'st thou," asked Rizzio, tauntingly, " a Scottish prov- erb — if not, I will instruct thee — framed, if I read it rightly, to express the character of their own factious brawlers ? ' The bark is aye waur than the bite.' Adieu, old man ! to-morrow thou shalt learn if Rizzio fears or thee or thy most doughty brawlers." " Ha, ha, ha ! — to-morrow ! mark that — to-morrow !" and a yell of laughter burst from every corner of the chamber ; the mixture in the retort exploded with a stunning crash, the lights were extinguished, and, without being aware of the manner of his exit, the royal secretary found himself beyond the outer gate of the wizard's dwelling, with a throbbing pulse and swim- ming brain, but still, to do him justice, undismayed by that which his naturally incredulous and sneering turn of mind, ra- ther than any clear conviction of the truth, led him to consider as a mere imposture. Without replying a syllable to the inquiries of the terrified page, who had heard the frightful sounds within, he flung him- self into his saddle, plunged the rowels into the flanks of the jennet until she reared and plunged with terror, and dashed homeward at a fearful rate through alleys now as dark as mid- night. Nor did he draw his bridle till he had passed the guarded portals of the palace, and galloped into the inmost court of Holyrood : there indeed he checked his courser with a violence which almost hurled her on her haunches, sprang from her back, and, without looking round, hurried into the most private entrance, and disappeared. Scarcely had he passed through the gateway, and ere yet 330 rizzio. the page had left the courtyard with the horses, when the sen- tinel, who had permitted the well-known secretary of the queen to pass unquestioned, brought down his partisan to the charge, and challenged, as a tall figure, whose clanging step announced him to be sheathed in armor cap-a-pie, muffled in a dark man- tle, with a hood like that worn by the Romish priesthood drawn close around his head, approached him. " Stand, ho ! the word — " " Another word, and thou never speakest more !" replied the other, in a hoarse, rapid whisper, offering a petronel, cocked, and his finger on the trigger, at the very throat of the aston- ished soldier ; " the king requires no password !" " The king?" replied the sentinel, doubtfully, "the king? — I know not, nor would I willingly offend ; but thou art not, me- thinks, his majesty." " Take that, thou fool, to settle all thy doubts !" cried the other, in the same deep whisper as before ; while, casting his weapon into the air, he caught it by the muzzle as it turned over, and sunk the loaded butt deep into the forehead of the unwary sentinel. The whole was scarcely the work of an in- stant ; and ere the heavy body could fall to earth, the ready hand of the assailant had caught it, and suffered it to drop so gently as to create no sound. In another moment he was joined by three or four other persons similarly disguised, and followed by a powerful guard of spearmen. A heavy watch of these was posted at the principal gateway, and knots of others were disposed around the court at every private entrance, with orders to let none pass on any pretext whatsoever. " Warn them to stand back twice! the third time kill!" was the mut- tered order of the chief actor in the previous tragedy. " So far, my liege, all's well!" he continued, turning with an air of some respect to another of the muffled figures, of a port some- what less commanding than his own huge proportions ; " and THE CONSPIRATORS. 331 Morton must, ere this, have seized all the remaining avenues." While he was yet speaking, a slight bustle was heard at a distance, and in a second's space they were joined by him of whom they spoke. " How goes the business, Morton ?" said the first speaker. "All well! — the gates are ours, and not a soul disturbed; the villain sentinels laid down their arms at once, and are even now in ward ! Let us be doing : a deed like this permits of no delay !" " On, friends ! Be silent, and be certain !" And one by one they filed through the same portal by which the Italian had, so short a time before, sped to the presence of his royal mistress. In the meantime, unconscious of the fearful tragedy that was even then in preparation the lovely queen, with her most trusted servants, the devoted David, and the noble countess of Argyle, had retired from the strict ceremonies of the court circle to the privacy of her own apartments. In a small antechamber, scarcely twelve feet in width, com- municating with the solitary chamber of the queen — solitary, for the notorious profligacy and insolent neglect of Darnley had left her an almost widowed wife — the board was spread, glit- tering with gold and crystal, and covered with the delicacies of the evening meal. The beautiful queen, freed from the galling chains of cere- mony, her robes of state thrown by, and attired in the elegant simplicity of a private lady, sat there — her lovely features beaming with condescension and with unaffected pleasure, con- versing joyously with those whom she had selected from her court as worthiest of her especial favor. Bitterly, cruelly had she been deceived in the character of him whom she had in truth made a king ; for whose gratification she had almost ex- ceeded the rights of her prerogative, and given deep offence to 332 rizzio. her haughty and suspicious nobles ; having discovered, when too late, that, while possessed of all the graces and accomplish- ments that constitute an elegant and agreeable admirer, Henry Darnley was deficient, miserably deficient, in all that can ren- der a man eligible as a friend and husband. Deserted, neg- lected, outraged in a woman's tenderest point, almost before the first month of her nuptials had elapsed, the flattering dream had passed away which had promised years of happy, peaceful com- munion with one loved and loving partner. Ever preferring the society of any other fair one to that of the lovely being to whom he should have been bound by every tie of love and gratitude, the king had early left his disconsolate bride to pine in total seclusion, or to seek for recreation in the society of those whose qualities of mind, if not their rank, might render them fit companions for her solitude ; and she, poor victim of a brutal husband, and unhappy mistress of a turbulent and war- like nation, fell blindly but most innocently into the snare of her unrelenting enemies. Of all who were around her person, Rizzio alone was such by habits, education, and accomplishments, as could lend attrac- tion to the circle of a gay and youthful queen. Accustomed, from her earliest youth, to the elegant and polished manners of the French nobility, the rude and illiterate barons — with whom the highest grade of knowledge was the marshalling of a host for the battle-field, and the highest, merit the fighting in the front rank when marshalled — could appear to her in no other light than that of brutal and uneducated savages. What wonder, then, that a youth well skilled as David Rizzio in all the arts and elegances most suitable to a noble cavalier, hand- some withal and courteous, attentive even to adoration to her slightest wish, and ever contrasting his cultivated mind with the untutored rudeness of the warrior-lords of Scotland, should have been admitted to a degree of intimacy by his forsaken mistress, SIR PATRICK RUTHVEN. 333 innocent, undoubtedly, and pardonable, even should we be dis- posed to admit that it was imprudent? Two menials in the royal livery waited upon that noble com- pany, but without the servile reverence which was exacted at the public festivals of royalty. The fair Argyle, who, in any other presence than that of her unrivalled mistress, would have been second to none in loveliness, jested and smiled with Mary more in the manner of a beloved companion than that of an at- tendant to a queen. But on the brow of David there was a deep and heavy gloom ; and when he answered to the persi- flage and polished railleries of the queen or that young countess, although his words were gay, and at times almost tender, the tones of his voice were grave almost to sadness. " What has befallen our worthy secretary ?" said Mary, after many fruitless efforts to inspire him with livelier feelings. " Thou art no more the gay and gallant Signor David of other days than thou resemblest the stern and steel-clad — " Even as she spoke, it seemed as though her words had con- jured up an apparition : for a figure, sheathed in steel from crest to spur, strode, with a step that faltered even amid its pride, from out the shadows of her private chamber into the full glare of the lamps. The vizor was raised, and the pale brow and haggard eye, the uncombed beard, and the corpse-like hue of the whole visage, better beseemed the character of some foul spirit released from its peculiar place, than of a noble baron in the presence of his queen. A loud shriek from the terrified Argyle first called the attention of Mary to the strange intruder. But David sat with his eye glaring, in a horrible mixture of personal apprehension and superstitious dread, upon the person of his deadliest foeman. "Arise, David, thou minion! arise, and quit the presence to which thou art a foul and plague-like blot!" cried the deep 334 rizzio. voice of Ruthven, ere a word had yet found its way to the lips of the indignant queen " Sir Patrick Ruthven — if our eyes deceive us not," she said at length, erecting her noble figure to its utmost, and bending upon him a glance which, hardened as he was in crime and cruelty, he could no more have met with his than the vile raven have gazed upon the noonday sun — " Sir Patrick Ruthven, we would learn what means this insolent intrusion ?" " It means, fair madam," replied Damley — who now followed his savage instrument, accompanied by his no less fierce ac- complices, the base-born Douglas, the brutal Ker of Fawdon- side, in bearing and in manners fitted rather for the guardhouse than the court, and the most thorough ruffian of the party, Pat- rick de Balantyne — "it means that your vile minion's race is run !" "Ha! comes the blow from thee? — I might indeed have deemed it so," she replied, calmly but scornfully. " What is your grace's pleasure ?" and she smiled in beautiful contempt. " My pleasure is that he — yon base Italian, yon destroyer of my honor, and of yours — of your honor, madam, if you know such a word — shall perish !" " Never, Henry Darnley ! mine own life sooner !" And she confronted him with flashing eyes and heightened color, her whole frame quivering with resolve and indignation. " Thinkst thou to put a stain like this upon the honor of a queen, and that queen, too, thine own much-injured wife ? Out, out upon thee, for a heartless, coward thing ! A man, a brute, hath some affec- tion, hath some touch of love for those who have loved him, as I have once loved thee ; of gratitude toward those who have elevated him — not, no ! not as I have elevated thee — for never yet did woman lavish honor, power, kingdom, upon mortal man, as I have lavished them on thee ! Away, insolent and ungrate- ful, hence ! Thinkst thou to do murder, foul murder, in the THE SEER'S PREDICTION VERIFIED. 335 presence of a woman, of a wife — a wife soon, wretch that she is, to be the mother of a child — of thy child, Henry ? Hence, and I will forgive thee all — even this last offence! Banish these murderous ruffians from my presence ; spare an honest and a noble servant — one who hath never, never wronged thee or thine ! spare him, and I will take thee yet again unto my heart, and love thee, as I have loved thee ever, even when thou hast been most cruel — ever, Henry Darnley, ever!" The king was moved, his lips quivered, and he would have spoken : all might still have been explained, all might have been forgiven ; but it was not so decreed. " Tush, we but dally," cried the brutal Ruthven, " we but dally ! On, gentlemen, and drag the villain from the presence !" Foremost himself, he strode to seize the unarmed wretch, who, broken in spirits, and appalled more perhaps by the recol- lection of the wizard's doom than by the sordid fear of death, clung to the robe of his adored mistress, poor wretch, as though the altar itself would have been to him a sanctuary against his ruthless murderers. " Mercy !" shrieked the miserable queen ; " mercy, for the love of Him that made you! mercy, Henry — mercy, for my sake, or, if not for mine, mercy for thine unborn infant's sake ! Ruthven — villain, false knight, uncourteous traitor — forego thy hold !" and she struggled madly with the assassins. " To arms !" she screamed in shriller tones, "to arms! — O God! O God! have I no guards, no friends, no husband ? Oh, that I had been born a man, and ye should rue this day — ay, and ye shall rue it !" Ruthven had clutched his victim with a grasp of iron, and, whirling him from his frail tenure, cast him to the attendant murderers. " Spare him !" she shrieked once more ; " spare him, and I will bless you ! Ay, strike !" she continued in calmer tones, as the ruffian Ker brandished his naked dagger at her 336 rizzio. throat; " and thou, too, fire — fire upon thy mistress and thy queen !" Maddened by her resistance, and fearful that the citi- zens might rise in her behalf, Balantyne cocked his petronel. " Fire, thou coward ! why dost thou pause ? I am a woman, true — a queen, a wife — about to be a mother ; but what is that to such as thee ? Fire, and make your butchery complete !" But, as the words passed from her lips, the bloody deed was over. Even in the presence of the queen, dirk after dirk was plunged into the unresisting wretch. Long after life was ex- tinguished, the maddened assassins continued to mangle the senseless clay with their bloodthirsty w r eapons. So long as life remained, and so long as the horrid strife was doubtful, did Mary's fearful cries for mercy ring upon the ears of those who neither heard nor heeded her. The massacre w r as ended, and, with a degree of unmanly insensibility that would alone have stamped him the worst and fiercest of his race, Ruthven seated himself before the outraged woman, the insulted queen, and calmly wiped his brow, still reeking with her favorite's life- blood. " My sickness," he said, " must pardon me for sitting in ) r our presence. I had arisen from my bed to do this deed, and am now somewhat weary and o'erspent. I pray your high- ness command your minions to bear yon winecup hither." Without regarding for an instant this fresh insult, she dried her streaming eyes. " We have demeaned ourselves to pray for mercy from butchers. Tears are for men ! I have one duty left me, and Twill fulfil it — one aim to my existence, one study for my ingenuity, and one prayer to my God : my duty, mine aim, my study, and my prayer, shall be, to be avenged !" THE KIRK OF FIELD. "It is the curse of kings to be attended By slaves, that take their humors for a warrant To break within the bloody house of life; And, on the winking of authority, To understand a law; to know the meaning Of dangerous majesty, when, perchance, it frowns More upon humor than advised respect." — King John. It was a dark and stormy night without, such as is not un- frequent, even during the height of summer, under the change- able influences of the Scottish climate. The west wind, charged with moisture collected from the vast expanse of ocean it had traversed since last it had visited the habitations of man, rose and sank in wild and melancholy cadences ; now howling vio- lently, as it dashed the rain in torrents against the rattling case- ments ; now lulling till its presence could be traced alone in the small, shrill murmur, which has been compared so aptly to the voice of a spirit. The whole vault of heaven was wrapped in blackness, of that dense and smothering character which strikes the mind as pertaining rather to the gloom of a closed chamber than to that of a midnight sky. Yet within the halls of Holyrood neither storm nor darkness had any influence on the excited spirits of the guests who were collected there to celebrate, with minstrelsey and dance, the marriage of Sebastian. Hundreds of lights flashed from the tapestried walls ; wreaths of the choicest flowers were twined around the columns ; rich odors floated on the air ; and the vo- luptuous swell of music entranced a hundred young and happy hearts with its intoxicating sympathies. All that there was of beautiful and chivalrous in old Dunedin thronged to the court 15 338 THE KIRK OF FIELD. of its enchanting queen on that eventful evening ; and it ap- peared for once as though the hate of party and the fierce zeal of clashing creeds had for a time agreed to sink their differ- ences in the gay whirl of merriment. The stern and solemn leaders of the covenant relaxed the austerity of their frown ; the enthusiastic chieftains of the Romish faith were content to mingle in the dance with those whom they would have met as gladly in the fray. With even more than her accustomed grace, brightest and most bewitching where all were bright and lovely, did Mary glide among her high-born visiters ; no shade of sorrow dimmed that transparent brow, or clouded the effulgence of that dazzling smile ; it was an evening of conciliation and rejoicing — of for- giveness for the past, and hope rekindled for the future. There was no distinction of manner as she passed from one to another of the animated groups that conversed, or danced, or hung in silent rapture on the musicians' strains, on every side. Her tone was no less bland, as she addressed the gloomy Morton, or the dark-browed Lindesay, but now returned from exile in the sister-kingdom, than as she turned to her gayer and more fitting associates. Never was the influence of Mary's beauty more effective than on that occasion ; never did her unaffected grace, her sweet address, her courtesy bestowed alike on all, exert a mightier influence over the minds of men than on the very evening when her hopes were about to be for ever blighted, her happiness extinguished, her very reputation blasted, by the villany of false friends, and the violence of open foes. The weak and vicious Darnley yet lingered on his bed of sickness, but with the vigor of health many of the darker shades of his character had passed away ; and Mary had again watched beside the bed of him whose foul suspicions and unmanly vio- lence — no less than his scandalous neglect of her unrivalled charms, his low and infamous amours, his studied hatred of all 339 whom she delighted to honor — had almost alienated the affec- tions of that warm heart which once had beat so tenderly, so devotedly, and, had he but deserved its constancy, so constantly for him. Oh, how exquisite a thing is woman's love ! how beautiful, how strange a mystery, is woman's heart! 'T was but a little month ago that she had almost hated. Neglect had chilled the stream of her affections : that he whom she had made a king, whom she had loved with such total devotion of heart and mind — that he should repay her benefits with outrage, her affections with cold, chilling, insolent disdain — these were the thoughts that had worked her brain to the very verge of madness and of crime. The "glorious, rask, and hazardous"* young earl of Orkney had ever in these hours of bitter anguish been summoned, she knew not how, to her imagination : the warm yet delicate at- tentions, the reverential deference to her slightest wish, the dignified and chaste demeanor, through which gleamed ever and anon some flash of chivalrous affection — some token that in the recesses of his heart he worshipped the woman as fer- vently as he served the sovereign truly ; the overmastering pas- sion always apparent, but so apparent that it seemed involunta- rily present ; the eye dwelling for ever on her features, yet sinking modestly to earth, as shamed by his own boldness, if haply it met hers ; the hand that trembled as it performed its office ; the voice that faltered as it answered to the voice he seemed to love so dearly — all these, all these, had they been multiplied a hundred-fold, and aided by the deepest magic, had effected nothing to wean her heart from Darnley, had not his own infatuated cruelty furnished the strongest argument in favor of the young and noble Bothwell. As it was, harassed by the deepest wrongs from him who was most bound to cherish and support her, and assailed by the allurements of one who coupled * Throgmorton's letter to Elizabeth. 340 THE KIRK OF FIELD. to a beauty equal to that of angels a depth of purpose and dis- simulation worthy of the fiend, Mary had tottered on the preci- pice's verge ! Darnley fell sick, and she was saved ! Him whom she had almost, learned to hate while he had rioted in all the insolence of manly strength and beauty, she now adored when he was stretched languid and helpless on the bed of an- guish. She had rushed to his envenomed chamber, she had braved the perils of his contagious malady ; her hand had soothed his burning brow, her lip had tasted the potion which his feverish palate had refused ; day and night she had watched over him as a mother watches over her sick infant, in mingled agonies of hope and terror ; she had marked the black sweat gathering on his brow, and the film veiling his bright eye, and she had felt that her very being was wound up in the weal or wo of him whose death, one little month before, she would have hailed as a release from misery. She had noted the dawn of his recovery, she had fainted from excess of happiness ; she had pardoned all, all his past misdoings ; she was again the doting, faithful, single-hearted wife of her repentant Henry.* Now in the midst of song, and revelry, and mirth, while the gay masquers passed in gorgeous procession before her eyes, her mind was far away in the chamber of her recovered lord, within the solitary kirk of Field. The masque had ended, and the hall was cleared ; the wedding-posset passed around, beak- ers were brimmed, and amid the clang of music the toast went round — " Health to Sebastian and his bride !" The hall was cleared for the dance : a hundred brilliant couples arose to lead the Branle ; the minstrels tuned their prelude ; when the fair young bride, blushing at the boldness of her own request, en- treated that her grace would make her condescension yet more * Knox and Buchanan would make it appear that his reconciliation was insin- cere. But Knox and Buchanan wrote under the influence of political and reli- gious hostility, and could never allow a single merit to Mary. It is a sound rule that every mortal is innocent till proved guilty. A ROYAL PARTNER IN THE DANCE. 341 perfect by joining in that graceful measure which none could lead so gracefully. If there was one failing in the character of Mary, which tended above all others to render her an object for unjust suspi- cions, and a mark for cruel reverses, it was an inability to re- fuse aught that might confer pleasure on any individual, how- ever low in station — a gentle failing, if it indeed be one, but not the less pernicious to the fortunes of all, and above all of kings. With that ineffable smile beaming upon her face, she rose ; and as she rose, Bothwell sprang forth, and in words of deep humility, but tones of deeper passion, besought the queen to make her slave the most happy, the most exalted of man- kind, by yielding to him her inestimable hand, even for the space of one short dance. For a single moment Mary paused ; but it was destined that she should be the victim of her confidence, and she yielded. Never, never did a more perfect pair stand forth in lordly hall, or on the emerald turf, than Mary Stuart and her destroyer. Both in the flush and flower of gorgeous youth : she invested with beauty such as few before or since have ever had to show, with grace, and symmetry, and all that nameless something which goes yet further to excite the admiration, and call forth the love of men, than loveliness itself; he strong, yet elegant in strength — proud, yet with that high and spiritual pride which had nothing offensive in his display — taller and more stately than the noblest barons of the court — they were indeed a pair unmatched amid ten thousand ; so rich in natural advantages, so exquisite in personal attractions, that the tasteful splendor of their habits was as little marked as is the golden halo which encompasses but adds no glory to the sainted heads of that de- lightful painter whose name so aptly chimes with the peculiar sweetness of his sublime creations. Even the iron brow of Ruthven — for he, too, was there — 342 THE KIRK OF FIELD. relaxed as, leaning on her partner's extended hand, she passed him with a smile of pardon, and he muttered to his dark com- rade, Lindesay of the Byres — " She were in sooth a most fair creature, if that her mind might match the beauties of its man- sion." As he spoke, the measured symphony rang out, and in slow order the dancers moved forward ; anon the measure quickened, and the motions of the young and beautiful obeyed its impulses. It was a scene more like some fairy dream than aught of hard, terrestrial reality : the waving plumes, the glit- tering jewels, the gorgeous robes, and, above all, the lovely forms, which rather imparted their own brilliancy to these adornments than borrowed anything from them, combined to form a picture such as imagination can scarcely depict, much less experience suggest, from aught beheld in ballrooms of the present day, wherein the stiff and graceless costume of modern times is but a poor apology for the majestic bravery of the six- teenth century. Suddenly, while all were glancing round in the sw T iftest mazes of the dance, those who stood by observed the blood flash with startling splendor over brow, neck, and bosom of the youthful queen ; nay, her very arms, white in their wonted hue as the snow upon Shehallion, crimsoned with the violence of her emotions. Her eyes sparkled, her bosom rose and fell almost convulsively, her lips parted, but it seemed as though her words were choked by agitation. For a single instant she stood still ; then bursting through the throng, she sank nearly insensible upon one of the many cushioned seats that girded the hall ; but, rallying her spirits, she murmured something of the heat and the unusual exercise, drained the goblet of pure water presented by the hand of Orkney, and again resumed her station in the dance. " Pardon, pardon, I beseech you," whispered the impassioned tones of the tempter — "pardon, sweet sovereign, the boldness A REPROOF. 343 that was born but of a moment's madness. Believe me — I would tear my heart from out my bosom, did it cherish one thought that could offend my mistress — my honored, my adored — " Hush ! oh, hush ! for my sake, Bothwell — for my sake, if for naught else, be silent ! I do believe that you mean honestly and well; but words like these 'tis madness in you to utter, and sin in me to hear them ! Bethink you, sir," she continued, gaining strength as she proceeded, and speaking so low that no ear but his might catch a solitary sound amid the quick rustle of the " many twinkling feet," and the full concert — " bethink you! you address a wife — a wedded, loyal wife — the wife of your lord, your king. I know that you are my most faithful servant, my most trusted friend ; I know that these words, which sound so wildly, are not to be weighed in their full sense, but as a servant's homage to his liege-lady : yet think what yon stern Knox would deem, think of the wrath of Darn- ley-" " If there were naught more powerful than Darnley's wrath," he muttered, in the notes of deep determination, " to bar me from my towering hopes, then were I blest beyond all hopes of earth, of heaven — supremely blest!" " What mean you, sir 1 We understand you not ! What should there be more powerful than the wrath of thy lawful sovereign 1 Speak ; I would not doubt you, yet methinks your words sound strangely. What be these towering hopes of thine ? Pray God they tower not too high for honesty or honor ! Say on, we do command thee !" " I will say on, fair queen," he replied, in a voice trembling as it were with the fear of offending and the anxiety of love — " I will say on, so you will hear me to the end, nor doubt the most devoted of your slaves !" " Hear you V she replied, considerably softened by his hu- 344 THE KIRK OF FIELD. mility, " when did ever Mary Stuart refuse to hear the meanest of her subjects, much less a trusted and a valued friend, as thou hast ever been to her, as thou wilt ever be to her — wilt thou not, Bothwell ?" There was a heavenly purity, a confidence in his integrity, and a firm and full reliance on her own dignity, in every word she uttered, that might have converted the wildest libertine from his career of sin ; that might have confirmed the wariest and most subtle spirit that its guilty craft could never prevail against a heart fortified against its attacks by purity and by the stronger and more holy influences of wedded lore ; but on the fixed purpose, on the interminable pride, the desperate passion, and the unscrupulous will of Bothwell, every warning was lost. " I have adored you," he said, slowly and impressively — " adored you, not as a queen, but as a woman. Mary, angelic Mary, pardon — pity — and oh, love me! You do, you do al- ready love me ! I have read it in your eye, I have marked it in your flushing cheek, in your heaving bosom ! If this night you were free, would you not, sweet lady, lovely queen, would you not reward the adoration, the honest adoration of your de- voted Bothwell ?" " Stand back, my lord of Bothwell !" cried the now indignant queen, " stand back ! your words are madness ! Nay, but we w r ill be heard," she continued, with increasing impetuosity, as he endeavored again to speak. " Thinkest thou, vain lord, that I — I, Mary of France and Scotland — because 1 have favored and distinguished a subject, who, God aid me, merited not favor nor distinction — thinkest thou that I, a queen anointed — a mother and a wife — that 1 could love so wantonly as to de- scend to thee ? Back, sir, I say ! and if I punish not at once thy daring insolence, 'tis that thy past services, in some sort, nullify thy present boldness. Oh, my lord !" she proceeded, in a softer tone, and a big tear-drop trembled in her bright eye as THE SPELL BROKEN. 345 she spoke, " Mary has miseries enough, that thou shouldst spare to add thy quota to the general ingratitude. If thou didst love me, as thou sayest, thy love would be displayed as that of a zealous votary to the shrine at which he worships ; as that of the magi bending before their particular star — not as that of a wild and wicked wanton to a frail, fickle woman !" It may be that the words with which Mary concluded her reproof kindled again the hope which had well nigh passed away from Bothwell's breast. " Nay, Mary, say not thus. Do I not know thy trials ? have I not marked thy miseries? and will I not avenge them? If thou wert free — did I say, if? By Heaven, fair queen, those locks of thine, that flow so unrestrained down that most glori- ous neck, are not more free than thou art ! Did I not hear thy cry for vengeance on the slaughterers of hapless Rizzio ? did I not hear, and have I not achieved the deed that secures at once thy freedom and thy vengeance ?" The spell was broken on the instant : the soft, the tender- hearted, the most gentle of women, was aroused almost to frenzy. The blood rushed in torrents to her princely brow, and left it again pale as the sculptured marble, but to return once more in deeper hues of crimson. Her eyes flashed with unnatural brightness ; her bosom heaved and fell like that of a young priestess laboring with the throes of prophetic inspira- tion ; she shook the tresses, he had dared to praise, back from her lovely face, and stamping her delicate foot in the passion of the moment on the oaken floor — " A guard !" she cried, in notes that might have vied with the clangor of a trumpet, so shrilly did they pierce the ears of all ; " a guard for my lord of Bothwell !" Had the thunder of heaven darted its sulphurous and scathing bolt into the midst of that assembly, a greater change its terrors could not have effected than did that thrilling cry. A hundred 15* 346 THE KIRK OF FIELD. rapiers flashed in the bright torchlight, as with bent brows and angry voices the barons of the realm rushed to the aid of their liege-lady. An air of cool defiance sat on the massive forehead of the culprit ; his eye was fixed upon the queen in sorrow, as it would seem, rather than in anger ; his sword lay quietly in his scabbard, although there were a hundred there with weap- ons thirsting for his blood, and hearts burning with the insa- tiable hate of ancient feuds. Murray and Morton, speaking eagerly and even sternly to the queen, urged his immediate seizure ; and the gray-haired duke of Lennox, clutching his poniard's hilt with the palsied gripe of eighty years, awaited but a sign to slay, he knew not and he recked not why, the ancient foeman of his race. But so it was not fated ! Before a word was spoken, the deep and sullen roar as of an earthquake burst upon their ears, and stunned their very hearts ; a second din, as of some mighty tower rushing from its base, succeeded, ere the casements had ceased to rattle with the shock of the first. " God of my fathers !" shouted Murray, " what means that din? Treason, my lords, treason ! Look to the queen — se- cure the traitor! Thou, duke of Lennox, with thy followers, haste straight to the kirk of Field! Without, there — let my trumpets sound to horse ! By Him that made me," he contin- ued, "the populace are rising!" — for the deep swell of voices, that rose without, announced the presence of a mighty mul- titude. In an instant the vaulted arches of the palace echoed with the flourished cadences of the royal trumpets, the ringing steps of steel-clad men, the tramp of hoofs in the courtyard, the gathering cries of the followers of each fierce baron, suc- ceeding wildly to the soft breathings of minstrelsey and song. At this instant Murray had resolved himself to act, and, with his hand upon the pommel of his sword, slowly but resolutely AN EVENTFUL MOMENT. 347 stepped forward ''Yield thee !" he said, in stern, low tones ; "yield thee, my lord of Bothwell ! Hence from this presence thou canst not pass until all this night's strange occurrences be fully manifested ; ay, and if there be guilt — as I misdoubt me much there is — till it be fearfully avenged !" The touch of Murray on his shoulder, lightly as it fell, and grave as were the words of that high baron, aroused the reck- less disposition of Bothwell almost to madness. " Thou liest, lord !" he shouted, in the fierce impulse of the moment — " thou liest, if thou dare to couple the name of guilt with Bothwell ! Forego thy hold, or perish !" — and his dagger's blade was seen slowly emerging from its sheath, while his clinched teeth and the starting veins of his broad forehead spoke volumes of the bitterness of his wrath. Another second, and blood, the blood of Scotland's noblest, would have been poured forth like water, and in the presence of the queen ; the destinies of a great king- dom would have perchance been altered, and the history of ages changed, all by the madness of a single moment. In the fearful crisis, a wild shriek was heard from the upper end of the hall, to which the ladies of the court had congregated, round the queen, like the songsters of spring when the dark pinions of the hawk are casting down a shadow of terror on their peace- ful groves. " Help! help! — her grace is dying!" And, in truth, it did seem as though she were about to pass away. Better, a thou- sand times better, and happier, had it been for her, to have then died quietly in the palace of her forefathers, with the nobles of her land around her, than to have borne, for many an after- year, the chilling miseries which were showered by pitiless fortune on her head, till that most fatal hour of her tragic life arrived, and Mary was at length at rest ! Murray relaxed his hold, turned on his heel, and strode ab- ruptly to the elevated dais, on which the queen had sunk in 348 THE KIRK OF FIELD. worn-out nature's weariness. For a minute's space Bothwell glared on him as he strode away, like a tiger balked of his dear revenge. It was most evident he doubted — doubted whether he should set all, even now, upon a cast, strike down a foeman in the very fortress of his power, and if he must die, like the crushed wasp, sting home in dying. Prudence, however, con- quered : he also turned upon his heel, and with a glance of the deepest scorn and hatred on the baffled lords, who, in the ab- sence of their master-spirit, had lost all unison, stalked slowly through the portal of the hall, and disappeared. Before ten seconds had elapsed, the rapid clatter of hoofs, the jingling of mail, and the war-cry — "A Bothwell ! ho ! a Both- well !" proclaimed that he had escaped the toils, and was sur- rounded by his faithful followers. When Murray reached the couch on w r hich the queen was extended, gasping as though in the last extremity, her case in- deed was pitiable. Her long locks had burst from their con- finement, and flowed over her person like a veil ; her corsage had been cut asunder by the damsels of her court, and her bosom, bare in its unspeakable beauty, was disclosed to the licentious gaze of the haughty nobles. An angle of the couch, as she had fallen, had grazed her temple, and the blood streamed down her cheek and neck, giving, by the contrast of its dark crimson, an ashy, deathlike whiteness to her whole complexion. "Ha!" he whispered, with deep emotions, "what means this ? Back, back, my lords, for shame, if not for pity ! would ye gaze upon your sovereign, in the abandonment of utter grief, as though she were a peasant-quean? Stand back, I say, and let the halls be cleared ; and hark thee, Paris," he continued, as a cringing, terrified-looking Frenchman entered the apart- ment, "bid some one call Galozzi hither: the poison-vending - , cozening Tuscan hath skill at least, and it shall go hardly with him so he exert it not ! But ha ! what ails the man 1 St. An- darnley's death. 349 drew, lie will faint ! What ails thee, craven 1 Speak, speak, or I shake the coward soul from out thy carcass!" — and he shook the trembling servitor fiercely by the throat. " The king — the king — " he faltered forth at length, terri- fied yet more by the wrath of Murray than by the scene which he had witnessed. " What of the king, thou dastard ? Speak — I say, what of Henry Darnley '?" " Murdered, your highness — murdered !" " Nay, thou art made to say it !" " He speaks too truly, Murray," cried Morton, entering, with his bold visage blanched, and his dark locks bristling with unwonted terror ; " the king is murdered — foully, most foully murdered !" " By the villain Bothwell !" muttered Murray, between his hard-set teeth ; " but he shall rue the deed ! But say on, Mor- ton, say on : how knowest thou this ? Say on — and you, ladies, attend the queen." "I saw it, Murray — with these eyes I saw it — the cold, naked, strangled corpse — flung, like a carrion-carcass, on the garden-path ; and the kirk of Field a pile of smoking and steam- ing ruins — blown up with gunpowder, to give an air of acci- dent to this accursed treason. I tell you, man," he continued, as he saw Murray about to speak, " I tell you that I saw, in that drear garden, cast like a murrained sheep upon a dike, all that remained of Henry Darnley !" "'Tis false!" shrieked the wretched Mary, starting to her feet, with the wild glare of actual insanity in her eye ; " who saith I slew him? Henry Darnley! 'S death, lords! — the king, I say — the king ! Now, by my halydom, he shall be king of Scotland ! Dead — dead ! who said the earl of Orkney was no more ? Faugh ! how the sulphur steams around us ! It chokes — it smothers! Traitor, false traitor! know, earl, I will arraign thee. What ! kill a king ? whisper soft, low words 350 THE KIRK OF FIELD. to a queen ? Hoa ! this is practice, my lord duke, foul prac- tice ; and deeply shall you rue it if you but hurt a hair of Darn- ley ! — Nay, Henry, sweet Henry, frown not on me ! Oh ! never woman loved as I love thee, my Darnley ! Rizzio — ha ! what traitor spoke of Rizzio ? But think not of it, Henry : the faith- ful servant is lost, but 'twas not thou that did it. Lo ! how dark Morton glares on me ! Back, Ruthven, fiend ! wouldst slay me? But I forgive thee all — all — Henry Darnley, all! Live — only live to bless my longing sight! No! no!" she shrieked more wildly, " he is not dead ! to arms ! what, ho ! — to arms ! a king, and none to rescue him ! To arms, I say ! I will myself to arms ! Fetch forth my Milan harness ; saddle me Rosabelle ! French — Paris, aho ! my petronels ! And ye, why do ye linger, wenches — Seyton, Carmichael, Fleming? — my head-gear and my robes ! The queen goes forth to day ! To horse, and to the rescue !" She made a violent effort to rush forward, but staggered, and if her brother had not received her in his arms, she would have fallen again to the earth. " Bear her hence, ladies ; bear her to her chamber! — thou hast a heavy weird — poor sister! — What ponder you so, Morton ? you would not mark her words : 'tis sheer distraction — the distraction of most utter sorrow !" " Distraction ! I say ay ! but sorrow, no ! Sorrow takes it not on thus wildly. It savors more of guilt, Lord Murray — dark, damning, bloody guilt ! Heard ye not what she said of Orkney ? Distraction, but no sorrow : guilt, believe me, guilt !" " Not for my life would I believe it, nor must thou : if Morton and Murray hunt henceforth in couples — hark in thine ear !" — and he whispered, glancing his eyes uneasily around, as though the very stones might bear his words to other listeners. A grim smile passed athwart Morton's visage ; he bowed his head in token of assent. They passed forth from the banquet-hall to- gether, and Mary was left to her misery. BOTHWELL. "Marshal, demand of yonder champion The cause of his arrival here in arms : Ask him his name, and orderly proceed To swear him in the justice of his cause." — King Richard IL The summer sun was pouring down a flood of lustre over wood and moorland, tangled glen, and heathery fells, with the broad and blue expanse of the German ocean sparkling in ten thousand ripples far away in the distance. But the radiance of high noon fell not upon the forest and the plain in their soli- tary loveliness, but on the marshalled multitudes of two vast hosts, arrayed in all the pomp and circumstance of antique war- fare, glittering with helms and actons, harquebuss and pike, and waving with a thousand banners, of every brilliant hue and proud device. On a gentle eminence, the very eminence on which, a few short years before, the English Somerset had posted his gallant forces, lay the army of the queen, its long front bristling with rows of the formidable Scottish spear, its wings protected by chosen corps of cavalry, the firm and true adherents of the house of Stuart, or the daring, though licen- tious vassals of the duke of Orkney, and the royal banner, with its rich embroidery, floating in loud supremacy. Yet, gay and glorious as it. showed upon its ground of vantage, and gallantly as it might have contested that field against even superior num- bers, that array was but in name an army. Thousands were there who, though they had flocked with bow and arrow to the call of their sovereign, felt, not distaste alone, but actual disgust to the services on which they were about to be employed ; and not a few were among them who knew too well how little was the probability that they, a raw, tumultuary force, led on by 352 BOTHWELL. men of gallantry indeed, but not of that well proved experience which, to a leader, is more than the truncheon of his command, should come off with victory, or even without defeat, from an encounter with veteran troops, retainers of the most warlike lords in Scotland, marshalled by soldiers with whose fame the air of every European kingdom was already rife — soldiers such as Lyndesay of the Byres, Kirkaldy of the Grange, Murray of Tullibardin, and a hundred others of reputation, if second, second to none but these. Nor was this all ; voices were not wanting, even in the army of the queen, to exclaim, that if the royal banner were displayed, its purity was sullied by the presence of a murderer ; and that success could never be hoped for, so long as Bothwell rode by the right hand of Mary. One exception there was, however, to this general feeling of dissatisfaction, if not of despair. A band of determined men, whose scar-seamed visages and stern demeanor, no less than the splendid accuracy of their equipments, and the admirable discipline with which they maintained their post, far in advance of the main body, and exposed to inevitable destruction on the advance of the confederated forces, should they be suffered, as it appeared too probable that they would, to remain unsupported against such desperate odds. But these were men to whom the most deadly conflict was but a game of chance ; inured from their youth upward to deeds of blood and danger — lawless and licentious in time of peace, even as they were cruel, brave, and fearless in the fight — the picked retainers, the desperate, of the duke of Orkney. Dark glances of contempt, if not of hatred, were shot ever and anon from beneath the scowling brows of these wild des- peradoes toward the wavering ranks of the main army, as, un- restrained by the exhortations or menaces of their officers — unmoved by the eloquent beauty of Mary herself, who rode among the trembling ranks, praying them, as they loved their THE MARSHALLED HOSTS. 353 country, as they valued honor, as they would not see their wives, their mothers, and their daughters, delivered to the malice of unrelenting foemen, to strike one blow for Scotland's crown — to give once, once only, their voices to the exulting clamor, " God and the queen" — troop after troop broke away from the rear, and scattering themselves, singly, or in parties of two or three, over the open country, sought for that safety in mean and dastard flight, which they should have asked from their own bold hearts and strong right hands. It was at this moment that the heads of the confederated columns were seen advancing, in dark and dense masses, at three different points, against the front, which was still pre- served in Mary's army by the strenuous exertions of the lead- ers, rather than by any soldierly feelings on the part of the common herd. So nearly had they advanced to the royal lines that the stern and solemn countenances of the leaders, as they rode in complete steel, but with their vizors raised, each at the head of his own leading, were visible, feature for feature. The matches of the arquebusses might be clearly distinguished, blown already into a bright flame, while the pieces themselves were evidently grasped by ready and impatient hands, and the long spears of the vanguard were already lowered ; but not a movement of eagerness, not a murmur, or a shout, was heard throughout the thousands, whose approach was ushered to the ears alone by the incessant trampling sound, borne steadily on- ward, like the flow of some great river, occasionally broken by the shrill neighing of a charger, or the jingling clash of arms. The borderers of Bothwell, on the contrary, as they noted the advance, raised, from time to time, the wild and fearful yells with which it was their custom to engage, brandishing their long lances, and giving the spur to their horses, till they sprang and bolted like hunted deer ; and it required all the in- fluence of hereditary chiefs to restrain these savage moss-troop- 354 BOTHWELL. ers from rushing headlong with their handful of men against the unbroken line of the confederate pikes, which swept on- ward, sullen and steady as the tide when it comes in six feet abreast. The effect of such a movement would have been at once fatal to their wretched mistress. It was too evident that, for a wavering, coward multitude, like that arrayed beneath the banner of the queen, there could be no hope, to fight against men such as those who were marching, in determined resolution, up that gentle eminence ; and all that now remained was an attempt at negotiation. It was at this moment, when the advanced guard of the two armies were scarcely ten spear's-lengths asunder, when the de- termination or wavering of every individual might be read by the opposite party in his features as clearly as in the pages of a book, that a single trumpet from the centre of the queen's army broke the silence with a wild and prolonged flourish. It was no point of war, however, that issued from its brazen mouth, no martial appeal to the spirits and courage of either host, but the prelude to a pacific parley — and straightway the banners throughout the host were lowered, and a white flag was waved aloft, in place of Scotland's blazonry. The ranks were slowly opened, and from their centre, with trumpeter and pursuivant, and king-at-arms, rode forth Le Croc, the French embassador. This movement, as it seemed, was wholly unex- pected by the confederate lords ; at least, the ranks continued their deliberate advance unchecked by the symbols of peace that glittered above the weapons of the rival host, till suddenly a foaming horse and panting rider furiously galloped from the rear. A single word was uttered, in a low, impressive whis- per ; it passed from mouth to mouth like an electric spark ; and, as though it were but a single man, that mighty column halted on the instant. There was no confusion in the manoeuvre, no hurry, nor apparent effort : the long lines of lances, so beauti- THE PARLEY. 355 fully regular in their advance, sank as regularly to their rest ; and, but for the fluttering of their plumage in the summer air, those beings, strangely composed of every vehement and stir- ring passion, might have have passed for images of molten steel. But a few seconds had elapsed, and the flourish of the peaceful trumpets was yet ringing in the ears of all, when a dozen horsemen proceeded slowly forward, to meet the royal cavalcade. It was a singular and most impressive spectacle, that meet- ing. It was, as it were, the fearful pause between life and death — the moment of breathless silence that precedes the first crash of the thunderstorm. Every eye was riveted in either army on those two groups ; every heart beat thick, and every ear tingled with excitement. And, even independent of the appalling interest of the crisis, there was much to mark, much, to admire, in the handful that had come together to speak the doom of thousands ; to decide whether hundreds and tens of hundreds of those living creatures, who stood around them now, so glorious in the pride, the beauty, and the strength of man- hood, should, ere the sun might sink, be as the clods of the valley ; to decree, with their ephemeral breath, whether the soft west wind, that wafted now the perfumes of a thousand hills to their invigorated senses, should, ere the morrow, be tainted like the vapor from some foul charnel-house ! On the one side, on his light and graceful Arab, champing its gilded bits and shaking its velvet housings, sat the gay and gal- lant Frenchman — his long, dark locks uncovered, and his fair proportions displayed to the best advantage in his rich garb of peace. No weapon did he bear — not even the rapier, without which no gentleman of that period ever went abroad — but which, the more fully to manifest the candor and sincerity of his instructions, a handsome page held by his master's stirrup. Behind him, with pale visages and anxious mien, Marchmont, 356 BOTHWELL. and Bute, and Islay, and the lion King, awaited the result of this their last resource. On the other hand, distinguished from their followers only by the beauty of their powerful chargers, and their own knightly bearing, halted the rebel chiefs. Plain almost to meanness in his attire, with his armor stained and rusty, and his embroid- ered baldrick frayed and rent, Lord Lyndesay of the Byres w r as foremost in the group. Morton was there, and Murray, all steel from crest to spur ; the best warrior, where all were good, the noblest spirit, the most upright man, Kirkaldy of the Grange. " Nobles and knights of Scotland," said the proud envoy, in a tone so calm and yet so clear that every accent could be noted far and wide, " I come to ye — a gentleman of France — the servant of a mighty monarch, unbought by friendship and unprejudiced by favor. For myself, or for my royal master, it recks us little whether or not ye choose to turn those swords, which should be the bulwarks of your country, against her vitals. Yet should it not be said that Scottishmen, like ill- trained dogs of chase, prefer to turn their fangs against each other, than to chase a nobler quarry. Ye are in arms against your queen — nay, interrupt me not, my lords — against your queen, I say ! or, as perchance ye word it, against her counsel- lors. That ye complain of grievances I know, and, for aught I know, justly complain. Yet pause, brave gentlemen, pause and reflect which is the greater grievance — a country torn with civil factions, internal war with all its dread accompaniments of massacre and conflagration, or those ills which now have stung you to exchange your loyalty for rebel arms ? Bethink ye, that in such a cause as this it matters not who wins — to vanquish countrymen and brothers is but a worse and deadlier evil than defeat by foreign foemen. Think ye this fatal field of Pinkie, whereon ye are arrayed, hath not already drunk enough of Scottish blood, that ye we would deluge it again ? — THE PARLEY. 357 or that its name is not yet terrible enough to Scottish ears, that ye would now bestow a deeper blazonry of sin and shame ? Brave warriors, noble gentlemen, forbear ! Let the sword of civil discord, I beseech you, enter its scabbard for once blood- less ; let amicable parley gain the terms which bloodless news purchased! Strive ye for your country's glory? — lo, it calls on you to pause ! For your own peculiar fame 1 — it bids ye halt while there is yet the time, lest neither birth, nor rank, nor valor, nor high deeds, nor haughty virtues, preserve ye from the blot which lies even yet, though ages have passed, on those who have warred against their country ! Is it terms, fair terms, for which ye crowd in arms around yon awful banner ?" — point- ing to the colors of the rebel lords, emblazoned with the corpse of the murdered Darnley, and his orphan infant praying for judgment and revenge — " lo, terms are here! Peace, then, my lords ; give peace to Scotland, and eternal credit to your- selves. Her majesty bears not the wonted temper, the stem resentment of offended kings : even now she offers peace and amity, pardon for all offences — ay, and the hand of friendship, to all who will at once retire from this sacrilegious field. Sub- jects, your queen commands you ; nobles and knights, a lady, the fairest lady of her sex, appeals to your chivalry and honor. Hear, and be forgiven ! — " " Forgiven !" shouted Glencairn, in tones of deep feeling and yet deeper scorn — "forgiven! we came not here to ask for pardon, but for vengeance, and vengeance will we have ! The blood of Darnley craves for punishment upon his murderers ! We are come to punish ; not to sue for pardon, not to return in peace, until our end is gained, and Scotland's slaughtered king- avenged !" " Fair sir," cried Morton — calmer, and for that very reason more to be dreaded, than his impetuous comrades — "fair sir, we rear no banner and we lift no blade against her grace of 358 BOTHWELL. Scotland ! Against her husband's murderer have we marched, nor will we turn a face, or draw a bridle, till that murderer lies in his blood, or flies for ever from the land he has polluted by his unnatural homicide ! Thou hast thine answer, sir. Yet thus much for our ancient friendship, and to testify our high esteem for the noble monarch whom thy services here repre- sent : here will we pause an hour. That passed, our word is, ' Forward ! forward !' and may the God of battles judge between us ! Brothers in arms, and leaders of our host, say, have I spoken fairly ?" " Fairly hast thou spoken, noble Morton ; and as thou hast spoken, we will it so to be. An hour we pause, and then for- ward !" The voices of the barons, as they replied, gave no signs of hesitation ; there was no faltering in their tones, no wavering in their fixed and steady glances. At once the gal- lant mediator saw that he had failed in his appeal, and that all further words were needless. Slowly and disconsolately he bent his way back to the royal armament, where the miserable Mary awaited, in an agony of shame and anguish, the doom, for such in truth it was, of her rebellious subjects. On the summit of a little knoll she sat, girt by the few un- daunted spirits who clung to the last to Mary's cause, and who were ready at her least word to perish, if by perishing they might preserve her. Lovely as she had seemed in the gay halls of Holyrood, her brow beaming with rapture, innocence, majesty, far lovelier was she now in pale and hopeless sorrow. In the vain hope of inspiring ardor to her dispirited and coward forces, she had girt her slender form in glittering steel. A light, polished cavinet reflected the bright sunshine above her auburn tresses, and a cuirass of inlaid and jewelled metal flashed on her bosom. Not a warrior in either host sat firmer or more gracefully upon his destrier than Mary upon Rosabelle. A demipique of steel and loaded petronels, with the butt of which THE ANSWER. 359 her fingers played in thoughtless nervousness, had replaced the rich housings of that favored jennet; but though arrayed in all the pride and pomp of war, there was neither pride nor pomp in the expression of that pallid cheek and quivering lip. " Noble Le Croc," she cried, breathless with eagerness as he approached her presence, " what tidings from our misguided subjects ? will they depart in peace ? Speak out, speak fully : this is no time for well-turned sentences or courteous etiquette. Say, is it peace or war ?" With deep feeling painted on his dark lineaments, the French- man answered : " War, your grace, war to the knife ; or peace on terms such as I dare not name to you." " Then be it war !" cried she, the eloquent blood mantling to her cheeks in glorious indignation, her eyes flashing, and her bosom heaving with emotion ; " then be it war ! We have stooped low enough in suing thus for peace from those whom we are born to govern, and we will stoop no longer. Better to die, to fall as our gallant father fell, leading his faithful country- men, devoted subjects, against enemies not half so fierce as these, who should be brothers. Sound trumpets, advance our guards ! Seyton, Fleming, Huntley, to your leadings, and ad- vance ! ourselves will see the tourney." " Your grace forgets," replied the experienced leader to whom she first addressed herself, " your grace forgets that not one dastard of this fair army, as it shows upon this ground of van- tage, will advance one lance's length against the foe. Some scores there are, in truth, followers oft tried and ever-faithful of mine own, and some if I mistake not of the earl of Orkney, who will fight well when shaft and steel-point hold together ; but 'twere but butchery to lead the rugged vassals upon certain death ! for what are scores to thousands such as stand thirsting for the battle yonder — thousands led on, too, by the first mar- tialists of Europe ? Nevertheless, say but the word, and it is 360 BOTHWELL. done. Seyton hath ever lived for Stuart — it rests but now to die !" He paused — but in an instant, taking his cue from Mary's extended nostril and still-flashing eye, he shouted, in a voice of thunder : " Mount, mount, and make ready ! A Sey- ton, a Seyton for the Stuart!" Already had he dashed the rowels into his steed, and another instant would have precipi- tated his little band upon the inevitable destruction that awaited them in the crowded ranks which, at the well-known sound of that wild slogan, had brought their lances to the charge, and waited but a word to bear down all opposition. Happily, so miserable a consummation was warded off. The earl of Orkney, who had stood silent and thunder-stricken by the side of his lovely bride, sprang forward, and grasping with impetuous vehemence the bridle-rein of Seyton — " Not so !" he hissed through his set teeth, " not so, brave baron ; this is my quarrel now, mine only ; and dost think that I will veil my crest to mortal man ? Lo ! in yonder lines the haughty rebels have drawn their weapons, and against me only shall they wield them ! What, ho there, heralds ! take pursui- vant and trumpet, and bear my gauntlet, the earl of Orkney's gauntlet, to yonder misproud caitiffs : say that Bothwell defies them — defies them to the mortal combat, here before this com- pany, here in the presence of men and angels, to prove his in- nocence, their bold and overweening treason !" — and he hurled his ponderous glove to earth. " Well said and nobly, gallant earl !" cried Seyton ; " so shall this foul calumny be stayed, and floods of Scottish blood be spared. On to thy devoir, and God will shield the right." And at the word the heralds rode forth again, the foremost bearing the glove of the challenger high on a lance's point. Again the trumpets flourished, but not now as before, in peace- ful strains. At the loud clangor of defiance, the confederate chiefs again strode to the front, their horses led behind them by CHALLENGE TO SINGLE COMBAT. 361 page or squire ; and as the menace of the challenger was pro- claimed loudly and clearly by the king-at-arms, a smile of fierce delight flashed over every brow. " I claim the privilege of battle !" shouted the impetuous Glen- cairn. " And I !" — " And 1 !" — " And I !" rose hoarsely into air the mingled tones of Morton, Lyndesay, and Kirkaldy, as each sprang forth to seize the proffered gauntlet. " I am the senior baron !" shouted one. " And I the leader of the van !" cried another ; and for a minute's space all was confusion, verging fast toward strife, among those chiefs of late so closely linked together — till the deep, sonorous voice of Murray, in after-days the regent of the realm, was heard above the tumult. " For shame, my lords, for shame ! Seems it. so much of honor to do the hangman's office on a murderer, that ye would mar our fair array with this disgraceful bruit for the base privi- lege ? By Heaven, should the duty fall on me, I should per- form it, doubtless, even as I would prefer the meanest work that came before me under the name of duty ; but, trust me, I should hold the deed a blot upon mine ancient escutcheon, rather than honor! But to the deed, my lords; the herald awaits our answer. Lord Lyndesay, thine is the strongest claim : if thou wilt undertake the deed, thou hast my voice." " As joyfully," muttered Lyndesay beneath his grizzly mus- tache, " as joyfully as to the banquet do I go forth against the craven traitor! Morton, lend me thy falchion for the trial — the two-handed espaldron which slew Spens of Kilspindie, at the brook of Fala, in the hands of Archibald of Douglas, thy renowned forefather. God give me grace to wield it, and it shall do as trusty service on the carcass of yon miscreant !" " It is decided, then," cried Murray : and not a voice replied, for none had the presumption to dispute the fitness of the choice which thus had fallen on a leader so renowned for strength and 16 362 BOTHWELL. valor. " Herald," he continued, " go bear our greeting to her majesty of Scotland, and say to her, we do accept the challenge. An hour's truce we grant — an equal field here, on this hill of Carbury. The noble earl of Lyndesay will here prove, upon the crest and limbs of that false recreant, James, some time the earl of Bothwell, the justice of our cause : and so may God defend the right !" The shout which rang from earth to heaven, at the noble confidence of Murray, bore to the ears of Mary and her trem- bling followers the assurance that the challenge was accepted ; an assurance that sounded joyfully in every ear but that of his who uttered the bravado. Many a time and oft had BothwelFs crest shone foremost in the tide of battle ; many a time had he confronted deadliest odds with an undaunted visage and a vic- torious blade. Yet now he faltered ; his bold brow blanched with sudden apprehension ; his frame, muscular and lofty as a giant's, actually shook with terror ; and his quivering lip paled, ere he heard the name of his antagonist. Whether it was that guilt sat heavy on his heart, and weighed his strong arm down, or that his soul was cowed by the consciousness that he was unsupported and forsaken by all his friends, he turned upon his heel, and, muttering some inarticulate sounds, half lost within the hollows of his beaver, he strode to his pavilion, and thence sent his squire forth, to say that he was ill at ease, and could not fight until the morrow ! Mary herself — the fond, confiding, deceived Mary — burst on the instant into loud contempt at this hardly-credible baseness. " What ! James of Bothwell false !" she cried ; " then perish hope ! I yield me to the malice of my foes ; I will resist no longer. O man, man — base, coward, miserable man! — is it for this we give our hearts, our lives, ourselves, to your vile guidance ? is it for this that I have given thee mine all — mine honor, and, perchance, my soul ? that thou shouldst cowardly THE CONDITIONAL SURRENDER. 363 desert me at mine utmost need ! Little, oh how little, doth the cold world know of woman's heart and woman's courage ! For thee would I have perished, oh, how joyfully! — and thou, O God ! God ! it is a bitter, bitter punishment for my credulity and love : but if I have deserved to suffer, I deserved it not at thy hands, James of Bothwell ! Seyton, true friend, to thee I trust mine all. Go summon Kirkaldy to a parley : say Mary, queen of Scotland, rather than look upon the blood of Scottish- men, will grant to her rebellious lords those terms which they desire! Nay, interrupt us not, Lord Seyton. We care not what befall that frozen viper whom we warmed within our bosom till he stung us ! Away ! — let Orkney quit our camp ; for, by the glorious light of heaven, we never will behold him more !" She spoke with an elevated voice, and features glowing with contending passions, till the faithful baron had departed on his mission ; but then, then the false strength yielded to despair, and in an agony of unfettered grief she sank into the arms of her attendants, murmuring amid her tears, " God, how I did adore that man !" and was borne, almost a corpse, into her tent. An hour passed heavily away, and at its close Mary came forth, with a brow from which, though pale as the first dawn- ing, every trace of grief had vanished. The terms had been accepted. Without a tear she saw the man for whom she had sacrificed all — all, to her very reputation — mount and depart for ever ! Without a tear she backed her own brave palfrey, and rode, attended by a dozen servitors, faithful amid her sor- rows as they had been in brighter days, into the rebel host. Little was there of courtesy, of that demeanor which becomes a subject in presence of his queen, a true knight before a lady. Amid the taunts and jeers of the vile soldiery, covered with dust and humiliation, she entered upon that, fatal progress which, commencing in a conditional surrender, ended only when she was immured, beyond a hope of rescue or redemption, within the dungeon-towers of Loch Leven ! THE CAPTIVITY. "Long years! — It tries the thrilling frame to bear, And eagle-spirit of a child of song — Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong; And the mind's canker in its savage mood, When the impatient thirst of light and air Scorches the heart ; and the abhorred grate, Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain With a hot sense of heaviness and pain!" — Lament of Tasso. Eighteen long years of solitary grief — of that most wretched sickness that arises, even to a proverb, from hope too long de- ferred — had already passed away since, in the fatal action of Langside, the wretched Mary had for the last time seen her banner fall, and her adherents scattered like chaff before the wind by the determined valor of her foes. All, all was lost ! It had been the work of months to draw that gallant army to a head, of which so many now lay stark in their curdled gore ; while the miserable remnant were hunted like beasts of chase, to perish, when taken, upon the ignominious scaffold. And now, of all the noble gentlemen who had thronged to her bridle- rein on that fatal morning, high in hope as in valor, the merest had escaped to guard the person of that sovereign whom they loved so truly, and in behalf of whom they had endured so deeply. Her crown was lost for ever ; nor her crown only, but her country. Of all the glorious gifts which, at an earlier period of her eventful life, nature appeared to shower upon her head, freedom alone remained. The palfrey which bore her from the battle- field was now the sole possession of the titular monarch of three fair domains ; the wild moors, over which she fled in desperate THE FUGITIVE QUEEN. 365 haste, her only refuge from persecutors the most unrelenting that ever joined sagacity to hatred in the performance of their plans ; the dozen gallant hearts who rallied yet around their queen, beneath the guiding of the stout and loyal Herries, her only court, her only subjects. Still she was free ; and to one who for months before had never seen the blessed light of heaven but its lustre was sullied by the dim panes through which it forced its way, to lend no solace to her captivity, the fresh breeze which eddied across the purple moorlands of her native land had still the power to impart a sense of pleasure, fleeting, it is true, and doubtful, but still, in all its forms and essentials, absolute and real pleasure. At the full distance of sixty Scottish miles from the accursed field which had witnessed the downfall of all her hopes, worn out in body and depressed in spirit, she paused to take, in the abbey of Dundrennan, a few hours of that repose without which, even in the most trying circumstances, the mind can not exist in its undiminished powers. At this juncture, it appeared to those about her person that Mary was utterly deserted by that wonderful sagacity, that clear insight into the motives of others, which had ever constituted one of the strongest points of her character. The chief object of the faithful few, who had clung to her with unblenching steadiness through this her last misfor- tune, had been to bear her in security to some point whence she might effect her escape to the sunny shores of that land wherein she had passed the happiest, the only truly happy, hours of her checkered existence. Queen-dowager herself of France, knit by the closest ties of interest and friendship to the court of Versailles — to which, moreover, Scotland had ever been considered an auxiliar and well-affected state, no less than an easy pretext for hostilities against its natural antagonist — she had been there secure, not of safety only, but of the full enjoyment of rank, and wealth, and dignity, and pleasure, if 366 THE CAPTIVITY. indeed pleasure were yet within the reach of one who had her- self suffered, and who had beheld all those that loved her suffer, as Mary the last queen of Scotland. Inclination, it would have seemed, no less than policy, should have urged the hapless sov- ereign to the measure advocated by each and all of her devoted train ; for but a few years had flown since she had felt all those pangs which render exile to a delicate and sensitive mind the heaviest of human punishments, on parting from the fair shores of that land, which even then perhaps some prophetic spirit whispered, she must behold no more ! Herries, the bold and loyal Herries, bent his knee, stiffened with years of toil and exposure, to sue of his adored mistress the only boon of all his labors, all his sufferings, that she would avoid the fatal soil of England. " Remember," he had cried, in tones which seemed in after- days of more than human foresight — " remember how the false and wily woman, who sways the sceptre of England with ab- solute and undisputed sway — remember, I say, with what un- flinching determination she has thwarted you in every wish of your heart ; with what depth of secret enmity she has at all times, and in all places, cherished your foes, and injured all who were most dear to you! and wherefore, oh wherefore, my beloved mistress, wherefore should her course of action now be altered, when she has no longer a powerful queen with whom to strive, but rather a fugitive rival to oppress 1 Eliza- beth of England — believe me, noble lady — has marked this crisis as it drew nigh, with that unerring instinct which directs the blood-raven to its destined victim while life yet revels in its veins ; and surely, so surely as you enter her accursed eyry, shall you feel her vulture-talons busy about your heartstrings ! For years, my noble mistress, has Herries been your servant ; at council or in field, with ready hand and true word, has he ever served the Stuart. It becomes me not to boast, yet will I speak : THE LOYAL VETERAN. 367 when Seyton, and Ogilvy, and Huntley, were dismayed — when Hamilton himself hung back — Henries was ever nigh." " Ever, ever true and loyal !" cried the hapless queen, touched even beyond the consideration of her own calamities by the speech of the brave veteran — "my noble, noble Herries, and bitter, most bitter has been the reward of truth and valor ; but so has it ever been with Mary. I tell thee, baron, for me to love a bird, a tree, a flower, much less a creature such as thou art, an honorable, upright, and devoted friend, was but that crea- ture's doom : all whom I have loved have I destroyed ! Alas, alas for the undaunted spirits that were severed from the forms they filled so nobly, on that dark battle-field !" " Think not of them, my liege — mourn not for them," inter- rupted the baron. " Knightly, and in their duty, have they fallen. Their last blow was stricken, and their last slogan shouted, in a cause the fairest, that ever hallowed warrior's blade. They are at rest, and they are happy. But think of those who, having lost their earthly all to save thee, would yet esteem themselves pre-eminently happy so they might see thee free and in security. Oh ! hear me, Mary — hear for the first, last time — hear the prayer of Herries ! Go not, go not — as you love life, and dignity, and liberty — as you would prove your faith to those who have never been faithless to you — go not to this accursed England !" But it had all been vain. The fiat had gone forth, and rea- son had deserted, as it would seem, the destined victim. No arguments, however lucid — no fears, however natural, could divert her from this fatal project. With the choice of good and evil fairly set before her — honor, and rank, and liberty, in France, a prison and an axe in England — deliberately and res- olutely she rushed upon her fate ! And when she might have found a willing asylum in the arms of kindred monarchs, she yielded herself to the tender mercies of a rival queen, a rival 368 THE CAPTIVITY. beauty ; a fierce, unforgiving, unfeminine foe ; a being who, as she aped the name, so also displayed the attributes and nature of the lion ! How could Mary — a professed foe, a claimant of her crown, a woman fairer, and of brighter parts even than her own — a mother, while she was but a barren stake — how could Mary, with so many causes to awaken her deathless hostility, hope for generosity or for mercy from a queen who could even sacrifice without a pang her inclinations to her interest ; whose favors but marshalled those on whom they fell to the scaffold and the block ; whose dearest favorites, whose most faithful servants had fallen, one by one, beneath the headsman's axe ; who had proved herself, in short, a worthy heiress to the soul- less tyrant from whom she had sprung, by the violence of her uncurbed passions, and by the hereditary pleasure with which, through all her long and glorious reign (glorious, as it is termed, for with the multitude the ends will ever justify the means, and foreign conquest hallow domestic tyranny), she rioted in inno- cent and noble blood ! The Rubicon had been passed — and scarcely passed, before Mary had discovered the entire justice, no less than the deep love, manifested by the parting words of Herries. As her last sovereignty, she had stepped aboard the barge that was to waft her from her discontented and ungrateful subjects to a free and happy home, as she too fondly hoped, in merry England. Girt with the bills and bows which had battened so deeply and so often in the gore of Scottishmen, gallantly dressed, and himself of gallant bearing, Lowther, the sheriff of the marches, received the royal fugitive. With every mark of deference that manly strength is bound to show to female weakness, with all the chiv- alrous respect a good knight is compelled by his order to dis- play to innocence and beauty — nay, more, with all the profound humility of a subject before his queen — did he conduct the hapless lady aboard his bark. Yet, while the words of wel- ELIZABETHS LYNX-EYED JEALOUSY. 369 come were upon his tongue, while he dwelt with loyal eager- ness on the sincerity and love of England's Elizabeth toward her sister-queen — by his refusal to admit above a limited and trifling portion of her train to share the asylum of their mistress, he had already drawn the distinction between the royal captive and the royal guest. And so it afterward appeared. In vain did Mary petition as a favor, or claim as a right, an interview with her relentless persecutor. She should have known that even if Elizabeth could, by her constitution, have pardoned her assumption of the style or titles of the English monarchy, she could yet never over- look, never forgive her surpassing loveliness, her elegant ac- complishments, her brilliant wit, her more than mortal grace ! She might have condescended to despise the rival queen — she could only stoop to hate the rival beauty. From castle to cas- tle had she been transferred, with no regard for either her rank or convenience. From prison to prison, from warder to warder, had she been conveyed, as each abode seemed in turn insecure to the lynx-eyed jealousy of her tormentor, or every jailer in turn sickened at the loathsome weariness of his hateful and de- grading employment. No better proof — if proof were needed — could be adduced of Elizabeth's tyrannical and cruel despo- tism, than the unconstitutional authority by which she forced noble after noble, the very pride and flower of the English aris- tocracy, to change their castles into prisonhouses, their house- holds into warders and turnkeys, their very lives into a state of anxious misery, which could only be surpassed by that of the unhappy prisoner they were, so contrary to their will, compelled to guard. After the base mockery of the trial instituted at York, but a few months after her arrival — that trial wherein a brother was brought forward to convict his sister of adultery and murder — that trial which, though it pronounced the prisoner unconvicted, 16* 370 THE CAPTIVITY. yet inflicted on her all the penalties of conviction — it scarcely appears that Mary ever entertained a hope of obtaining her lib- erty, much less the station which was her right, from either the justice or the generosity of the lion-queen. In vain had every course been tried, in vain had every human means been em- ployed. In vain had Scotland sued ; in vain had France and Spain threatened, and even prepared to act upon their threats. For Mary there was no amelioration, no change ! From day to day, from year to year, her hopes had fallen away one by one. Her spirits, so buoyant and elastic once, had now subsided into a heavy, settled gloom ; her very charms were but a wreck and shadow of their former glory. For a time she had endeavored, by all those beautiful occupations of the pencil, the needle, or the lyre, in which none had equalled her in her young days of happiness, to while away the deep and engrossing weariness which by long endurance becomes even worse than pain. For a time she had been permitted to vary the monotony of her domestic labors by her favorite exer- cises in the field and forest. Surrounded by a train of mail- clad horsemen, warders with bended bows and loaded arque- buses, she had a few times been allowed to ride forth into the free woodland, and to forget, amid the gay sights and heart- stirring sounds of the chase, the cares that were heavy at her heart. But how should that heart forget, when at every turn it encountered the haggard eye of the anxious keeper — anxious, for the slightest relaxation of his duty were certain death! How should the ear thrill to the enlivening music of the pack, or to the wild flourish of the bugles, when the clash of steel announced on every side the minions of her oppressor ? How should the gallop over the velvet turf, beneath the luxuriant shadow of the immemorial oaks, convey aught of freshness to the spirit that was about to return thence to chambers no less a dungeon for being decked with the mockeries of state, than WILD AND FEARFUL RUMORS. 371 though they had presented to the eye those common accesso- ries of bar, and grate, and chain, which they failed not to set before the mind ? After a while, even these liberties were curtailed ! It seemed too much of freedom, that the titular sov- ereign of three realms — the cynosure of every eye, the beauty at whose very name every heart thrilled and every pulse bounded — should be permitted to taste the common air of heaven, even when hemmed in, without the possibility of es- cape, by guards armed to the teeth, and sworn to exercise those arms, not only against all who should attempt the rescue, but against the miserable captive herself, should she attempt to profit by any efforts made for her release ! And efforts were made — efforts by the best and noblest of the British peerage — by men whose names were almost suffi- cient to turn defeat to victory and shame to glory. Norfolk and Westmoreland, and a hundred others, of birth scarcely less dis- tinguished, and of virtues no less brilliant, revolted from the soul-debasing despotism of Elizabeth, and attempted, now by secret, stratagem, and now by open warfare, to force the victim from the clutches of the lion. With the deepest regret did Mary witness the destruction of so many noble spirits, and with yet deeper fury did Elizabeth behold star after star of her boasted galaxy of nobles shoot madly from their spheres in pur- suit of a meteor. Bitter were her feelings, and deadly was her vengeance. The bloody reign of Mary might almost have been deemed to have returned, as day by day the death-bells tolled, as the traitor's gate admitted another and another occupant to that above, whence the only egress was by the axe and scaf- fold. Nor was this all. A thousand wild and fearful rumors began to float among the multitude. The perils of a catholic insurrection, the intended assassination of the queen, the estab- lishment of a papistical dynasty upon the throne of England, were topics of ordinary conversation, but of no ordinary excite- 372 THE CAPTIVITY. merit. At one time it was reported that a Spanish fleet was actually in the channel ; at another that the duke of Guise, with a vast army, had effected a landing on the Kentish coast, and might hourly be expected in the capital. Nor is it uncharitable to suppose that these reports were designedly spread abroad, this excitement purposely kept alive, by the wily ministers of Elizabeth. That the despot-queen had long ago determined on the slaughter of her rival, is certain ; nor have we any just cause for doubting that Bacon and Walsingham were men as fully capable of goading the terrors of a multitude into fury as was their mistress of recommending the private murder of her hapless victim ! It was at this period that popular madness was raised to its utmost height by the detection of Babington's conspiracy. Rich, young, brave, and romantic ; stimulated by the hope of gaining the hand of Mary, forgetful that the personal loveliness for which she had once been conspicuous must long have yielded to the joint influence of misery and time ; and deceived by the fatal maxim, then too much in vogue, that means are justified by ends — this gentleman resolved on bringing about the liberation of the Scottish by the murder of the English queen. The affair was not looked upon as so atrocious, but that twelve associates were easily found for the execution of the plot ; and it is barely pos- sible that, had they proceeded at once to action, their desperate effort, might have been crowned with success. They delayed — they talked — they were discovered ! Beneath the protracted agonies of the question, one was found of these convicted trai- tors who asserted the privity of Mary to the whole affair ; and at once, as though a torch had been applied to some train long prepared, the whole of England burst forth into a perfect frenzy of terror. A people are never so terrible, never so barbarous, as when they are thoroughly and needlessly terrified. From every quarter of the kingdom the cry was at once for blood ; Elizabeth's hypocritical regrets. 373 and Elizabeth, looking in cool delight upon the tumult, per- ceived that the moment had arrived when she might gratify, without fear, her jealous thirst for her hated guest's destruction. Addresses showered into either house of parliament, beseech- ing the queen and her ministers to awaken themselves at once to the perils of the people ; to provide against the impended dangers of a catholic succession ; and to remove at once all possibility of future conspiracies by the immediate removal of her who was, as they asserted, not the cause only, but the prin- cipal mover of every successive plot. It is not to be supposed that, after pining so long in secret for an opportunity of gratifying her malice, Elizabeth doubted an instant. It is true indeed that, with a loathsome affectation of tender-heartedness, she pretended to regret the stern neces- sity ; that she whined forth doleful remonstrances to her trusty ministers, entreating them to discover some mode by which she might herself be preserved from the risk of assassination, without undergoing the misery of seeing her well-beloved cousin of Scotland suffer in her stead ! Well, however, did those min- isters know the meaning of the motives of their odious mistress ; well were they aware that there was no more of pity or reluc- tance in the bosom of Elizabeth than there is of mirth in that of the hyena when he sends forth his yells of laughter above his mangled prey ! It was a lovely morning in the autumn ; the sun was shed- ding a mellow light upon the long glades and velvet turf of a park -like lawn before the feudal towers of the earl of Shrews- bury. Before the gate were assembled a group of liveried do- mestics, with many a noble steed pawing the earth and champ- ing its foamy bits ; hounds clamored in their couples, and falcons shook themselves and clapped their restless wings in vain im- patience. It was evident that the attendants were but awaiting the approach of some distinguished personage, to commence 374 THE CAPTIVITY. their sports ; and by their whispered conversation it appeared that this personage was no other than the wretched Mary. The castle-gates were thrown open ; a heavy guard, with ar- quebuss, and pike, and bow, filed through the gloomy gateway ; and then, leaning upon the arm of the still stately Shrewsbury, the poor victim of inveterate persecution came slowly forward. Several gentlemen in rich attire, and among them Sir Thomas Georges, blazing in the royal liveries of England, yet bearing on his soiled buskins and the bloody spurs that graced them tokens of a long and hasty journey, followed ; and another band of warders brought up the rear. The charms which had once rendered Mary the loveliest of her sex, had faded, it is true ; the dimpled cheek was sunken, and its hues, that once had vied with the carnation, had fled for ever ; her tresses were no longer of that rich and golden brown that had furnished subjects for a thousand sonnets, for many a line of gray marked the premature and wintry blight which had been cast upon her beauties by the sternness and misery of her latter years. Still, there was an air of such sweet resignation in every feature, such a dignity in the port of her person — still symmetrical, though it had lost something of its roundness — such a majesty in her still-brilliant eyes — that even the wretches who had determined on her destruction dared not meet the glance of her whom they so foully wronged. She was already seated in the saddle, and the reins just grasped in a delicate but masterly hand, when Georges, step- ping forward and bending a knee — almost, as it would seem, in mockery — informed her that her confederates in the medi- tated slaughter of Elizabeth were convicted; that it was the pleasure of the queen that her grace of Scotland should proceed at once to the sure castle of Fotheringay, and that it was re- solved that she should set forth upon the instant. For a mo- ment, but for a single moment, did Mary gaze into the eyes of REMOVAL TO FOTHERINGAY CASTLE. 375 the courtly speaker, with a gaze of incredulity, almost of ter- ror ; a quick shudder ran through every limb ; and once she wrung her hands bitterly — but not a word escaped her pallid lips, not a tear disgraced her noble race. " It is well, sir," she said, " it is well. We thank you, no less for your pleasant tidings, than the knightly considerations which prompted you to choose so well your opportunity for con- veying them to our ear when we were about to set forth in search of such brief pleasure as might for a moment gild the monotony of a prisoner's life ! We thank you, sir, most warmly, and we doubt not your own noble heart will reward you by that best of gifts, a happy and approving conscience ! For the rest — lead on ! it matters little to the wretched and the captive by what title the prison-bars, which shut them out from light, and liberty, and hope, are dignified ; and well do we know that for us there is but one exit from our dungeon, or rest from our calamities — the grave!" She had commenced her speech in that tone of calm and polished raillery for which she had in her earlier days been so renowned, and which even pierced deeper into the feelings of those who writhed beneath it than the most bitter sarcasm ; but her concluding sentences were uttered with deep feeling: and, as she turned her liquid eyes toward heaven, it seemed most wonderful that men should exist capable of exciting a single pang in the heart of such a creature. The gates of Fotheringay received her ; and, as she rode be- neath the gloomy archway, a prophetic chill fell upon her soul, and she felt that here her wanderings and her sorrows would shortly be brought to a close ! Scarcely had she reached the miserable privacy of her chamber, when steps were heard with- out. Mildmay, Paulet, and Barker, entered, and delivering a letter full of hypocritical regrets and feigned affection, informed her that the queen's commissioners were even then assembled 376 THE CAPTIVITY. in the castle-hall, and prayed the lady Mary to descend and refute the foul charges preferred against her name. Enfeebled as she had been by sufferings and sorrows, wea- ried by her long and rapid journey, and, above all things, crushed by this last blow, it little seemed that so frail and deli- cate a form could have contained a soul so mighty as flashed forth in one blaze of indignation. Her pale cheek crimsoned, her sunken eye glared with unwonted fire ; she started upon her feet, her limbs trembling, not with terror or debility, but with strong and terrible excitement. " Knows not your mistress," she cried, in clear, high tones, " that I, too, am a queen ? or would she knowingly debase the dignity which is common to her with me 1 Away ! I will not deign to plead! I — I, the queen of Scotland, the mother and the wife of kings — I plead to mine inferiors? Go tell your mistress that neither eighteen years of vile captivity, nor dread, nor misery, has sunk the soul of Mary Stuart so low, that she will speak one syllable to guard her life, save in the presence of her peers ! Let her assemble her high courts of parliament, if she so will it : to them, and to them only, will I plead. Here she may slay me, it is true ; but she must slay me by the as- sassin's knife, not by the prostituted sword of justice. I have spoken!" — and she threw herself at once into a seat, immove- able alike in position and in resolve. Well had it been for her had she continued firm in that de- termination ; but what could a weak woman's unassisted intel- lect avail against the united force of talents such as those of Hatton and Burleigh 1 A thousand specious arguments were summoned to overcome her scruples, but summoned all in vain, till the last hint — that her unwillingness to plead could arise only from a consciousness of guilt — aroused her. Pride, fatal pride, determined the debate, and she descended. Eloquently, sorrowfully, manfully, did she plead her cause, combating the THE TRIAL. 377 vile chicaneries, the extorted evidences, the absence or the want of legal witnesses, with the native powers of a clear and vigorous mind. Once during that judicial mockery did her pas- sions burst the control of her judgment, and she openly, in full court, charged the secretary, Walsingham — and, as many now believe, most justly charged him — with the forgery of the only documents that bore upon her character, or on the case in point. But all was fruitless ! For what eloquence should convince men resolved in any circumstances to convict ? w T hat facts should clear away the imputed guilt of one whom it was fully determined to destroy ? The trial was concluded. With the air of a queen she stood erect, with a calm brow and serene eye, as the commissioners departed, one by one. No doom had been pronounced against her, but she read it in the eyes of all ; and as she saw her mis- named judges quit her presence, she muttered, in the low notes of a determined spirit : " The tragedy is well nigh closed — the last act is at hand! Peace — peace — I soon shall find thee in the grave." THE CLOSING SCENE. "Still as the lips that's closed in death, Each gazer's bosom held his breath ; But yet afar, from man to man, A cold, electric shiver ran, As down the deadly blow descended, On her whose love and life thus ended." — Parisina. It was a dark, but lovely night ; moonless, but liquid and transparent; the stars which gemmed the firmament glittered more brightly from the absence of the mightier planet, and from the influence of a slight degree of frost upon the atmosphere, although it was indeed so slight, that its presence could be traced only in the crispness of the herbage, and in the uncom- mon purity of the heavens. Beneath a sky such as I have vainly endeavored to portray, the towers of Fotheringay rose black and dismal above the ancestral oaks and sweeping glades of its demesne. It would have appeared to a casual observer that all were at rest, buried in utter forgetfulness of all their hopes and sorrows, within that massive pile, save the lonely sentinel, whose progress round the battlements, although invis- ible, might be traced by the clatter of his harness, and the sul- len echoes of his steel-shod stride. But to a nearer and more accurate survey, a single light, feebly twinkling through a case- ment of the dungeon-keep, told a far different tale. At times that solitary ray streamed in unbroken lines far into the bosom of the darkness ; at times it was momentarily obscured, as if by the passage of some opaque body, though the transit, if such it were, was too brief to reveal the form or motions of the obsta- cle. Once, however, the shadow paused, and then, as its out- lines stood forth in strong relief against the illumination of the THE EVENING BEFORE EXECUTION. 379 chamber, the delicate proportions and musing attitude of a fe- male might be discerned with certainty. It was the queen of Scotland. Her earthly sorrows were drawing to their close ; the peace, for which she had long ceased to look, save in the silence of the tomb, was now within her grasp. Mary's last sun had set. Of life she had taken her farewell long, long ago ; and death — the bugbear of the happy, the terror of the dastard — dark, mysterious, unknown death — had become to her an intimate, and, as it were, familiar friend. It was not that she had les- soned her shrinking spirit to endure with calmness that which it had shuddered to encounter ; it was not that she had weaned her heart, yet clinging to the vanities of a heartless world, with difficulty and trembling, to their abandonment ; least of all was it. that she had been taught to regard that final separation with the stoic's apathy, or to look for that dull and sunless rest, that absence of all feelings, whether of good or evil ; that total an- nihilation of mind, in the great hereafter, which, to a sensitive temperament, and soul not rendered wholly callous by the de- basing contact with this world's idols, must seem a punishment secondary, if secondary, only to an eternity of wo. Born to a station lofty as the most vaulting ambition could desire, nurtured in gentleness and luxury, gifted with a mind such as rarely dwells within a mortal form, and having that mind invested in a frame, by its resplendent beauty fitted to be the door of immor- tality, she had felt, in a succession of sorrows almost unexam- pled, that the very qualities which should have ministered to her for bliss, had been converted into the instruments of misery and pain. Attached to her native land with the Switzer's pa- triotism, she had endured from it the extremities of scorn and hatred. Full of the warmest sympathies even for the meanest of mankind, she had never loved a single being but he had recompensed that love with coals of fire heaped upon her head ; 380 THE CLOSING SCENE. or if a few had- passed unscathed through the trying ordeal of benefits received, they had themselves miserably perished for their gratitude toward one whose love seemed fated to blight the virtues, or destroy the being of all on whom it was bestowed. If the sun of her morning had ridden gloriously forth in a se- rene heaven, with the promise of a splendid noontide and an unclouded setting, yet scarcely had it scaled one half of its me- ridian height, ere it had been compassed about with gloom and darkness ; and ere its setting the thunders had rolled and the deadly lightnings flashed between the daygod and its scattered worshippers. She had been led step by step from the keenest enjoyment to the utmost disregard of the pleasures of the earth; she had drained the cup, and knew its bitterness too well to languish for a second draught. Yet there was nothing of re- sentment, nothing of hard-heartedness or scorn, in the feelings with which she looked back on the world and its adorers. She did not despise the many for that they still lingered in pur- suit of a star which she had found, by sad experience, to be but a delusive meteor ; much less did she hate the happy few to whom that valley, which had been to her indeed a vale of tears and of the shadow of death, had been a region of perpetual sun- shine and unclouded happiness. From Mary's earliest years there had been a deep spring of piety in her heart which, never utterly dried up, though choked at times, and turned from its true course by the thorny cares and troubles of life, had burst from the briers which so long con- cealed it in redouhled purity as it flowed nearer to the close. There was an innate tenderness in all her sentiments toward all men and all things which could never degenerate into hatred, much less into misanthropy. She looked then upon life in its true light ; as a mingled landscape, now obscured by clouds, now called into glory by the sunshine ; as a region, tangled here with forests, and cumbered with barren rocks, there swelling ** RESIGNATION. 381 into hills of vintage, or subsiding into glens of verdure. And if to her the landscape had been most viewed beneath the influ- ence of a dark and threatening sky — if to her life's path had lain, for the most part, through the wilderness and over the mountains — she knew that such was the result of her own mis- fortune, perhaps of her own misconduct, not of defect in the wonderful contrivance, or of improvidence in the all-glorious contriver. In proportion as she had learned to dwell on the insufficiency of earthly good to satiate that deep thirst for happiness which is not the least among the proofs of the soul's immortality, she had come to look upon the void of futurity as the unexplored region of bliss ; upon death as the portal through which we must pass from the desert of toil and sorrow to the Eden of hope and happiness. That she was drawing rapidly near to this portal she had for a long time been aware ; and, during the latter years of her captivity, she had longed to see the leaves of that gate unfolded for her exit, with a sense of pining sick- ness, similar to that of the imprisoned eagle. The mockery of her trial she had beheld as the avenue through which she should arrive, and that right shortly, at the desired end; and although she knew that the scaffold and the axe, or the secret knife of the assassin, must need be the key to that gate, she recked but little of the means, so that the way of escape was left open to her. She had pleaded, it is true, with brilliant eloquence and ear- nestness, in behalf, not of life, but of her honor. She wished for death, and she cared not for the vulgar ignominy of the scaffold ; but she did care, she did shrink from the ignominy of a condemnation — a condemnation not by the suborned com- missioners, not by the jealous rival, not by the perjured and terror-stricken populace of the day, but by Time and by Eter- nity. This was the condemnation from which she shrank ; 382 THE CLOSING SCENE. this was the ignominy which she combated ; this was the doom which, by the masterly and dauntless efforts of her unassisted woman heart, she turned not only from herself, but back upon her murderers. From the departure of the commissioners, she had been con- vinced that she was hovering as it were on the confines of life and immortality. Happy and calm herself, she had labored to render calm and happy the little group of friends — for domes- tics, when faithful, are friends — who still preserved their alle- giance. She craved no more the wanderings in the green- wood ; she had even refused to join in her once- loved sports of field and forest, which, denied to her when she would have grasped the boon, were freely proffered now, as though her ene- mies, with a far-reaching malignity that would stretch its arm beyond the grave, had wished to reawaken in her bosom that love for things of this life which had sunk to sleep, and to sharpen the bitterness of death by the added tortures of regret. If such, indeed, were their intentions — and who shall presume to judge ? — their barbarity was frustrated ; and if they indeed envied their poor victim the miserable consolation of passing cheerfully and in peace from the sphere of her sorrows, we may be assured that the frustration of their wicked views was sufficient punishment to them w^hile here, and none can even dare to conjecture what will be their doom hereafter. This night had brought at length the balm to all her cares — the restless eagerness to be assured of that which was to come was over — the goal was reached, the gates were half- unclosed, and, to her enthusiastic and poetical imagination, the hymns and harpings of expectant seraphs seemed to pour in their soothing chimes, whispering of peace, pardon, and beati- tude for evermore between the parted portals. With a bigotry, which in these days of universal toleration it is equally difficult to conceive or to condemn sufficiently, it was denied to the de- LAST EARTHLY SLUMBER, 383 parting sinner — for who that is most perfect here is other than a sinner — to enjoy the consolations of a priest of her own per- suasion. A firm and conscientious, though not a bigoted cath- olic, it was a cruelty of the worst and most outrageous nature, to deny her that which she deemed of the highest importance to her eternal welfare, and which they could not deem preju- dicial, without being themselves victims of a superstition so slavish as to disprove their participation in a faith which boasts itself no less a religion of freedom than of truth. Steadily refusing the aid of the protestant divines, who har- assed her with an assiduity that spoke more of polemical pride than of Christian sincerity, she had performed her orisons with deep devotion, and had arisen from their performance assured of forgiveness, confident in her own repentance, and in the mercy of Him who alone is perfect ; in peace and charity even with her direst foes, and happy in the anticipation of the mor- row. She had sat down to her last earthly meal with an appe- tite unimpaired by the knowledge that it was to be her last ; she had conversed cheerfully, gayly, with her weeping friends ; she had drunk one cup of wine to their health and happiness, and, in token of her own gratitude, to each she had distributed some little pledge of her affectionate regard ; and then — amid the notes of dreadful preparation, the creaking of saws and the clang of hammers, busily converting the castle-hall into a place of slaughter, as it had been not long before a place of misnamed justice — she had sunk to sleep so calmly, and slumbered on with a countenance so moveless in its innocent repose, and with a bosom so regular in its healthful pulsations, that her ad- miring ladies began to look on her as one about to start upon a pleasant voyage to the harbor of all her wishes, rather than as one about to perish by a cruel and ignominious death on the scaffold. Hours flew over the lovely sleeper, and the eyes of her watchers waxed heavier, till they wept themselves to sleep ; 384 THE CLOSING SCENE. and one — an aged woman, who had watched her infancy and gloried in the promise of her youth — after her eyes were sealed in sleep, yet continued, by the heavy sobs which burst from the lips of the slumberer, to manifest the extent of that misery which abode in all its vividness within, the mind, although the body was wrapt, in that state which men have called oblivion. Such had been the state of things in Mary's chamber from the first close of evening to the dead hour of midnight ; but ere the east had begun again to redden with the returning glories of its luminary, sleep, which still sat leadlike on the eyelids of her attendants, forsook the hapless sovereign. Silently she arose, and, throwing a single garment carelessly about her person, passed from her sleeping-apartment into a little oratory adjoin- ing, without disturbing from her painful slumbers one of those faithful beings to whom the distinct consciousness of waking sorrow must have been yet more painfully acute. Here, as with a quick but regular step she traversed the nar- row turret, she viewed as it were in the space of a single hour the crowded events of a life which, unnaturally shortened as it was about to be, yet contained naught of remote and rare oc- currence, but in rapid and complete succession — those events which make an epoch and an era of every hour, and lengthen years of time into ages of the mind. Calmly, piously, without a shade of sorrow for the past or of solicitude for the future, save that mysterious and yet natural anxiety which must haunt every mind, however well prepared to endure its final separation from the body, as the hour of dis- solution approaches, did she expect the morning. This anxiety and this alone was blended with the various feelings which, coursed through the soul of Mary during this the last night of her existence. It was in such a frame of mind that Mary, in the solitude of that last earthly night, diverting her attention entirely from the a mother's love. 385 terrible shock she was about to undergo on the morrow, thought upon her native land, still dear though still ungrateful, a prey to the fierce contentions of her own factious offspring — of her son, torn at the earliest dawn of his affections from the arms of a mother, nurtured among those who would teach him to eradi- cate every warmer recollection — to pluck forth, as if it were an offending eye, every lingering tenderness for that being, who, amid all her sins and ail her sorrows, had never ceased to love him with an entire and perfect love. There is, in truth, something more evidently divine, partaking more nearly of that which we believe to be the very essence of Divinity, in a moth- er's love, than in any other pang or passion — for every passion, how sweet soever it may be, has something of a pang mingled with it — in the human soul. All other love is liable to dimi- nution, to change, or to extinction ; all other love may be alien- ated by the neglect, chilled by the coldness, frozen to the core by the worthlessness, of the object once beloved. All other affections are influenced by a thousand trivial circumstances of time and place : absence may weaken their influence, time ob- scure their vividness, and, above all, custom may rob them of their value. But on the love of a mother — commencing as it does before the object of her solicitude possesses form or being ; springing from agony and sorrow ; ripening in anxiety and care, and reaping too often the bitter harvest of ingratitude — all inci- dental causes, all external influences, are powerless and vain. Time but excites her admiration, but increases her solicitude, but redoubles her affections. Absence but causes her to dwell with a more engrossing memory on him from whom her heart is never absent. Custom but hallows the sentiment to which nature has given birth. Neglect and coldness but cause her to strain every nerve to merit more and more the poor return of filial love — the solitary aim of her existence, if heartlessly denied to her. Nay, worthlessness itself but binds her more 17 386 THE CLOSING SCENE. closely to him whom the hard world has cast aside, to find a refuge in the only bosom which will not perceive his errors or credit his utter destitution. Thus it was with Mary ! She knew that the child of her affections regarded those affections as vile and worthless weeds ! She knew that he was selfish, vain, and heartless ! She knew that a single word from that child whom she still adored — if conveyed to her persecutor in the strong language of sincerity and earnestness — if borne, not by a fawning courtier, but by one of those high spirits which Scotland has found ever ready to her need — if enforced by threats of instant war — would have broken her fetters in a moment, and conveyed her from the dungeons of Fotheringay to the courts of Holyrood ! All this she knew, yet her heart would not know it ! And when all Europe rang with curses on the unnatural vacillation of that son; when every Scottish heart, whatever might be its policy or its party, despised his abject cringing ; while Elizabeth her- self, while she flattered his vanity, and affected to honor and esteem his virtue, scoffed in her royal privacy at the tool she designed to use in public — Mary alone, Mary, the only sufferer and victim of his baseness, still clung to the idea of his worth, still adored the child who was driving her out, as the scape- goat of the Jews, to expiate the sins of himself and his people by her own destruction ! But it was not on James alone that her wayward memory was fixed. At a time when any soul less dauntless, any spirit less exalted, would have failed be- neath its load of sorrows, Mary had a fond regret, a tear of sorrow, a sigh of sincere gratitude, for every gallant life that had devoted itself to ward from her that fate which their united loyalty had availed only to defer, not to avert. Chastelar passed before her, with his tones of sweetest melancholy, and that un- utterable love, which made him invoke blessings on her who had doomed him to the block : and Darnley, as he had seemed THE SIGNAL-BELL. 387 in the few short hours when he had been, when he had de- served to be, the idol of her heart : and Bothwell, the eloquent, the glorious, but guilty Bothwell, her ruin and her betrayer : and Douglas, the noble, hapless Douglas, he who had riven the bolts of Loch Leven, and sent her forth to a short freedom and worse captivity : Huntley, and Hamilton, and Seyton, and Kirk- aldy, the most formidable of her foes until he became the firm- est of her friends — all passed in sad review before the eyes of her entranced imagination. Thus it was that the last queen of Scotland passed the latest night of her existence. With no consciousness of time, with no care for the present, no apprehension for the future, she had paced the narrow floor of her apartment during the still hours of midnight. Unperceived by her had the stars paled, then vanished from the brightening firmament ; unseen had the first dappling of the east gone into the clear, cold light of a wintry morning ; unheeded had the castle clock sent forth its giant echoes hour after hour, to be heard by every watcher over leagues of field and forest. Another sound rose heavily, and she was at once collected — time, place, and circumstances, flashed fully on her mind — she was prepared to meet them : it was the roar of the morning culverin ; and scarcely had its deafening voice passed over, before a single bell, hoarse, slow, and so^nm, pealed minute after minute, the signal of her ap- proaching dissolution. Calmly, as if she were about to prepare for some gay festi- val, she turned to the apartment where her ladies, overdone by wo and watching, yet slumbered, forgetful of the dread occa- sion. "Arise," she said, in sweet, low tones ; " arise, my girls, and do your last of duties for the mistress ye have served so well ! Nay, start not up so wildly, nor blush that ye have slept while we were watching. Dear girls, the time has come — the time 388 THE CLOSING SCENE. for which my soul so long has thirsted. Array me, then, as to a banquet, a glorious banquet of immortality ! See," she con- tinued, scattering her long locks over her shoulders — "see, they were bright of yore as the last sunbeam of a summer day, yet I am prouder of them now, with their long streaks of un- timely snow — for they now tell a tale of sorrows, borne as it becomes a queen to bear them. Braid them with all your skill, and place yon pearls around my velvet head-gear. We will go forth to die, clad as a bride ; and now methinks the queen of France and Scotland owns but a single robe of fair device. Bring forth our royal train and broidered farthingale : it fits us not to die with our limbs clad in the garb of mourning, when Heaven knows that our heart is clothed in gladness !" Tearless, while all around were drowned in lamentations, she strove to cheer them to the performance of this last sad office — not with the commonplace assurances, the miserable resources of earthly consolation, much less with aught of heart- less levity, or of that unfeeling parade which has so often adorned the scaffold with a jest, and concealed the anxiety of a heart ill at ease beneath the semblance of ill-timed merriment — but by suffering them to read her inmost soul ; by showing them the true position of her existence ; by pointing out to them the actual hardships of the body, and the yet deeper hu- miliations of the soul, from which the door of her escape was even now unclosing. Scarcely had she completed her attire, and tasted of the con- secrated wafer — long ago procured from the holy Pius, and preserved for this extremity — when the tread of many feet without, and a slight clash of weapons at the door of the ante- chamber, announced that the hour had arrived. Once and again, ere she gave the signal to unclose the door, she embraced each one of her attendants. " Dear, faithful friends, adieu, adieu," she said, " for ever ; and now remember, THE PARTING HOUR. 389 remember the last words of Mary. Weep not for me, and, if ye love me, shake not my steadfastness, which, thanks to Him who is the Father and the Friend of the afflicted, the fear of death can not shake, by useless fear or lamentation. We would die as a martyr cheerfully, as a queen nobly! Fare ye well, and remember !" With an air of royal dignity she seated her- self, and, with her maidens standing around her chair, she bore the mien of a high sovereign awaiting the arrival of some proud legation, rather than that of a captive awaiting a summons to the block. "And now," she said, as she arranged her drape- ries with dignified serenity, " admit their envoy." The doors were instantly thrown open as she spoke, the sheriff uttered his ordinary summons, and without a shudder she rose. " Lead on," she said ; " we follow thee more joy- ously than thou, methinks, canst marshal us. Sir Amias Pau- let, lend us thine arm ; it fits us not that we proceed, even to the death, without some show of courtesy. Maidens, bear up our train ; and now, sir, we are ready." But a heavier trial than the axe awaited the unhappy sover- eign ; for as she set her foot on the first step of the stairs, Melville, her faithful steward, flung himself at her feet, with almost girlish wailings. Friendly and familiarly she raised him from the ground. " Nay, sorrow not for me," she said, " true friend. Subject for sorrow there is none, unless thou grievest that Mary is set free — that for the captive's weeds she shall put on a robe of immortality, and, for a crown of earthly misery, the glory of beatitude." " Alas ! alas ! God grant that I may die, rather than look upon this damned deed." " Nay, live, good Melville, for my sake live ; commend me to my son, and say to him, Mary's last thoughts on earth were given to France and Scotland, her last but these to him : say, that she died unshaken in her faith to God, unswerving in her 390 THE CLOSING SCENE. courage, confident in her reward. Farewell, true servant, take from the lips of Mary the last kiss that mortal e'er shall take of them, and fare thee well for ever." At this moment the earl of Kent stepped forward, and roughly bade her dismiss her women also, " for the present matter tasked other ministers than such as these." For a moment she condescended to plead that they might be suffered to attend her to the last ; but when she was again refused, her ancient spirit flashed out in every tone, as she cried, trumpet- like and clear, " Proud lord, beware ! I too am cousin to your queen — I too am sprung from the high-blood of England's roy- alty — I too am an anointed queen. I say thou shalt obey, and these shall follow their mistress to the death, or with foul vio- lence shall they force me thither. Beware ! beware, I say, how thou shalt-answer doing me this dishonor !" Her words prevailed. Without a shudder she descended, entered the fatal hall, looked with an air of smiling condescen- sion, almost of pity, on the spectators crowded almost to suffo- cation, and, mounting the scaffold, stood in proud and abstract- ed unconcern, while, in the measured sounds of a proclama- tion, the warrant for her death was read beside her elbow. The bishop of Peterborough then drew nigh, and, in a loud voice and inflated style, harassed her ears with an oration, which, whatever might have been its merits, was at that time but a barbarous and useless outrage. " Trouble not yourself," she broke in at length, disgusted with his intemperate eloquence, " trouble not yourself any more about this matter, for I was born in this religion, I have lived in this religion, and in this religion I am resolved to die." Turn- ing suddenly aside, as if determined to hear no further, she knelt apart, fervently prayed, and repeatedly kissed the sculp- tured image which she bore of Him who died to save. As she arose from her orisons, the earl of Kent., her constant and THE EXECUTION. 391 unrelenting persecutor, with, heartless cruelty burst into loud revilings against " that popish trumpery" which she adored. " Suffer me now," she said, gazing on him with an expression of beautiful resignation, that might have disarmed the malice of a fiend, " suffer me now to depart in peace. I have come hither, not to dispute on points of doctrine, but to die." Without another word she began to disrobe herself; but once, as her maidens hung weeping about her person, she laid her finger on her lips, and repeated emphatically the word " Remember." And once again, as the executioner would have lent his aid to remove her upper garments, " Good friend," she said, with a smile of ineffable sweetness, " we will dispense with thine assistance. The queen of Scotland is not wont to be disrobed before so many eyes, nor yet by varlets such as thou." All now was ready. The lovely neck was bared. The wretch who was to perform the deed of blood stood grasping the fatal axe, and the fierce earl of Kent beat the ground with his heel in savage eagerness. Without a sigh she knelt ; without a sign of trepidation, a quicker heave of her bosom, or a brighter flush on her brow, she laid down her innocent head, and without a struggle, or convulsion of her limbs, as the axe flashed, and the life-blood spouted, did her spirit pass away. A general burst of lamentation broke the silence ; but amidst that burst the heavy stride of Kent was heard, as he sprang upon the scaffold, and raised the ghastly visage, the eyes yet twinkling, and the lips quivering in the death-struggle. A sin- gle voice, that of the zealot bishop, cried aloud, " Thus perish all the foes of Queen Elizabeth." But ere the response had passed the lips of Kent, a shriller cry rang through the hall — the sharp yell of a small greyhound, the fond companion of the queen's captivity. Bursting from the attendants, who vainly strove to hold her back, with a short, sharp cry she dashed 392 THE CLOSING SCENE. full at the throat of the astonished earl ; but ere he could move a limb the danger, if danger there were, was passed. The spirit was too mighty for the little frame. The energies of the faithful animal were exhausted, its heart broken, in that death- spring. It struck the headless body of its mistress as it fell, and in an agony of tenderness, died licking the hand that had fed and cherished it so long. Wonderful, that when all men had deserted her, a brute should be found so constant in its pure allegiance ! And yet more wonderful, that the same blow should have completed the destiny of the two rival sovereigns! and yet so it was ! The same axe gave the death-blow to the body of the Scottish, and to the fame of the English queen ! The same stroke completed the sorrows of Mary, and the in- famy of Elizabeth. ELIZABETH'S REMORSE. "Guilty! guilty! I shall despair! There is no creature loves me: And, if I die, no soul will pity me ! Nay, wherefore should they? since I myself Find in myself no mercy to myself!" — King Richard III. The twelfth hour of the night had already been announced from half the steeples of England's metropolis, and the echoes of its last stroke lingered in mournful cadences among the vaulted aisles of Westminster. It was not then, as now, the season of festivity, the high-tides of the banquet and the ball, that witching time of night. No din of carriages or glare of torches disturbed the sober silence of the streets, illuminated only by the waning light of an uncertain moon ; no music streamed upon the night-wind from the latticed casements of the great, who were contented, in the days of their lion-queen, to portion out their hours for toil or merriment, for action or repose, according to the ministration of those great lights which rule the heavens with an indifferent and impartial sway, and register their brief career of moments to the peer as to the peas- ant by one unvarying standard. A solitary lamp burned dim and cheerlessly before a low- browed portal in St. Stephen's ; and a solitary warder, in the rich garb still preserved by the yeomen of the guard, walked to 17* 394 Elizabeth's remorse. and fro with almost noiseless steps — his corslet and the broad head of his shouldered partisan flashing momentarily out from the shadow of the arch, as he passed and repassed beneath the light which indicated the royal residence — distinguished by no prouder decorations — of her before whose wrath the mightiest of Europe's sovereigns shuddered. A pile of the clumsy fire- arms then in use, stacked beneath the eye of the sentinel, and the dark outlines of several bulky figures outstretched in slum- ber upon the pavement, seemed to prove that some occurrences of late had called for more than common vigilance in the guard- ing of the place. The prolonged cry of the watcher, telling at each successive hour that all was well, had scarcely passed his lips, before the distant tramp of a horse, and the challenge of a sentry from the bridge, came heavily up the wind. For a moment the yeoman listened with all his senses ; then, as it became evident that the rider was approaching, he stirred the nearest sleeper with the butt of his heavy halbert. " Up, Gilbert ! up, man, and to your tools, ere they be wanted. What though the earl's proud head lie low? — he hath friends and fautors enough in the city, I trow, to raise a coil whene'er it lists them !" The slumbers of the yeomen were exchanged on the instant for the guarded bustle of preparations ; and, before the horseman, whose ap- proach had caused so much excitement, drew bridle at the palace-gate, a dozen bright sparks glimmering under the dark portal, like glow-worms beneath .some bushy coppice, an- nounced the readiness of as many levelled matchlocks. " Stand, ho ! the word — " "A post to her grace of England !" was the irregular reply, as the rider, hastily throwing himself from off his jaded hack- ney, advanced toward the yeoman. " Stand there, I say ! — no nearer, on your life ! Shoot, Gil- bert, shoot, an' he stir but a hand-breadth !" THE MIDNIGHT POST. 395 " Tush ! friend, delay me not," replied the intruder, halting, however, as he was required to do ; "my haste is urgent, and that which I bear with me passeth ceremony — a letter to the queen ! On your heads be it, if I meet impediment ! See that ye pass it to her grace forthwith." "A letter? ha! There may be some device in this; yet pass it hitherward " A broad parchment, secured by a fold of floss silk, with its deeply-sealed wax attached, was placed in his hand. A light was obtained from the hatch of a caliver, and the superscription, evidently too important for delay, hur- ried the guards to action. "The earl of Nottingham" — it ran — " to his most high and sovereign lady, Elizabeth of England. For life ! for life ! for life ! — Ride and run — haste, haste, post- haste, till this be delivered !" After a moment's conference among the warders, the bearer was directed to advance ; a yeoman led the panting horse away to the royal meuf ; and the corporal of the guard, striking the wicket with his dagger-hilt, shortly obtained a hearing and ad- mission from the gentleman-pensioner on duty. Within the palace no result was immediately perceived from the occur- rence which had caused so much bustle outside the gates ; the soldiers on duty conversed for a while in stifled whispers, then relapsed into their customary silence ; the night wore on with- out further interruption to their watch, and ere they were re- lieved they had well nigh forgotten the messenger's arrival. Not so, however, was the letter received by the inmates of the royal residence. Ushers and pages were awakened, lights glanced, and hurried steps and whispering voices echoed through the corridors. The chamberlain, so great was considered the urgency of the matter, was summoned from his pillow ; and he with no small trepidation proceeded at once to the apartment of Elizabeth. His hesitating tap at the door of the ante-cham- ber — occupied by the ladies whose duty it was to watch the 396 Elizabeth's remorse. person of their imperious mistress by night — failed indeed to excite the attention of the sleeping maidens, but caught at once the ear of the extraordinary woman whom they served. " Without there !" she cried, in a clear, unbroken tone, al- though full sixty winters had passed over her head. " Hunsdon, so please your grace, with a despatch of import from the earl of Nottingham." " God's death ! ye lazy wenches ! hear ye not the man with- out, that I must rive my throat with clamoring ? Up, hussies, up — or, by the soul of my father, ye shall sleep for ever!" The frightened girls sprang from their couches at the raised voice of their angry queen, like a covey of partridges at the yelp of the springer, and for a moment all was confusion. " What now, ye fools !" she cried again, in harsh and ex- cited accents, that reached the ears of the old earl without — " hear ye not that my chamberlain awaits an audience ? Fling yonder robe of velvet o'er our person, and rid us of this night- gear — so ! — the mirror now ! my ruff and curch ! and now — admit him !" " Admit him ! an' it list your grace, it were scarce seemly in ladies to appear thus disarrayed — " " Heard ye, or heard ye not 1 I say, admit him ! Think ye old Hunsdon cares to look upon such trumpery as ye, or must I wait upon my wenches' pleasure ? God's head, but ye grow malapert !" The old queen's voice had not yet ceased, before the door was opened ; and although the ladies had taken the precaution of extinguishing the light, and seeking such concealment as the angles of the chamber afforded, the sturdy old earl — who, not- withstanding the queen's assertion, had as quick an eye for beauty as many a younger gallant — could easily discover that the modesty which had demurred to the admission of a man was not by any means uncalled for or even squeamish. Had THE ROYAL CHAMBER. 397 he been, however, much more inclined to linger by the way than his old-fashioned courtesy permitted, he must have been a bold man to delay ; for twice, ere he could cross the floor to her chamber, did his name reach his ears in the impatient ac- cents of Elizabeth: " Hunsdon ! I say — Hunsdon ! 's death! art thou crippled, man V There was little of the neatness or taste of modern days dis- played in the decorations of the royal chamber. Tapestries there were, and velvet hangings, carpets from Turkey, and huge mirrors of Venetian steel ; but a plentiful lack of linen, and of those thousand nameless comforts, which a peasant's dame would miss to-day, uncared for in those rude times by princesses. Huge waxen torches flared in the wind, which found its way through the ill-constructed lattice ; and a greater proportion of the smoke, from the logs smouldering in the jams of a chimney wider than that of a modern kitchen, reeked up- ward to the blackened rafters of the unceiled roof. Rigid and haughty, in the midst of this strange medley of negligence and splendor, sat the dreaded monarch, approached by none even of her most favored ministers save with fear and trembling. Her person, tall and slender from her earliest years, and now emaciated to almost superhuman leanness by the work- ings of her own restless spirit, even more than by her years, presented an aspect terrible, yet magnificent withal. It seemed as though the dauntless firmness of a more than masculine soul had won the power to support and animate a frame which it had rescued from the grave ; it seemed as though the years which had blighted had failed in their efforts to destroy; it seemed as though that faded tenement of clay might yet endure, like the blasted oak, for countless years, although the summer foliage, which rendered it so beautiful of yore, had long since been scattered by the wild autumnal hurricane, or seared by the nipping frosts of winter. Her eye alone, in the general 398 Elizabeth's remorse. decay of her person, retained its wonted brilliancy, shining forth from her pale and withered features with a lustre so re- markable as to appear almost supernatural. "So! give us the letter — there! Pause not for thy knee, man ; give us the letter !" — and tearing the frail band by which it was secured asunder, she was in a moment entirely engrossed, as it would seem, in its contents. Her countenance waxed paler and paler as she read ; and the shadows of an autumn morning flit not more change fully across the landscape, as cloud after cloud is driven over the sun's disk, than did the varying expressions of anxiety, doubt, and sorrow, chase one another from the speaking lineaments of Elizabeth. " Ha !" she exclaimed, after a long pause, " this must be looked to. See that our barge be manned forthwith, and tarry not for aught of state or ceremony. Thyself will go with us, and stop not thou to don thy newest-fashioned doublet : this is no matter that brooks ruffling! — 'Sdeath, man! 'tis life or death ! And now begone, sir ! we lack our tirewoman's ser- vice !" An hour had not elapsed before a barge — easily distinguished as one belonging to the royal household, by its decorations, and the garb of the rowers — shot through a side arch of Westminster bridge, and passed rapidly, under sail and oar, down the swift current of the river, now almost at ebb tide. It was not, how- ever, the barge of state, in which the progresses of the sover- eign were usually made ; nor was it followed by the long train of vessels, freighted with ladies of the court, guards, and musi- cians, which were w T ont to follow in its wake. In the stern- sheets sat two persons : a man advanced in years, and remark- able for an air of nobility, which could not be disguised even by the thick boat-cloak he had wrapped about him, as much perhaps to afford protection against the eyes of the inquisitive as against the dense mists of the Thames ; and a lady, whose ROYALTY IN DISGUISE. 399 tall person was folded in wrappings so voluminous as to defy the closest scrutiny. At a short distance in the rear, another boat came sweeping along, in the crew and passengers of which it would have required a penetrating glance to discover a dozen or two of the yeomen of the guard, in their undress liveries of gray and black, without either badge or cognizance, and their carbines concealed beneath a pile of cloaks. It was Elizabeth herself, who, in compliance with the mys- terious despatch she had so lately received, was braving the cold damps of the river at an hour so unusual, and in a guise so far short of her accustomed state. The moon had already set, and the stars were feebly twinkling through the haze that rose in massive volumes from the steaming surface of the water, but no symptoms of approaching day were as yet visible in the east; the buildings on the shore were entirely shrouded from view by the fog, and the few lighters and smaller craft, moored* here and there between the bridges, could scarcely be discov- ered in time to suffer the barge to be sheered clear of their moorings. It was perhaps on account of these obstacles that their progress was less rapid than might reasonably have been expected from the rate at which they cut the water. Of the six stately piles which may now be seen spanning the noble stream, but two were standing at the period of which we write ; and several long reaches were to be passed before the fantastic mass of London bridge, with its dwelling-houses and stalls for merchandise towering above the irregular thor- oughfares of the city, loomed darkly up against the horizon. Scarcely had they threaded its narrow and cavern-like arches, before a pale and sickly light, of a faint yellow hue, more re- sembling the glare of torches than the blessed radiance of the sun, gilded the decreasing fog-wreaths, and glanced upon the level water. The sun had risen, and for a time hung blinking on the misty horizon, and shorn of half his beams, till a fresh 400 Elizabeth's remorse. breeze from the westward brushed the vapors aloft, and hurried them seaward with a velocity which shortly left the scenery to be viewed in unobscured beauty. Just as this change was wrought upon the face of nature, the royal barge was darting, with a speed that increased every instant, before the esplanade and frowning artillery of the Tower ; the short waves were squabbling and splashing beneath the dark jaws and lowered portcullis of the " Traitor's Gate," that fatal passage through which so many of the best and bravest of England's nobility had entered, never to return ! Brief as was the moment of their transit in front of that sad portal, Hunsdon had yet time to mark the terrible expression of misery, almost of despair, that gleamed across the features of the queen. She spoke not, but she wrung her hands with a sigh, that uttered volumes of repentance and regret, too late to be availing ; and the stern old chamberlain, who felt his heart yearn at the sorrows of a mistress whom he loved no less than he revered, knew that the mute gesture and the painful sigh were extorted from that masculine bosom only by the extremity of anguish. She had not looked upon that " den of drunkards with the blood of princes" since it had been glutted with its last and noblest victim. Essex, the princely, the valiant, the generous, and the noble Essex — ^the favorite of the people, the admired of men, the idol, the cherished idol of Elizabeth — had gone, a few short moons before, through that abhorred gateway — had gone to die — had died by her unwilling mandate ! Bit- ter and long had been the struggle between her wounded pride and her sincere affection ; between her love for the man and her wrath against the rebel : thrice had she signed the fatal warrant, and as often consigned it to the flames ; and when at length her indignation prevailed, and she affixed her name to the fell scroll — which, once executed, she never smiled again — that indignation was excited, not so much by the violence A FLOATING CITY. 401 of his proceedings against her crown, as by his obstinate delay- in claiming pity and pardon from an offended but indulgent mistress. Onwartf, onward they went, the light boat dancing over the waves that added to its speed, the canvass fluttering merrily, and the swell which their own velocity excited laughing in their wake. It was a time and a scene to enliven every bosom, to make every English heart bound happily and proudly. Ves- sels-of-war, and traders, galliot, and caravel, and bark, and ship, lay moored in the centre of the pool and along the wharves, the thousand dwellings of a floating city. All this Elizabeth her- self had done : the commerce of England was the fruit of her fostering ; the power of her courage and sagacity ; the mighty navy of her creation. They passed below the dark broadsides and massive arma- ments of forty ships-of-war, some of the unwonted bulk of a thousand tons, with the victorious flags of Howard, Hawkins, Frobisher, and Drake, streaming from mast and yard ; but not a smile chased the dull expression of fixed grief from the brow of her who had " marred the Armada's pride ;" nor did the slightest symptom on board her three most chosen vessels — the Speedwell, the Tryeright, or the Blak- Galley, the very models of the world for naval architecture — show that the queen and mistress of them all was gliding in such humble trim below their victorious batteries. The limits of the city were already left far behind ; green meadows and noble trees now filled the place of the crowded haunts of wealth and industry, while here and there a lordly dwelling, with its trim avenues, and terraced gardens sloping to the water's edge, adorned the prospect. The turrets of Not- tingham house, the suburban palace of that powerful peer, were soon in view ; when a pageant swept along the river, stemming the ebb tide with a proud and stately motion — a pageant which, 402 Elizabeth's remorse. at any other period, would have been calculated, above all things else, to wake the lion-like exultation of the queen, though now it was passed in silence, and unheeded. The rover Cav- endish* — who, a few years before, a gentleman of wealth and worship, had dissipated his paternal fortunes, and in the south- ern seas and on the Spanish main had become a famous free- booter — was entering the river with his prizes in goodly tri- umph. The flag-ship, a caravel of a hundred and twenty tons only, led the van, close-hauled and laden almost gunwale-deep with the precious spoils of Spain. Her distended topsail flashed in the sunlight like a royal banner, a single sheet of the richest cloth of gold ; her courses were of crimson damask, her mar- iners clad in garments of the finest silk ; banners flaunted from every part of the rigging ; and over all the " meteor flag of Eng- land/' the red cross of St. George, streamed rearward, as if pointing to the long train of prizes which followed. Nineteen vessels, of every size and description then in use — carracks of the western Indies, galleons of Castile and Leon, with the flag of Spain, so late the mistress of the sea, disgracefully re- versed beneath the captor's ensign — sailed on in long and even array ; while in the rear of all, the remainder of the predatory squadron, two little sea-wasps of forty and sixty tons burden, presented themselves in proud contrast to their bulky prizes, the hardy crews filling the air with clamors, and the light can- non booming in feeble but proud exultation. Time was when such a sight had roused her enthusiastic spirit almost to frenzy, but now that" spirit was occupied, engrossed by cares peculiarly its own. The coxswain of the royal barge, his eye kindling with patriotic pride, and presuming a little on his long and * This incident, which is strictly historical, even to the smallest details, did in fact occur several years earlier; as the death of Elizabeth did not take place un- til the year 1603, whereas the triumphant return of Thomas Cavendish is related by Hume as having happened A.. D. 1587. It is hoped that the anachronism will be pardoned, in behalf of the picture of the times afforded by its introduction. THE COUNTESS OF NOTTINGHAM. 403 faithful services, put up the helm, as if about to run alongside of the leading galley ; but a cold frown and a forward wafture of the hand repelled his ardor ; and the men their oars bending to the work, the barge was at her moorings ere many minutes had elapsed, by the water-gate of Nottingham-house — and the queen made her way, unannounced and almost unattended, to the chamber of the aged countess. The sick woman had been for weeks wasting away beneath a slow and painful malady ; her strength had failed her, and for days her end had been almost hourly expected. Still, with that strange and unnatural tenacity through which the dying sometimes cling to earth, even after every rational hope of a day's prolonged existence has been extinguished — she had hovered as it were on the confines of life and death, the vital flame flickering like that of a lamp whose aliment has long since been exhausted, fitfully playing about the wick which can no longer support it. Her reason, which had been par- tially obscured during the latter period of her malady, had been restored to its full vigor on the preceding evening ; but the only fruit of its restoration was the utmost anguish of mental suffer- ing and conscientious remorse. From the moment when the messenger, whose arrival we have already witnessed, had been despatched on his nocturnal mission, she had passed the time in fearful struggles with the last foe, wrestling as it were bodily with the dark angel ; now pleading with the Almighty, and ad- juring him by her sufferings and by her very sins, to spare her yet a little while ; now shrieking on the name of Elizabeth, and calling her, as she valued her soul's salvation, to make no long tarrying. In the opinion of the leeches who watched around her pillow, and of the terrified preacher who communed with his own heart and was still, her life was kept up only by this fierce and feverish excitement. At a glance she recognised the queen, before another eye 404 Elizabeth's remorse. had marked her entrance. " Ha !" she groaned, in deep, sep- ulchral tones, " she is come, before whose coming my guilty- soul had not the power to pass away ! She is come to witness the damnation of an immortal spirit ! to hear a tale of sin and sorrow that has no parallel ! Hear my words, O queen ! hear my words now, and laugh — laugh if you can ; for, by Him who made us both, and is now dealing with me according to my merits, never shall you laugh again ! Hereafter you shall groan, and weep, and tremble, and curse yourself, as I do ! Laugh, I say, Elizabeth of England — laugh now, or never laugh again !" For a moment the spirit of the queen, manly and strong as it was, beyond perhaps all precedent, was fairly overawed and cowed by the fierce intensity of the dying woman's manner. Not long, however, could that proud soul quail to any created thing. " 'Fore God, woman," she cried, " thou art bewitched, or desperately wicked ! What, in the fiend's name, mean ye ?" " In the fiend's name truly, for he alone inspired me ! Look here — and then pardon me, Elizabeth ; in God's name, pardon me!" As she spoke, she held aloft, in her thin and bird-like fingers, a massive ring of gold, from which a sapphire of rare price gleamed brilliantly, casting a bright, dancing spark of blue reflection upon her hollow, ghastly features. " Know you," she screamed, " this token ?" " Where got you it, woman ? Speak, I say, speak, or I curse you! — where got you that same token?" The proud queen shook and shuddered as she spoke, like one in an ague-fit. " Essex !" sighed the dying countess, through her set teeth — " the murthered Essex !" " Murthered ? God's death, thou liest ! He was a traitor — done to death ! God ! O God ! I know not what I say !" TOO LATE ! 405 and a big tear-drop — the first in many a year, the first perhaps that ever had bedewed that iron cheek — slid slowly down the face of Elizabeth, and fell heavily on the brow of the glaring sufferer, who still held the ring aloft, in hands clasped close in attitude of supplication. " Speak," she said again, in milder accents, "speak, Nottingham: what of — of Essex?" " That ring he gave to me, to bear it to thy footstool, and to pray a gracious mistress's favor to an erring but a grateful ser- vant — " "And thou, woman — thou!" absolutely shrieked the queen. " Gave it not to thee — that Essex might die, not live !" was the steady reply. " Pardon me before I die ; pardon me, as God shall pardon thee ! — " " God shall not pardon me, woman! — neither do I pardon thee ! He, an' he will, may pardon thee ; but that will I do never! never! — by the life of the Eternal, never!" — and, in the overpowering fury and agitation of the moment, she seized the dying sinner with an iron gripe, and shook her in the bed, till the ponderous fabric creaked and quivered. Not another word, not another sob passed the lips of the old countess : her frame was shaken by a mightier hand than that of the indig- nant queen ; a deep, harsh rattle came from her chest ; she raised one skinny arm aloft, and after the jaw had dropped, and the glaring eyeball fixed, that wretched limb stood erect, ap- pealing as it were from a mortal to an immortal Judge ! The paroxysm was over. Speechless, and all but motion- less, the miserable queen was borne by her attendants to. the barge ; the tide had shifted, and was still in their favor, though their course was altered. On their return, they again passed the triumphant fleet of Cavendish, bearing the mightiest sover- eign of the world, the envied of all the earth — a wretched, feeble, heart-broken woman, grovelling like a crushed worm beneath the bitterest of human pangs, the agonies of self-merited 406 Elizabeth's remorse. misery ! A few hours found her outstretched upon the floor of her chamber, giving away to anguish uncontrolled and uncon- trollable. Refusing the earnest prayers of her women, and of her physicians, to suffer herself to be disrobed, and to recline upon her bed ; feeding on tears and groans alone ; uttering no sound but the name of Essex, in one plaintive and oft-repeated cry ; mocking at all consolation ; acknowledging no comforter except despair — ten long days and nights she lingered thus, in pangs a thousand times more intolerable than those which she had inflicted on her Scottish rival : and when, at length, the council of the state assembled, in her last moments, around the death-bed of a sovereign truly and not metaphorically lying in dust and ashes — she named to them, as her successor in the kingdom, the son of that same rival. Who shall say that the death of Mary Stuart went unavenged ? THE MOORISH FATHER. A TALE OF MALAGA. It was the morning of the day succeeding that which had beheld the terrible defeat, among the savage glens and moun- tain fastnesses of Axarquia, of that magnificent array of cava- liers which, not a week before, had pranced forth from the walls of Antiquera, superbly mounted on Andalusian steeds, fiery, and fleet, and fearless, with helm and shield and corslet engrailed with arabesques of gold, surcoats of velvet and rich broidery, plumes of the desert bird, and all in short that can add pomp and circumstance to the dread game of war. The strife was over in the mountain valleys ; the lonely hollows on the bare hill-side, the stony channels of the torrent, the tangled thicket, and the bleak barren summit, were cumbered with the carcasses of Spain's most noble cavaliers. War-steeds beside their riders, knights of the proudest lineage among their low- liest vassals, lay cold and grim and ghastly, each where the shaft, the stone, the assagay, had stretched beneath him, be- neath the garish lustre of the broad southern sun. The Moor- ish foe had vanished from the field, which he had won almost without a struggle — the plunderer of the dead plied his hateful trade even to satiety, and, gorged with booty that might well 408 THE MOORISH FATHER. satiate the wildest avarice, had left the field of slaughter to the possession of his brute comrades, the wolf, the raven, and the eagle. It was now morning, and the broad sun, high already, was pouring down a flood of light over the giant crags, the deep pre- cipitous defiles, and all the stern though glorious features which mark the mountain scenery of Malaga ; and far beyond over the broad, luxuriant Vega, watered by its ten thousand streams of crystal, waving with olive-groves, and vineyards, and dark woodlands ; and farther yet over the laughing waters of the bright Mediterranean. But one, who having found conceal- ment during that night of wo and slaughter in some dark cave, or gully so sequestered that it had escaped the keen eyes of the Moorish mountaineers, now plied his bloody spurs almost in vain, so weary and so faint was the beautiful bay steed which bore him. He paused not to look upon the wonders of his road, tarried not to observe the play of light and shadow over that glorious plain, although by nature he was fitted to admire and to love all that she had framed of wild, of beautiful, or of romantic. Nay more, he scarcely turned his eye to gaze upon the miserable relics of some beloved comrade, who had so often revelled gayly, and in that last awful carnage had striven fearlessly and well, even when all was lost, beside him. He was a tall dark-featured youth, with a profusion of black hair clustered in short close curls about a high pale forehead ; an eye that glanced like fire at every touch of passion, yet melted at the slightest claim upon his pity ; an aquiline, thin nose, and mouth well cut, but compressed and closely set, com- pleted the detail of his eminently handsome features. But the dark curls — for he had been en the preceding day unhelmed and slightly wounded — were clotted with stiff gore, matted with dust, and bleached by the hot sun under which he had for hours fought bareheaded. The keen, quick eye was dull THE SPANISH KNIGHT. 409 and glazed, the haughty lineaments clouded with shame, anx- iety, and grief, and the chiselled lips pale and cold as ashes. His armor, which had been splendid in the extreme, richly em- bossed and sculptured, was all defaced with dust and gore, broken and dinted, and in many places riven quite asunder. The surcoat which he had donned a few short days before, of azure damask, charged with the bearings of his proud ancestral race, fluttered in rags upon the morning breeze — his shield was gone, as were the mace and battle-axe which had swung from his saddle-bow — his sword, a long, cross-handled blade, and his lance, its azure pennoncelle no less than its steel head, crusted and black with blood, alone remained to him. The scabbard of his poignard was empty, and the silver hilt of his sword, ill-matched with the gilded sheath, showed plainly that it was not the weapon to which his hand was used. Yet still, though disarrayed, weary, and travel-spent, and worn with wo and watching, no eye could have looked on him without recog- nising in every trait, in every gesture, the undaunted knight and the accomplished noble. Hours had passed away, since, with the first gray twilight of the dawn he had come forth from the precarious hiding-place wherein he had spent a terrible and painful night ; and so far he had seen no human form, living at least, and heard no hu- man voice ! Unimpaired, save by the faintness of his reeling charger, he had ridden six long leagues over the perilous and rugged path by which, late on the previous night, the bravest of the brave, Alonzo de Aguilar, had by hard dint of hoof and spur escaped from the wild infantry of El Zagal to the far walls of Antiquera ; and now from a bold and projecting summit he looked down upon the ramparts of that city, across a rich and level plain, into which sloped abruptly the steep ridge on which he stood, at less than a league's distance. Here, for the first time, since he had set forth on his toilsome route, the knight 18 410 THE MOORISH FATHER. drew up his staggering horse — for the first time a gleam of hope irradiating his wan brow — and, as a pious cavalier is ever bound to do, stretched forth his gauntleted hands to Heaven, and in a low, deep murmur breathed forth his heartfelt thanksgivings to Him, who had preserved him from the clutches of .the pitiless heathen. This duty finished, with a lighter heart he wheeled his charger round an abrupt angle of the limestone-rock, and, plunging into the shade of the dense cork- woods which clothed the whole descent, followed the steep and zigzag path, by which he hoped ere long to reach his friends in safety. His horse, too, which had staggered wearily and stumbled often, as he ascended the rude hills, seemed to have gained new courage ; for as he turned the corner of the rock, he pricked his ears and snorted, and the next moment uttered a long, tremulous, shrill neigh, quickening his pace — which for the last two hours he had hardly done at the solici- tation of the spur — into a brisk and lively canter. Before, however, his rider had found time to debate upon the cause of this fresh vigor, the neigh was answered from below by the sharp whinny of a war-horse, which was succeeded instantly by the clatter of several hoofs, and the long barbaric blast of a Moorish horn. The first impulse of the cavalier was to quit the beaten path, and dashing into the thickets to conceal him- self until his foemen should have passed by. Prudent, how- ever, as was his determination, and promptly as he turned to execute it, he was anticipated by the appearance of at least half a score of Moorish horsemen — who, sitting erect in their deep Turkish saddles, goring the sides of their slight Arabian coursers with the edges of their broad sharp stirrups, and bran- dishing their long assagays above their heads, dashed forward with their loud ringing Lelilies, to charge the solitary Span- iard. Faint as he was, and in ill-plight for battle, there need- ed but the sight of the heathen foe to send each drop of his THE EMIR. 411 Castilian blood eddying in hot currents through every vein of the brave Spaniard. " St. Jago !" he cried, in clear and mu- sical tones, " St. Jago and God aid !" and with the word he laid his long lance in the rest, and spurred his charger to the shock. It was not, however, either the usual mode of warfare with the Moors, or their intent at present to meet the shock of the impetuous and heavily armed cavalier. One of their num- ber, it is true, dashed out as if to meet him — a spare gray- headed man, whose years, although they had worn away the soundness, and destroyed the muscular symmetry of his frame, had spared the lithe and wiry sinews ; had dried up all that was superfluous of his flesh, and withered all that was comely of his aspect ; but had left him erect, and strong and hardy as in his youngest days of warfare. His dress, caftan and turban both, were of that dark-green hue, which bespoke an emir, or lineal descendant of the prophet. — the only order of nobility acknowledged by the Moslemin — while the rich materials of which they were composed, the jewels which bedecked the hilt and scabbard of both cimeter and yatagan, the necklaces of gold which encircled the broad glossy chest of his high-blooded black Arabian, proved as unerringly his wealth and consequence. Forth he dashed then, with the national war-cry, " La illah allah la!" brandishing in his right hand the long, light javelin, grasped by the middle, which his countrymen were wont to hurl against their adversaries, with such unerring accuracy both" of hand and eye ; and swinging on his left arm a light round buckler, of the tough hide of the African buffalo, studded with knobs of silver; while with his long reins flying as it would seem quite loose, by aid of his sharp Moorish curb, he wheeled his fiery horse from side to side so rapidly as quite to balk the aim of the Spaniard's level lance. As the old mussulman advanced, fearlessly as it seemed, against the Christian knight, his comrades galloped on abreast with him, but by no means 412 THE MOORISH FATHER.' with the same steadiness of purpose, the track was indeed so narrow that three could hardly ride abreast in it; yet narrow as it was, the nearest followers of the emir did not attempt to keep it ; on the contrary, giving their w T ild coursers the sharp edge of their stirrups, they leaped and bolted from one side to the other of the path now plunging into the open wood on either hand, and dashing furiously over rock and stone, now pressing straightforward for perhaps a hundred yards as if to bear down bodily on their antagonist. All this, it must be understood, passed in less time than it has taken to describe it ; for though the enemies, when first their eyes caught sight of one another, were some five hundred yards apart, the speed of their fleet horses brought them rapidly to close quarters. And now they were upon the very point of meeting — the Spaniard bowing his unhelmed head behind his charger's neck, to shield as best he might that vital part from the thrust of the flashing assagay with his lance projecting ten feet at the least, before the cham- front which protected the brow of his barbed war-horse, and the sheath of his twohanded broadsword clanging and rattling at every bound of the horse against the steel-plates which pro- tected the legs of the man-at-arms! — the Moor sitting erect, nay, almost standing up in his short stirrups, with his keen, black eye glancing from beneath the shadow of his turban, and his spear poised and quivering on high. Now they were scarce a horse's length asunder, when, with a shrill, peculiar yell, the old Moor wheeled his horse out of the road, and dashed 'into the wood, his balked antagonist being borne aimlessly right onward into the little knot of men who followed on the emir's track. Not far, however, was he borne onward ; for, with a second yell, even shriller than before, the moslem curbed his Arab, till he stood bolt upright, and turning sharp round, with with such velocity that he seemed actually to whirl about as if upon a pivot, darted back on him, and with the speed of light THE DESPERATE ENCOUNTER. 413 hurled the long assagay. Just at that point of time the lance point of the Spaniard was within a hand's breadth of the buckler — frail guard to the breast — of the second of those eastern warriors, but it was never doomed to pierce it. The light reed hurtled through the air, and its keen head of steel, hurled with most accurate aim, found a joint in the barbings of the war- horse. Exactly in that open and unguarded spot, which inter- venes between the hip-bone and the ribs, it entered — it drove through the bright and glistening hide, through muscle, brawn, and sinew — clear through the vitals of the tortured brute, and even — with such tremendous vigor was it sent from that old arm — through the ribs on the farther side. With an appalling shriek, the agonized animal sprung up, with all his feet into the air, six feet at least in height, then plunged head foremost! Yet, strange to say, such was the masterly and splendid horse- manship, such was the cool steadiness of the European war- rior, that, as his charger fell, rolling over and over, writhing and kicking in the fierce death-struggle, he alighted firmly and fairly on his feet. Without a second's interval, for he had cast his heavy lance far from him, while his steed was yet in air, he whirled his long sword from its scabbard, and struck with the full sweep of his practised arm at the nearest of the Sara- cens, who were now wheeling round him, circling and yelling like a flock of sea-fowl. Full on the neck of a delicate and fine-limbed Arab, just at the juncture of the spine and skull, did the sheer blow take place ; and cleaving the vertebrae asunder, and half the thickness of the muscular flesh below them, hurled the horse lifeless, and the rider stunned and senseless to the earth at his feet. A second sweep of the same ponderous blade brought down a second warrior, with his right arm half-severed from his body; a third time it was raised ; but ere it fell, another javelin, launched by the same aged hand, whizzed through the air, and look effect a little way below the elbow-joint, just 414 THE MOORISH FATHER. where the brassard and the gauntlet met, the trenchant-point pierced through between the bones, narrowly missing the great artery, and the uplifted sword sunk harmless ! A dull expres- sion of despair settled at once over the bright expressive fea- tures, which had so lately been enkindled by the fierce ardor and excitement of the conflict. His left hand dropped, as it were instinctively, to the place where it should have found the hilt of his dagger ; but the sheath was empty, and the proud warrior stood, with his right arm dropping to his side, trans- fixed by the long lance, and streaming with dark blood, glaring, in impotent defiance, upon his now triumphant enemies. The nature of the Moorish tribes had been, it should be here ob- served, very materially altered, since they had crossed the straits ; they were no longer the cruel, pitiless invaders offering no option to the vanquished, but of the Koran or the cimeter ; but, softened by intercourse with the Christians, and having imbibed, during the lapse of ages spent in continual warfare against the most gallant and accomplished cavaliers of Europe, much of the true spirit of chivalry, they had adopted many of the best points of that singular institution. Among the princi- pal results of this alteration in the national character w r as this — that they now no longer ruthlessly slaughtered unresisting foes, but, affecting to be guided by the principles of knightly courtesy, held all to mercy who were willing to confess them- selves overcome. When, therefore, it was evident that any farther resistance was out of the question, the old emir leap- ing down from his charger's back, with all the agility of a boy, unsheathed his Damascus cimeter, a narrow, crooked blade, with a hilt elaborately carved and jewelled, and strode slowly up to face the wounded Christian. " Yield thee," he said, in calm and almost courteous tones — using the lingua Franca, or mixed tongue, half Arabic, half Spanish, which formed the ordinary medium of communication THE SURRENDER. 415 between the two discordant races which at that time occupied the great peninsula of Europe — "yield thee, sir knight! thou art sore wounded, and enough hast thou done already, and enough suffered, to entitle thee to all praise of valor, to all privilege of courtesy." " To whom must I yield me, emir ?" queried the Christian, in reply ; " to whom must 1 yield ? since yield I needs must ; for, as you truly say, I can indeed resist no longer. I pray thee, of thy courtesy, inform me ?" " To me — Muley Abdallah el Zagal !" " Nor unto nobler chief or braver warrior could any cavalier surrender. Therefore, I yield myself true captive, rescue or no rescue !" and as he spoke he handed the long silver-hilted sword, which he had so well wielded, to his captor. But the old Moor put aside the proffered weapon. " Wear it," he said, " wear it, sir, your pledged word suffices that you will not un- sheath it. Shame were it to deprive so good a cavalier of the sword he hath used so gallantly ! But lo ! your wound bleeds grievously. I pray you sit, and let your hurt be tended — Ho ! Hamet, Hassan, lend a hand here to unarm this good gentle- man. I pray you, sir, inform me of your style and title." " I am styled Roderigo de Narvaez," returned the cavalier, " equerry and banner-bearer to the most noble Don Diego de Cordova, the famous count of Cabra !" " Then be assured, Don Roderigo, of being, at my hands, entreated with all due courtesy and honor — till that the good count shall arrange for thy ransom or exchange." A little while sufficed to draw off the gauntlet, to cut the shaft of the lance, where the steel protruded entirely through the wounded arm, and to draw it out by main force from be- tween the bones, which it had actually strained asunder. But so great was the violence which it was necessary to exert, and so great was the suffering which it caused, that the stout war- 416 THE MOORISH FATHER. rior actually swooned away ; nor did he altogether recover his senses, although every possible means at that time known were applied for his restoration, until the blood had been stanched, and a rude, temporary litter, framed of lances bound together by the scarfs and baldrics of the emir's retinue, and strewn with war-cloaks was prepared for him. Just as this slender vehicle was perfected and slung between the saddles of four warriors, the color returned to the pallid lips and cheeks of the brave Spaniard, and gradually animation was restored. In the meantime, the escort of El Zagal had been increased by the arrival of many bands of >teel-clad warriors, returning from the pursuit of the routed Spaniards ; until at length a grand host was collected, comprising several thousands of soldiery, of every species of force at that time in use — cavalry, archers, infantry, arrayed beneath hundreds of many colored banners, and marching gayly on to the blithe music of war-drum, atabal, and clarion. The direction of the route taken by this martial company was the same wild, desolate, and toilsome road, by which Don Roderigo had so nearly escaped that morning. All day long did they march beneath a burning sun and cloudless sky, the fierce heat insupportably reflected from the white limestone crags, and sandy surface of the roads ; and so tremen- dous were its effects, that many of the horses and mules, laden with baggage, which accompanied the cavalcade, died on the wayside ; while the wounded captive, between anxiety and pain, and the incessant jolting of the litter, was in a state of fever bordering nearly on delirium, during the whole of the long march. At length, just when the sun was setting, and the soft dews of evening were falling silently on the parched and scanty herb- age, the train of El Zagal reached the foot of a rugged and pre- cipitous hill, crowned by a lofty watch-tower. Ordering his troops to bivouac as best they might, at the base of the steep the emir's daughter. 417 acclivity, the old Moor spurred up its side with his immediate train and his enfeebled captive. Just as he reached the brow the gates flew open, and the loveliest girl that ever met a sire's embrace, rushed forth with her attendants — the sternness melted from the old warrior's brow, as he clasped her to his bosom, before he entered the dark portal. Within that mount- ain fortalice long lay the Christian warrior, struggling midway between the gates of life and death ; and when at length he awoke from his appalling dreams, strange visions of dark eyes compassionately beaming upon his, soft hands that tended his worn limbs, and shapes angelically graceful floating about his pillow, were blent with the dark recollections of his hot delir- ium, and that too so distinctly, that he long doubted whether these too were the creations of his fevered fancy. Well had it been for him, well for one lovelier and frailer being, had they indeed been dreams ; but who shall struggle against his des- tiny ! Hours, days, and weeks, rolled onward ; and, as they fled, brought health and vigor to the body of the wounded knight ; but brought no restoration to his overwrought and excited mind. The war still raged in ruthless and unsparing fury, between the politic and crafty Ferdinand, backed by the chivalry of the most puissant realm of Europe, and the ill-fated Moorish prince, who, last and least of a proud race, survived to weep the downfall of that lovely kingdom which he had lacked the energy to govern or defend. Field after field was fought, and foray followed foray, till every streamlet of Grenada had been empurpled by the mingled streams of Saracen and Christian gore, till every plain and valley had teemed with that rank verdure, which be- trays a soil watered by human blood. So constant was the strife, so general the havoc, so wide the desolation, that those who fell were scarcely mourned by their surviving comrades, forgotten almost ere the life had left them. Hardly a family in 18* 418 THE MOORISH FATHER. Spain but had lost sire, son, husband, brother ; and so fast came the tidings in, of slaughter and of death, that the ear scarce could drink one tale of sorrow, before another banished it. And thus it was with Roderigo de Narvaez. For a brief space, indeed, after the fatal day of Axarquia, his name had been syl- labled by those who had escaped from the dread slaughter, with those of others as illustrious in birth, as famous in renown, and as unfortunate, for all believed that he had fallen in the ca- tastrophe of their career. For a brief space his name had swelled the charging cry of Antiquera's chivalry, when thirst- ing for revenge, and all on fire to retrieve their tarnished lau- rels, they burst upon their dark-complexioned foemen. A brief space, and he was forgotten ! His death avenged by tenfold slaughter — his soul redeemed by many a midnight mass — his virtues celebrated, and his name recorded, even while yet he lived, on the sepulchral marble, and the bold banner-bearer was even as though he had never been. Alone, alone in the small mountain tower, he passed his weary days, his long and woful nights. Ever alone ! He gazed forth from the lofty lattices over the bare and sun-scourged summits of the wild crags of Malaga, and sighed for the fair huertas, the rich vine- yards, and the shadowy olives of his dear native province. He listened to the clank of harness, to the wild summons of the Moorish horn, to the thick-beating clatter of the hoofs, as with his fiery hordes old Muley el Zagal swooped like some bird of rapine from his far mountain eyry on the rich booty of the vales below ; but he saw not, marked not, at least, the gorgeousness and pomp of their array ; for, when he would have looked forth on their merry mustering, his heart would swell within him as though it would have burst from his proud bosom — his eyes would dazzle and grow dim, filled with unbidden tears, that his manhood vainly strove to check — his ears would be heavy with a sound, as it were of many falling waters. Thus, hour captivity's weary hours. 419 by hour, the heavy days lagged on, and though the flesh of the imprisoned knight waxed stronger still and stronger, the spirit daily flagged and faltered. The fierce old emir noted the yielding of his captive soul, noted the dimness of the eye, the absence of the high and sparkling fire, that had so won his ad- miration on their first encounter ; he noted, and to do him jus- tice, noted it with compassion ; and ever, when he sallied forth to battle, determined that he would grasp the earliest opportu- nity, afforded by the capture of any one of his own stout adhe- rents, to ransom or exchange his prisoner. But, as at times, things will fall out perversely, and, as it were, directly con- trary to their accustomed course ; though he lost many by the lance, the harquebus, the sword, no man of his brave followers was taken ; nay more, so rancorous and savage had the war latterly become, that Moor and Spaniard now, where'er they met, charged instantly — with neither word nor parley — and fought it out with murderous fury, till one or both had fallen. And thus it chanced, that, while his friends esteemed him dead, and dropped him quietly into oblivion, and his more gen- erous captor would, had he possessed the power, have sent him forth to liberty on easy terms of ransom, fate kept him still in thrall. After a while, there came a change in his demeanor ; the head no longer was propped listlessly from morn to noon, from noon " to dewy eve," upon his burning hand ; the cheek re- gained its hue, the eye its quick clear glance, keen and perva- ding as the falcon's ; the features beamed with their old energy of pride and valiant resolution ; his movements were elastic, his step free and bold, his head erect and fearless ; and the old Moor observed the change, and watched, if he perchance might fathom the mysterious cause, and queried of his menials; and yet remained long, very long, in darkness and in doubt. And what was that mysterious cause, that sudden overmas- 420 THE MOORISH FATHER. tering power, that spell, potent as the magician's charm, which weaned the prisoner from its melancholy yearnings ; which kindled his eye once again with its old fire ; which roused him from his oblivious stupor, and made him bear himself once more, not as the tame heart-broken captive, but as the free, bold, dauntless, energetic champion ; clothed as in arms of proof, in the complete, invulnerable panoply of a soul; proud, active, and enthusiastic, and, at a moment's notice, prepared for every fortune ? What should it be but love — the tamer of the proud and strong — the strengthener of the weak and timid — the tyrant of all minds — the change of all natures — what should it be but love ? The half-remembered images of his delirium — the strong and palpable impressions, which had so wildly floated among his feverish dreams, had been clothed with reality — the form, which he had viewed so often through the half-shut lids of agony and sickness, had stood revealed in the perfection of substantial beauty before his waking eyesight ; the soft voice, which had soothed his anguish, had answered his in audible and actual converse. In truth, that form, that voice, those lin- eaments, were all-sufficient to have spell-bound the sternest and the coldest heart, that ever manned itself against the fascina- tions of the sex. Framed in the slightest and most sylph-like mould, yet of proportions exquisitely true, of symmetry most rare, of roundness most voluptuous, of grace unrivalled, Zelica was in sooth a creature, formed not so much for mortal love as for ideal adoration. Her coal-black hair, profuse almost unto redundancy, waving in natural ringlets, glossy and soft as silk — her wild, full, liquid eyes, now blazing with intolerable lus- tre, now melting into the veriest luxury of languor ; her high, pale, intellectual brow ; her delicately-chiselled lineaments, the perfect arch of her small ruby mouth, and, above all, the fleet and changeful gleams of soul that would flit over that rare face THE STOLEN INTERVIEW. 421 — the flash of intellect, bright and pervading as the prophet's glance of inspiration ; the sweet, soft, dream-like melancholy, half lustre and half shadow, like the transparent twilight of her own lovely skies ; the beaming, soul-entrancing smiles, that laughed out from the eyes before they curled the ever- dimpling lips — these were the spells that roused the Christian captive from his dark lethargy of wo. A first chance interview in the small garden of the fortress — for in the smallest and most iron fastnesses of the Moors of Spain, the decoration of a garden, with its dark cypresses, its orange-bowers, its marble fountains, and arabesque kiosk among its group of fan-like palms, imported with great care and cost from their far native sands, was never lacking — a first chance interview, wherein the Moorish maiden, bashful at being seen beyond the precincts of the harem unveiled, and that too by a giaour, was all tears, flutter, and dismay ; while the enamored Spaniard — enamored at first sight, and recognising in the fair, trembling shape before him the ministering angel who had smoothed his feverish pillow, and flitted round his bed during those hours of dark and dread delirium — poured forth his gratitude, his love, his admiration, in a rich flood of soul- fraught and resistless eloquence : a first chance interview led by degrees, and after interchange of flowery tokens, and wa- vings of white kerchiefs by hands whiter yet, from latticed casements, and all those thousand nothings, which, impercep- tible and nothing worth to the dull world, are to the lover con- firmations strong as proofs of Holy Writ, to frequent meetings —meetings sweeter that they were stolen, fonder that they were brief, during the fierce heat of the noontide, when all beside were buried in the soft siesta, or by the pale light of the amorous moon, when every eye that might have spied out their clandestine interviews was sealed in deepest slumber. Hours, days, and weeks, rolled onward, and still the Span- 422 THE MOORISH FATHER. ish cavalier remained a double captive in the lone tower of El Zagal. Captive in spirit, yet more than in the body — for, having spent the whole of his gay youth, the whole of his young, fiery manhood, in the midst of courts and cities ; having from early boyhood basked in the smiles of beauty, endured unharmed the ordeal of most familiar intercourse with the most lovely maids and matrons of old Spain, and borne away a heart untouched by any passion, by any fancy, how transient or how brief soever ; and having, at that period of his life when man's passions are perhaps the strongest, and surely the most permanent, surrendered almost at first sight his affections to this wild Moorish maiden — it seemed as if he voluntarily devoted his whole energies of soul and body to this one pas- sion ; as if he purposely lay by all other wishes, hopes, pur- suits ; as if he made himself designedly a slave, a blinded worshipper. It was, indeed, a singular, a wondrous subject for the con- templation of philosophy, to see the keen, cool, polished cour- tier, the warrior of a hundred battles, the cavalier of the most glowing courts, the bland, sagacious, wily, and perhaps cold- hearted citizen of the great world, bowing a willing slave, surrendering his very privilege of thought and action, to a mere girl, artless, and frank, and inexperienced ; devoid, as it would seem, of every charm that, could have wrought upon a spirit such as his ; skilled in no art, possessing no accomplishment, whereby to win the field against the deep sagacity, the wily worldly-he artedness of him whom she had conquered almost without a struggle. And yet this very artlessness it was which first enchained him ; this very free, clear candor, which, as a thing he never had before encountered, set all his art at nothing. Happily fled the winged days in this sweet dream ; until at length the Spaniard woke — woke to envisage his position ; to THE PROJECTED FLIGHT. 423 take deep thought as to his future conduct ; to ponder, to re- solve, to execute. It needed not much of the deep knowledge of the world for which, above all else, Roderigo was so famous, to see that under no contingency would the old Moor — the fiercest foeman of Spain's chivalry, the bitterest hater of the very name of Spaniard — consent to such a union. It needed even less to teach him that, so thoroughly had he enchained the heart, the fancy, the affections of the young Zelica, that for him she would willingly resign, not the home only, and the country, and the creed of her forefathers, but name and fame, and life itself, if such a sacrifice were called for. Fervently, passionately did the young Spaniard love — honestly too, and in all honor ; nor would he, to have gained an empire, have wronged that innocent, confiding, artless being, who had set all the confidence of a young heart, which, guileless in itself, feared naught of guile from others, upon the faith and honor of her lover. At a glance he perceived that their only chance was flight. A few soft moments of persuasion prevailed with the fair girl ; nor was it long ere opportunity, and bribery, and the quick wit of Roderigo, wrought on the avarice of one, the trustiest of old Muley's followers, to plan for them an exit from the guarded walls, to furnish them with horses and a guide, the very first time the old emir should go forth to battle. Not long had they to wait. As the month waned, and the nights grew dark and moonless, the note of preparation once again was heard in hall, and armory, and stable. Harness was buckled on, war-steeds were barbed for battle, and, for a foray destined to last three weeks, forth sallied El Zagal. Three days they waited, waited in wild suspense, in order that the host might have advanced so far, that they should risk no interruption from the stragglers of the rear. The destined day arrived, and slowly, one by one, the weary hours lagged on. At last — at last — the skies are darkened, and Lucifer, 424 THE MOORISH FATHER. love's harbinger, is twinkling in the west. Three saddled barbs, of the best blood of Araby, stand in a gloomy dingle, about a bow -shot from the castle-walls, tended by one dark, turbaned servitor. Evening has passed, and midnight, dark, silent, and serene, broods o'er the sleeping world. Two figures steal down from the postern gate : one a tall, stately form, sheathed cap-a-pie in European panoply ; the other a slight female figure, veiled closely, and bedecked with the rich, flow- ing draperies that form the costume of all oriental nations. 'T is Roderigo and Zelica. Now they have reached the horses ; the cavalier has raised the damsel to her saddle, has vaulted to his demipique. Stealthily for a hundred yards they creep away at a foot's pace, till they have gained the greensward, whence no loud clank will bruit abroad their progress. Now they give free head to their steeds — they spur, they gallop! Ha ! whence that wild and pealing yell — " La illah, allah la !" On every side it rings — on every side — and from bush, brake, and thicket, on every side, up spring turban, and assagay, and cimeter — all the wild cavalry of El Zagal! Resistance was vain ; but, ere resistance could be offered, up strode the veteran emir. " This, then," he said, in tones of bitter scorn, "this is a Christian's gratitude — a Spaniard's honor! — to bring disgrace — " " No, sir !" thundered the Spaniard, " no disgrace ! A Chris- tian cavalier disgraces not the noblest demoiselle or dame by offer of his hand !" " His hand V again the old Moor interrupted him ; " his hand — wouldst thou then marry — " " Had we reached Antiquera's walls this night, to-morrow's dawn had seen Zelica the all-honored bride of Roderigo de Narvaez !" " Ha ! is it so, fair sir ?" replied the father ; " and thou, I trow, young mistress, thou too art nothing loath ?" and taking THE NUPTIAL CHALICE. 425 her embarrassed silence for assent — " be it so !" he continued, "be it so! deep will we feast to-night, and with to-morrow's dawn Zelica shall be the bride of Roderigo de Narvaez !" Astonishment rendered the Spaniard mute, but ere long gratitude found words, and they returned gay, joyous, and su- premely happy, to the lone fortress. There, in the vaulted hall, the board was set, the feast was spread, the red wine flowed profusely, the old Moor on his seat of state, and right and left of him that fair young couple ; and music flowed from unseen minstrels' harps, and perfumes steamed the hall with their rich incense, and lights blazed high, and garlands glittered : but blithe as were all appliances, naught was so blithe or joyous as those young, happy hearts. The feast was ended ; and Abdallah rose, and filled a goblet to the brim — a mighty goblet, golden and richly gemmed — with the rare wine of Shiraz. " Drink," he said, " Christian, after your country's fashion — drink to your bride, and let her too assist in draining this your nuptial chalice." Roderigo seized the cup, and with a lightsome smile drank to his lovely bride — and deeply he quaffed, and passed it to Zelica ; and she, too, pleased with the ominous pledge, drank as she ne'er had drank before, as never did she drink there- after ! The goblet was drained, drained to the very dregs ; and, with a fiendish sneer, Muley Abdallah uprose once again. " Christian, I said to-morrow's dawn should see Zelica Rod- erigo's bride, and it shall — in the grave! To prayer — to prayer ! if prayer may now avail ye ! Lo ! your last cup on earth is drained ; your lives are forfeit — nay, they are gone already !" Why dwell upon the hateful scene — the agony, the anguish, the despair ? For one short hour, in all the extremities of torture, that hapless pair writhed, wretchedly convulsed, before 426 THE MOORISH FATHER. the gloating eyes of the stem murderer ! Repressing each all outward symptoms of the tortures they endured, lest they should add to the dread torments of the other -r- not a sigh, not a groan, not a reproach was heard ! Locked in each other's arms, they wrestled to the last with the dread venom ; locked in each other's arms, w T hen the last moment came, they lay together on the cold floor of snowy marble — unhappy vic- tims, fearful monuments of the dread vengeance of a Moorish father ! THE END. ? s A ^ A* ^ V. ^