"To arms, then," said Eveline, hastily; "to arms, and win thy
spurs. Bring me assurance that thy master's honour is safe, and I
will myself buckle them on thy heels. Here--take this blessed
rosary--bind it on thy crest, and be the thought of the Virgin of
the Garde Doloureuse, that never failed a votary, strong with thee
in the hour of conflict."

She had scarcely ended, ere Amelot flew from her presence, and
summoning together such horse as he could assemble, both of his
master's, and of those belonging to the castle, there were soon
forty cavaliers mounted in the court-yard.

But although the page was thus far readily obeyed, yet when the
soldiers heard they were to go forth on a dangerous expedition,
with no more experienced general than a youth of fifteen, they
showed a decided reluctance to move from the castle. The old
soldiers of De Lacy said, Damian himself was almost too youthful
to command them, and had no right to delegate his authority to a
mere boy; while the followers of Berenger said, their mistress
might be satisfied with her deliverance of the morning, without
trying farther dangerous conclusions by diminishing the garrison
of her castle--"The times," they said, "were stormy, and it was
wisest to keep a stone roof over their heads."

The more the soldiers communicated their ideas and apprehensions
to each other, the stronger their disinclination to the
undertaking became; and when Amelot, who, page-like, had gone to
see that his own horse was accoutred and brought forth, returned
to the castle-yard, he found them standing confusedly together,
some mounted, some on foot, all men speaking loud, and all in a
state of disorder. Ralph Genvil, a veteran whose face had been
seamed with many a scar, and who had long followed the trade of a
soldier of fortune, stood apart from the rest, holding his horse's
bridle in one hand, and in the other the banner-spear, around
which the banner of De Lacy was still folded.

"What means this, Genvil?" said the page, angrily. "Why do you not
mount your horse and display the banner? and what occasions all
this confusion?"

"Truly, Sir Page," said Genvil, composedly, "I am not in my
saddle, because I have some regard for this old silken rag, which
I have borne to honour in my time, and I will not willingly carry
it where men are unwilling to follow and defend it."

"No march--no sally--no lifting of banner to-day" cried the
soldiers, by way of burden to the banner-man's discourse.
"How now, cowards! do you mutiny?" said Amelot, laying his hand
upon his sword.

"Menace not me, Sir Boy," said Genvil; "nor shake your sword my
way. I tell thee, Amelot, were my weapon to cross with yours,
never flail sent abroad more chaff than I would make splinters of
your hatched and gilded toasting-iron. Look you, there are gray-
bearded men here that care not to be led about on any boy's
humour. For me, I stand little upon that; and I care not whether
one boy or another commands me. But I am the Lacy's man for the
time; and I am not sure that, in marching to the aid of this Wild
Wenlock, we shall do an errand the Lacy will thank us for. Why led
he us not thither in the morning when we were commanded off into
the mountains?"

"You well know the cause," said the page.

"Yes, we do know the cause; or, if we do not, we can guess it,"
answered the banner-man, with a horse laugh, which was echoed by
several of his companions.

"I will cram the calumny down thy false throat, Genvil!" said the
page; and, drawing his sword, threw himself headlong on the
banner-man, without considering their great difference of
strength.

Genvil was contented to foil his attack by one, and, as it seemed,
a slight movement of his gigantic arm, with which he forced the
page aside, parrying, at the same time, his blow with the
standard-spear.

There was another loud laugh, and Amelot, feeling all his efforts
baffled, threw his sword from him, and weeping in pride and
indignation, hastened back to tell the Lady Eveline of his bad
success. "All," he said, "is lost--the cowardly villains have
mutinied, and will not move; and the blame of their sloth and
faintheartedness will be laid on my dear master."

"That shall never be," said Eveline, "should I die to prevent it.
--Follow me, Amelot."

She hastily threw a scarlet scarf over her dark garments, and
hastened down to the court-yard, followed by Gillian, assuming, as
she went, various attitudes and actions expressing astonishment
and pity, and by Rose, carefully suppressing all appearance of--
the feelings which she really entertained.

Eveline entered the castle-court, with the kindling eye and
glowing brow which her ancestors were wont to bear in danger and
extremity, when their soul was arming to meet the storm, and
displayed in their mien and looks high command and contempt of
danger. She seemed at the moment taller than her usual size; and
it was with a voice distinct and clearly heard, though not
exceeding the delicacy of feminine tone, that the mutineers heard
her address them. "How is this, my masters?" she said; and as she
spoke, the bulky forms of the armed soldiers seemed to draw closer
together, as if to escape her individual censure. It was like a
group of heavy water-fowl, when they close to avoid the stoop of
the slight and beautiful merlin, dreading the superiority of its
nature and breeding over their own inert physical strength.--"How
now?" again she demanded of them; "is it a time, think ye, to
mutiny, when your lord is absent, and his nephew and lieutenant
lies stretched on a bed of sickness?--Is it thus you keep your
oaths?--Thus ye merit your leader's bounty?--Shame on ye, craven
hounds, that quail and give back the instant you lose sight of the
huntsman!"

There was a pause--the soldiers looked on each other, and then
again on Eveline, as if ashamed alike to hold out in their mutiny,
or to return to their usual discipline.

"I see how it is, my brave friends--ye lack a leader here; but
stay not for that--I will guide you myself, and, woman as I am,
there need not a man of you fear disgrace where a Berenger
commands.--Trap my palfrey with a steel saddle," she said, "and
that instantly." She snatched from the ground the page's light
head-piece, and threw it over her hair, caught up his drawn sword,
and went on. "Here I promise you my countenance and guidance--
this gentleman," she pointed to Genvil, "shall supply my lack of
military skill. He looks like a man that hath seen many a day of
battle, and can well teach a young leader her devoir."

"Certes," said the old soldier, smiling in spite of himself, and
shaking his head at the same time, "many a battle have I seen, but
never under such a commander."

"Nevertheless," said Eveline, seeing how the eyes of the rest
turned on Genvil, "you do not--cannot--will not--refuse to follow
me? You do not as a soldier, for my weak voice supplies your
captain's orders--you cannot as a gentleman, for a lady, a forlorn
and distressed female, asks you a boon--you will not as an
Englishman, for your country requires your sword, and your
comrades are in danger. Unfurl your banner, then, and march."

"I would do so, upon my soul, fair lady," answered Genvil, as if
preparing to unfold the banner--"And Amelot might lead us well
enough, with advantage of some lessons from me, But I wot not
whether you are sending us on the right road."

"Surely, surely," said Eveline, earnestly, "it must be the right
road which conducts you to the relief of Wenlock and his
followers, besieged by the insurgent boors."

"I know not," said Genvil, still hesitating. "Our leader here, Sir
Damian de Lacy, protects the commons--men say he befriends them--
and I know he quarrelled with Wild Wenlock once for some petty
wrong he did to the miller's wife at Twyford. We should be finely
off, when our fiery young leader is on foot again, if he should
find we had been fighting against the side he favoured."

"Assure yourself," said the maiden, anxiously, "the more he would
protect the commons against oppression, the more he would put them
down when oppressing others. Mount and ride--save Wenlock and his
men--there is life and death in every moment. I will warrant, with
my life and lands, that whatsoever you do will be held good
service to De Lacy. Come, then, follow me."

"None surely can know Sir Damian's purpose better than you, fair
damsel," answered Genvil; "nay, for that matter, you can make him
change as ye list,--And so I will march with the men, and we will
aid Wenlock, if it is yet time, as I trust it may; for he is a
rugged wolf, and when he turns to bay, will cost the boors blood
enough ere they sound a mort. But do you remain within the castle,
fair lady, and trust to Amelot and me.--Come, Sir Page, assume the
command, since so it must be; though, by my faith, it is pity to
take the headpiece from that pretty head, and the sword from that
pretty hand--By Saint George! to see them there is a credit to the
soldier's profession."

The Lady accordingly surrendered the weapons to Amelot, exhorting
him in few words to forget the offence he had received, and do his
devoir manfully. Meanwhile Genvil slowly unrolled the pennon--then
shook it abroad, and without putting his foot in the stirrup,
aided himself a little with resting on the spear, and threw
himself into the saddle, heavily armed as he was. "We are ready
now, an it like your juvenility," said he to Amelot; and then,
while the page was putting the band into order, he whispered to
his nearest comrade, "Methinks, instead of this old swallow's
tail, [Footnote: The pennon of a Knight was, in shape, a long
streamer, and forked like a swallow's tail: the banner of a
Banneret was square, and was formed into the other by cutting the
ends from the pennon. It was thus the ceremony was performed on
the pennon of John Chandos, by the Black Prince, before the battle
of Nejara.] we should muster rarely under a broidered petticoat--a
furbelowed petticoat has no fellow in my mind.--Look you, Stephen
Pontoys--I can forgive Damian now for forgetting his uncle and his
own credit, about this wench; for, by my faith, she is one I could
have doated to death upon _par amours_.Ah! evil luck be the
women's portion!--they govern us at every turn, Stephen," and at
every age. When they are young, they bribe us with fair looks, and
sugared words, sweet kisses and love tokens; and when they are of
middle age, they work us to their will by presents and courtesies,
red wine and red gold; and when they are old, we are fain to run
their errands to get out of sight of their old leathern visages.
Well, old De Lacy should have staid at home and watched his
falcon. But it is all one to us, Stephen, and we may make some
vantage to-day, for these boors have plundered more than one
castle."

"Ay, ay," answered Pontoys, "the boor to the booty, and the
banner-man to the boor, a right pithy proverb. But, prithee, canst
thou say why his pageship leads us not forward yet?"

"Pshaw!" answered Genvil, "the shake I gave him has addled his
brains--or perchance he has not swallowed all his tears yet; sloth
it is not, for 'tis a forward cockeril for his years, wherever
honour is to be won.--See, they now begin to move.--Well, it is a
singular thing this gentle blood, Stephen; for here is a child
whom I but now baffled like a schoolboy, must lead us gray beards
where we may get our heads broken, and that at the command of a
light lady."

"I warrant Sir Damian is secretary to my pretty lady," answered
Stephen Pontoys, "as this springald Amelot is to Sir Damian; and
so we poor men must obey and keep our mouths shut."

"But our eyes open, Stephen Pontoys--forget not that."

They were by this time out of the gates of the castle, and upon
the road leading to the village, in which, as they understood by
the intelligence of the morning, Wenlock was besieged or blockaded
by a greatly superior number of the insurgent commons. Amelot rode
at the head of the troop, still embarrassed at the affront which
he had received in presence of the soldiers, and lost in
meditating how he was to eke out that deficiency of experience,
which on former occasions had been supplied by the counsels of the
banner-man, with whom he was ashamed to seek a reconciliation. But
Genvil was not of a nature absolutely sullen, though a habitual
grumbler. He rode up to the page, and having made his obeisance,
respectfully asked him whether it were not well that some one or
two of their number pricked forward upon good horses to learn how
it stood with Wenlock, and whether they should be able to come up
in time to his assistance.

"Methinks, banner-man," answered Amelot, "you should take the
ruling of the troop, since you know so fittingly what should be
done. You may be the fitter to command, because--But I will not
upbraid you."

"Because I know so ill how to obey," replied Genvil; "that is what
you would say; and, by my faith, I cannot deny but there may be
some truth in it. But is it not peevish in thee to let a fair
expedition be unwisely conducted, because of a foolish word or a
sudden action?--Come, let it be peace with us."

"With all my heart," answered Amelot; "and I will send out an
advanced party upon the adventure, as thou hast advised me."

"Let it be old Stephen Pontoys and two of the Chester spears--he
is as wily as an old fox, and neither hope nor fear will draw him
a hairbreadth farther than judgment warrants."

Amelot eagerly embraced the hint, and, at his command, Pontoys and
two lances started forward to reconnoitre the road before them,
and inquire into the condition of those whom they were advancing
to succour. "And now that we are on the old terms, Sir Page," said
the banner-man, "tell me, if thou canst, doth not yonder fair lady
love our handsome knight _par amours?_"

"It is a false calumny," said Amelot, indignantly; "betrothed as
she is to his uncle, I am convinced she would rather die than have
such a thought, and so would our master. I have noted this
heretical belief in thee before now, Genvil, and I have prayed
thee to check it. You know the thing cannot be, for you know they
have scarce ever met."

"How should I know that," said Genvil, "or thou either? Watch them
ever so close--much water slides past the mill that Hob Miller
never wots of. They do correspond; that, at least, thou canst not
deny?"

"I do deny it," said Amelot, "as I deny all that can touch their
honour."

"Then how, in Heaven's name, comes he by such perfect knowledge of
her motions, as he has displayed no longer since than the
morning?"

"How should I tell?" answered the page; "there be such things,
surely, as saints and good angels, and if there be one on earth
deserves their protection, it is Dame Eveline Berenger."

"Well said, Master Counsel-keeper," replied Genvil, laughing; "but
that will hardly pass on an old trooper.--Saint and angels,
quotha? most saint-like doings, I warrant you."

The page was about to continue his angry vindication, when Stephen
Pontoys and his followers returned upon the spur. "Wenlock holds
out bravely," he exclaimed, "though he is felly girded in with
these boors. The large crossbows are doing good service; and I
little doubt his making his place good till we come up, if it
please you to ride something sharply. They have assailed the
barriers, and were close up to them even now, but were driven back
with small success."

The party were now put in as rapid motion as might consist with
order, and soon reached the top of a small eminence, beneath which
lay the village where Wenlock was making his defence. The air rung
with the cries and shouts of the insurgents, who, numerous as
bees, and possessed of that dogged spirit of courage so peculiar
to the English, thronged like ants to the barriers, and
endeavoured to break down the palisades, or to climb over them, in
despite of the showers of stones and arrows from within, by which
they suffered great loss, as well as by the swords and battle-axes
of the men-at-arms, whenever they came to hand-blows.

"We are in time, we are in time," said Amelot, dropping the reins
of his bridle, and joyfully clapping his hands; "shake thy banner
abroad, Genvil--give Wenlock and his fellows a fair view of it.--
Comrades, halt--breathe your horses for a moment.--Hark hither,
Genvil--If we descend by yonder broad pathway into the meadow
where the cattle are--" "Bravo, my young falcon" replied Genvil,
whose love of battle, like that of the war-horse of Job, kindled
at the sight of the spears, and at the sound of the trumpet; "we
shall have then an easy field for a charge on yonder knaves."

"What a thick black cloud the villains make" said Amelot; "but we
will let daylight through it with our lances--See, Genvil, the
defenders hoist a signal to show they have seen us."

"A signal to us?" exclaimed Genvil. "By Heaven, it is a white
flag--a signal of surrender!"

"Surrender! they cannot dream of it, when we are advancing to
their succour," replied Amelot; when two or three melancholy notes
from the trumpets of the besieged, with a thundering and
tumultuous acclamation from the besiegers, rendered the fact
indisputable.

"Down goes Wenlock's pennon," said Genvil, "and the churls enter
the barricades on all points.--Here has been cowardice or
treachery--What is to be done?"

"Advance on them," said Amelot, "retake the place, and deliver the
prisoners."

"Advance, indeed!" answered the banner-man--"Not a horse's length
by my counsel--we should have every nail in our corslets counted
with arrow-shot, before we got down the hill in the face of such a
multitude and the place to storm afterwards--it were mere
insanity."

"Yet come a little forward along with me," said the page; "perhaps
we may find some path by which we could descend unperceived."

Accordingly they rode forward a little way to reconnoitre the face
of the hill, the page still urging the possibility of descending
it unperceived amid the confusion, when Genvil answered
impatiently, "Unperceived!-you are already perceived--here comes a
fellow, pricking towards us as fast as his beast may trot."

As he spoke, the rider came up to them. He was a short, thick-set
peasant, in an ordinary frieze jacket and hose, with a blue cap on
his head, which he had been scarcely able to pull over a shock
head of red hair, that seemed in arms to repel the covering. The
man's hands were bloody, and he carried at his saddlebow a linen
bag, which was also stained with blood. "Ye be of Damian de Lacy's
company, be ye not?" said this rude messenger; and, when they
answered in the affirmative, he proceeded with the same blunt
courtesy, "Hob Miller of Twyford commends him to Damian de Lacy,
and knowing his purpose to amend disorders in the commonwealth,
Hob Miller sends him toll of the grist which he has grinded;" and
with that he took from the bag a human head, and tendered it to
Amelot.

"It is Wenlock's head," said Genvil--"how his eyes stare!"

"They will stare after no more wenches now," said the boor--"I
have cured him of caterwauling."

"Thou!" said Amelot, stepping back in disgust and indignation.

"Yes, I myself," replied the peasant; "I am Grand Justiciary of
the Commons, for lack of a better."

"Grand hangman, thou wouldst say," replied Genvil.

"Call it what thou list," replied the peasant. "Truly, it behoves
men in state to give good example. I'll bid no man do that I am
not ready to do myself. It is as easy to hang a man, as to say
hang him; we will have no splitting of offices in this new world,
which is happily set up in old England."

"Wretch!" said Amelot, "take back thy bloody token to them that
sent thee! Hadst thou not come upon assurance, I had pinned thee
to the earth with my lance--But, be assured, your cruelty shall be
fearfully avenged.--Come, Genvil, let us to our men; there is no
farther use in abiding here."

The fellow, who had expected a very different reception, stood
staring after them for a few moments, then replaced his bloody
trophy in the wallet, and rode back to those who sent him.

"This comes of meddling with men's _amourettes_," said Genvil;
"Sir Damian would needs brawl with Wenlock about his dealings with
this miller's daughter, and you see they account him a favourer of
their enterprise; it will be well if others do not take up the same
opinion.--I wish we were rid of the trouble which such suspicions
may bring upon us--ay, were it at the price of my best horse--I am
like to lose him at any rate with the day's hard service, and I would
it were the worst it is to cost us."

The party returned, wearied and discomforted, to the castle of the
Garde Doloureuse, and not without losing several of their number
by the way, some straggling owing to the weariness of their
horses, and others taking the opportunity of desertion, in order
to join the bands of insurgents and plunderers, who had now
gathered together in different quarters, and were augmented by
recruits from the dissolute soldiery.

Amelot, on his return to the castle, found that the state of his
master was still very precarious, and that the Lady Eveline,
though much exhausted, had not yet retired to rest, but was
awaiting his return with impatience. He was introduced to her
accordingly, and, with a heavy heart, mentioned the ineffectual
event of his expedition.

"Now the saints have pity upon us!" said the Lady Eveline; "for it
seems as if a plague or pest attached to me, and extended itself
to all who interest themselves in my welfare. From the moment they
do so, their very virtues become snares to them; and what would,
in every other case, recommend them to honour, is turned to
destruction to the friends of Eveline Berenger."

"Fear not, fair lady," said Amelot; "there are still men enough in
my master's camp to put down these disturbers of the public peace.
I will but abide to receive his instructions, and will hence to-
morrow, and draw out a force to restore quiet in this part of the
country."

"Alas! you know not yet the worst of it," replied Eveline. "Since
you went hence, we have received certain notice, that when the
soldiers at Sir Damian's camp heard of the accident which he this
morning met with, already discontented with the inactive life
which they had of late led, and dispirited by the hurts and
reported death of their leader, they have altogether broken up and
dispersed their forces. Yet be of good courage, Amelot," she said;
"this house is strong enough to bear out a worse tempest than any
that is likely to be poured on it; and if all men desert your
master in wounds and affliction, it becomes yet more the part of
Eveline Berenger to shelter and protect her deliverer."




CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH


   Let our proud trumpet shako their castle wall,
   Menacing death and ruin.
     OTWAY


The evil news with which the last chapter concluded were
necessarily told to Damian de Lacy, as the person whom they
chiefly concerned; and Lady Eveline herself undertook the task of
communicating them, mingling what she said with tears, and again
interrupting those tears to suggest topics of hope and comfort,
which carried no consolation to her own bosom.

The wounded knight continued with his face turned towards her,
listening to the disastrous tidings, as one who was not otherwise
affected by them, than as they regarded her who told the story.
When she had done speaking, he continued as in a reverie, with his
eyes so intently fixed upon her, that she rose up, with the
purpose of withdrawing from looks by which she felt herself
embarrassed. He hastened to speak, that he might prevent her
departure. "All that you have said, fair lady," he replied, "had
been enough, if told by another, to have broken my heart; for it
tells me that the power and honour of my house, so solemnly
committed to my charge, have been blasted in my misfortunes. But
when I look upon you, and hear your voice, I forget every thing,
saving that you have been rescued, and are here in honour and
safety. Let me therefore pray of your goodness that I may be
removed from the castle which holds you, and sent elsewhere. I am
in no shape worthy of your farther care, since I have no longer
the swords of others at my disposal, and am totally unable for the
present to draw my own."

"And if you are generous enough to think of me in your own
misfortunes, noble knight," answered Eveline, "can you suppose
that I forget wherefore, and in whose rescue, these wounds were
incurred? No, Damian, speak not of removal--while there is a
turret of the Garde Doloureuse standing, within that turret shall
you find shelter and protection. Such, I am well assured, would be
the pleasure of your uncle, were he here in person."

It seemed as if a sudden pang of his wound had seized upon Damian;
for, repeating the words "My. uncle!" he writhed himself round,
and averted his face from Eveline; then again composing himself,
replied, "Alas! knew my uncle how ill I have obeyed his precepts,
instead of sheltering me within this house, he would command me to
be flung from the battlements!"

"Fear not his displeasure," said Eveline, again preparing to
withdraw; "but endeavour, by the composure of your spirit, to aid
the healing of your wounds; when, I doubt not, you will be able
again to establish good order in the Constable's jurisdiction,
long before his return."

She coloured as she pronounced the last words, and hastily left
the apartment. When she was in her own chamber, she dismissed her
other attendants and retained Rose. "What dost thou think of these
things, my wise maiden and monitress?" said she.

"I would," replied Rose, "either that this young knight had never
entered this castle--or that, being here, he could presently leave
it--or, that he could honourably remain here for ever."

"What dost thou mean by remaining here for ever?" said Eveline
sharply and hastily. "Let me answer that question with another--
How long has the Constable of Chester been absent from England?"

"Three years come Saint Clement's day," said Eveline; "and what of
that?"

"Nay, nothing; but----"

"But what?--I command you to speak out."

"A few weeks will place your hand at your own disposal."

"And think you, Rose," said Eveline, rising with dignity, "that
there are no bonds save those which are drawn by the scribe's
pen?--We know little of the Constable's adventures; but we know
enough to show that his towering hopes have fallen, and his sword
and courage proved too weak to change the fortunes of the Sultan
Saladin. Suppose him returning some brief time hence, as we have
seen so many crusaders regain their homes, poor and broken in
health--suppose that he finds his lands laid waste, and his
followers dispersed, by the consequence of their late misfortunes,
how would it sound should he also find that his betrothed bride
had wedded and endowed with her substance the nephew whom he most
trusted?--Dost thou think such an engagement is like a Lombard's
mortgage, which must be redeemed on the very day, else forfeiture
is sure to be awarded?"

"I cannot tell, madam," replied Rose; "but they that keep their
covenant to the letter, are, in my country, held bound to no
more."

"That is a Flemish fashion, Rose," said her mistress; "but the
honour of a Norman is not satisfied with an observance so limited.
What! wouldst thou have my honour, my affections, my duty, all
that is most valuable to a woman, depend on the same progress of
the kalendar which an usurer watches for the purpose of seizing on
a forfeited pledge?--Am I such a mere commodity, that I must
belong to one man if he claims me before Michaelmas, to another if
he comes afterwards?--No, Rose; I did not thus interpret my
engagement, sanctioned as it was by the special providence of Our
Lady of the Garde Doloureuse."

"It is a feeling worthy of you, my dearest lady," answered the
attendant; "yet you are so young--so beset with perils--so much
exposed to calumny--that I, at least, looking forward to the time
when you may have a legal companion and protector, see it as an
extrication from much doubt and danger." "Do not think of it,
Rose," answered Eveline; "do not liken your mistress to those
provident dames, who, while one husband yet lives, though in old
age or weak health, are prudently engaged in plotting for
another."

"Enough, my dearest lady," said Rose;---"yet not so. Permit me one
word more. Since you are determined not to avail yourself of your
freedom, even when the fatal period of your engagement is expired,
why suffer this young man to share our solitude?--He is surely
well enough to be removed to some other place of security. Let us
resume our former sequestered mode of life, until Providence send
us some better or more certain prospects."

Eveline sighed--looked down--then looking upwards, once more had
opened her lips to express her willingness to enforce so
reasonable an arrangement, but for Damian's recent wounds, and the
distracted state of the country, when she was interrupted by the
shrill sound of trumpets, blown before the gate of the castle; and
Raoul, with anxiety on his brow, came limping to inform his lady,
that a knight, attended by a pursuivant-at-arms, in the royal
livery, with a strong guard, was in front of the castle, and
demanded admittance in the name of the King.

Eveline paused a moment ere she replied, "Not even to the King's
order shall the castle of my ancestors be opened, until we are
well assured of the person by whom, and the purpose for which, it
is demanded. We will ourself to the gate, and learn the meaning of
this summons--My veil, Rose; and call my women.--Again that
trumpet sounds! Alas! it rings like a signal to death and ruin."

The prophetic apprehensions of Eveline were not false; for scarce
had she reached the door of the apartment, when she was met by the
page Amelot, in a state of such disordered apprehension as an
eleve of chivalry was scarce on any occasion permitted to display.
"Lady, noble lady," he said, hastily bending his knee to Eveline,
"save my dearest master!--You, and you alone, can save him at this
extremity."

"I!" said Eveline, in astonishment--"I save him?--And from what
danger?--God knows how willingly!"

There she stopped short, as if afraid to trust herself with
expressing what rose to her lips.

"Guy Monthermer, lady, is at the gate, with a pursuivant and the
royal banner. The hereditary enemy of the House of Lacy, thus
accompanied, comes hither for no good--the extent of the evil I
know not, but for evil he comes. My master slew his nephew at the
field of Malpas, and therefore"----He was here interrupted by
another flourish of trumpets, which rung, as if in shrill
impatience, through the vaults of the ancient fortress.

The Lady Eveline hasted to the gate, and found that the wardens,
and others who attended there, were looking on each other with
doubtful and alarmed countenances, which they turned upon her at
her arrival, as if to seek from, their mistress the comfort and
the courage which they could not communicate to each other.
Without the gate, mounted, and in complete armour, was an elderly
and stately knight, whose raised visor and beaver depressed,
showed a beard already grizzled. Beside him appeared the
pursuivant on horseback, the royal arms embroidered on his
heraldic dress of office, and all the importance of offended
consequence on his countenance, which was shaded by his barret-cap
and triple plume. They were attended by a body of about fifty
soldiers, arranged under the guidon of England.

When the Lady Eveline appeared at the barrier, the knight, after a
slight reverence, which seemed more informal courtesy than in
kindness, demanded if he saw the daughter of Raymond Berenger.
"And is it," he continued, when he had received an answer in the
affirmative, "before the castle of that approved and favoured
servant of the House of Anjou, that King Henry's trumpets have
thrice sounded, without obtaining an entrance for those who are
honoured with their Sovereign's command?"

"My condition," answered Eveline, "must excuse my caution. I am a
lone maiden, residing in a frontier fortress. I may admit no one
without inquiring his purpose, and being assured that his entrance
consists with the safety of the place, and mine own honour."

"Since you are so punctilious, lady," replied Monthermer, "know,
that in the present distracted state of the country, it is his
Grace the King's pleasure to place within your walls a body of
men-at-arms, sufficient to guard this important castle, both from
the insurgent peasants, who burn and slay, and from the Welsh,
who, it must be expected, will, according to their wont in time of
disturbance, make incursions on the frontiers. Undo your gates,
then, Lady of Berenger, and suffer his Grace's forces to enter the
castle."

"Sir Knight," answered the lady, "this castle, like every other
fortress in England, is the King's by law; but by law also I am
the keeper and defender of it; and it is the tenure by which my
ancestors held these lands. I have men enough to maintain the
Garde Doloureuse in my time, as my father, and my grandfather
before him, defended it in theirs. The King is gracious to send me
succours, but I need not the aid of hirelings; neither do I think
it safe to admit such into my castle, who may, in this lawless
time, make themselves master of it for other than its lawful
mistress."

"Lady," replied the old warrior, "his Grace is not ignorant of the
motives which produce a contumacy like this. It is not any
apprehension for the royal forces which influences you, a royal
vassal, in this refractory conduct. I might proceed upon your
refusal to proclaim you a traitor to the Crown, but the King
remembers the services of your father. Know, then, we are not
ignorant that Damian de Lacy, accused of instigating and heading
this insurrection, and of deserting his duty in the field, and
abandoning a noble comrade to the swords of the brutal peasants,
has found shelter under this roof, with little credit to your
loyalty as vassal, or your conduct as a high-born maiden. Deliver
him up to us, and I will draw off these men-at-arms, and dispense,
though I may scarce answer doing so, with the occupation of the
castle."

"Guy de Monthermer," answered Eveline, "he that throws a stain on
my name, speaks falsely and unworthily; as for Damian de Lacy, he
knows how to defend his own fame. This only let me say, that,
while he takes his abode in the castle of the betrothed of his
kinsman, she delivers him to no one, least of all to his well-
known feudal enemy--Drop the portcullis, wardens, and let it not
be raised without my special order."

The portcullis, as she spoke, fell rattling and clanging to the
ground, and Monthermer, in baffled spite, remained excluded from
the castle. "Un-worthy lady"--he began in passion, then, checking
himself, said calmly to the pursuivant, "Ye are witness that she
hath admitted that the traitor is within that castle,--ye are
witness that, lawfully summoned, this Eveline Berenger refuses to
deliver him up. Do your duty, Sir Pursuivant, as is usual in such
cases."

The pursuivant then advanced and proclaimed, in the formal and
fatal phrase befitting the occasion, that Eveline Berenger,
lawfully summoned, refusing to admit the King's forces into her
castle, and to deliver up the body of a false traitor, called
Damian de Lacy, had herself incurred the penalty of high treason,
and had involved within the same doom all who aided, abetted, or
maintained her in holding out the said castle against their
allegiance to Henry of Anjou. The trumpets, so soon as the voice
of the herald had ceased, confirmed the doom he had pronounced, by
a long and ominous peal, startling from their nests the owl and
the raven, who replied to it by their ill-boding screams.

The defenders of the castle looked on each other with blank and
dejected countenances, while Monthermer, raising aloft his lance,
exclaimed, as he turned his horse from the castle gate, "When I
next approach the Garde Doloureuse, it will be not merely to
intimate, but to execute, the mandate of my Sovereign."

As Eveline stood pensively to behold the retreat of Monthermer and
his associates, and to consider what was to be done in this
emergency, she heard one of the Flemings, in a low tone, ask an
Englishman, who stood beside him, what was the meaning of a
traitor.

"One who betrayeth a trust reposed--a betrayer," said the
interpreter. The phrase which he used recalled to Eveline's memory
her boding vision or dream. "Alas!" she said, "the vengeance of
the fiend is about to be accomplished. Widow'd wife and wedded
maid--these epithets have long been mine. Betrothed!--wo's me! it
is the key-stone of my destiny. Betrayer I am now denounced,
though, thank God, I am clear from the guilt! It only follows that
I should be betrayed, and the evil prophecy will be fulfilled to
the very letter." fir?




CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH


   Out on ye, owls;
   Nothing but songs of death?
     RICHARD III.


More than three months had elapsed since the event narrated in the
last chapter, and it had been the precursor of others of still
greater importance, which will evolve themselves in the course of
our narrative. But, profess to present to the reader not a precise
detail of circumstances, according to their order and date, but a
series of pictures, endeavouring to exhibit the most striking
incidents before the eye or imagination of those whom it may
concern, we therefore open a new scene, and bring other actors
upon the stage.

Along a wasted tract of country, more than twelve miles distant
from the Garde Doloureuse, in the heat of a summer noon, which
shed a burning lustre on the silent valley, and the blackened
ruins of the cottages with which it had been once graced, two
travellers walked slowly, whose palmer cloaks, pilgrims' staves,
large slouched hats, with a scallop shell bound on the front of
each, above all, the cross, cut in red cloth upon their shoulders,
marked them as pilgrims who had accomplished their vow, and had
returned from that fatal bourne, from which, in those days,
returned so few of the thousands who visited it, whether in the
love of enterprise, or in the ardour of devotion.

The pilgrims had passed, that morning, through a scene of
devastation similar to, and scarce surpassed in misery by, those
which they had often trod during the wars of the Cross. They had
seen hamlets which appeared to have suffered all the fury of
military execution, the houses being burned to the ground; and in
many cases the carcasses of the miserable inhabitants, or rather
relics of such objects, were suspended on temporary gibbets, or on
the trees, which had been allowed to remain standing, only, it
would seem, to serve the convenience of the executioners. Living
creatures they saw none, excepting those wild denizens of nature
who seemed silently resuming the now wasted district, from which
they might have been formerly expelled by the course of
civilization. Their ears were no less disagreeably occupied than
their eyes. The pensive travellers might indeed hear the screams
of the raven, as if lamenting the decay of the carnage on which he
had been gorged; and now and then the plaintive howl of some dog,
deprived of his home and master; but no sounds which argued either
labour or domestication of any kind.

The sable figures, who, with wearied steps, as it appeared,
travelled through these scenes of desolation and ravage, seemed
assimilated to them in appearance. They spoke not with each other
--they looked not to each other--but one, the shorter of the pair,
keeping about half a pace in front of his companion, they moved
slowly, as priests returning from a sinner's death-bed, or rather
as spectres flitting along the precincts of a church-yard.

At length they reached a grassy mound, on the top of which was
placed one of those receptacles for the dead of the ancient
British chiefs of distinction, called Kist-vaen, which are
composed of upright fragments of granite, so placed as to form a
stone coffin, or something bearing that resemblance. The sepulchre
had been long violated by the victorious Saxons, either in scorn
or in idle curiosity, or because treasures were supposed to be
sometimes concealed in such spots. The huge flat stone which had
once been the cover of the coffin, if so it might be termed, lay
broken in two pieces at some distance from the sepulchre; and,
overgrown as the fragments were with grass and lichens, showed
plainly that the lid had been removed to its present situation
many years before. A stunted and doddered oak still spread its
branches over the open and rude mausoleum, as if the Druid's badge
and emblem, shattered and storm-broken, was still bending to offer
its protection to the last remnants of their worship.

"This, then, is the Kist-vaen," said the shorter pilgrim; "and
here we must abide tidings of our scout. But what, Philip Guarine,
have we to expect as an explanation of the devastation which we
have traversed?"

"Some incursion of the Welsh wolves, my lord," replied Guarine;
"and, by Our Lady, here lies a poor Saxon sheep whom they have
snapped up."

The Constable (for he was the pilgrim who had walked foremost) as
he heard his squire speak, and saw the corpse of a man amongst the
long grass; by which, indeed, it was so hidden, that he himself
had passed without notice, what the esquire, in less abstracted
mood, had not failed to observe. The leathern doublet of the slain
bespoke him an English peasant--the body lay on its face, and the
arrow which had caused his death still stuck in his back.

Philip Guarine, with the cool indifference of one accustomed to
such scenes, drew the shaft from the man's back, as composedly as
he would have removed it from the body of a deer. With similar
indifference the Constable signed to his esquire to give him the
arrow--looked at it with indolent curiosity, and then said, "Thou
hast forgotten thy old craft, Guarine, when thou callest that a
Welsh shaft. Trust me, it flew from a Norman bow; but why it
should be found in the body of that English churl, I can ill
guess."

"Some runaway serf, I would warrant--some mongrel cur, who had
joined the Welsh pack of hounds," answered the esquire.

"It may be so," said the Constable; "but I rather augur some civil
war among the Lords Marchers themselves. The Welsh, indeed, sweep
the villages, and leave nothing behind them but blood and ashes,
but here even castles seem to have been stormed and taken. May God
send us good news of the Garde Doloureuse!"

"Amen!" replied his squire; "but if Renault Vidal brings it,
'twill be the first time he has proved a bird of good omen."

"Philip," said the Constable, "I have already told thee thou art a
jealous-pated fool. How many times has Vidal shown his faith in
doubt--his address in difficulty-his courage in battle-his
patience under suffering?"

"It may be all very true, my lord," replied Guarine; "yet--but
what avails to speak?--I own he has done you sometimes good
service; but loath were I that your life or honour were at the
mercy of Renault Vidal."

"In the name of all the saints, thou peevish and suspicious fool,
what is it thou canst found upon to his prejudice?"

"Nothing, my lord," replied Guarine, "but instinctive suspicion
and aversion. The child that, for the first time, sees a snake,
knows nothing of its evil properties, yet he will not chase it and
take it up as he would a butterfly. Such is my dislike of Vidal--I
cannot help it. I could pardon the man his malicious and gloomy
sidelong looks, when he thinks no one observes him; but his
sneering laugh I cannot forgive--it is like the beast we heard of
in Judea, who laughs, they say, before he tears and destroys."

"Philip," said De Lacy, "I am sorry for thee--sorry, from my soul,
to see such a predominating and causeless jealousy occupy the
brain of a gallant old soldier. Here, in this last misfortune, to
recall no more ancient proofs of his fidelity, could he mean
otherwise than well with us, when, thrown by shipwreck upon the
coast of Wales, we would have been doomed to instant death, had
the Cymri recognized in me the Constable of Chester, and in thee
his trusty esquire, the executioner of his commands against the
Welsh in so many instances?"

"I acknowledge," said Philip Guarine, "death had surely been our
fortune, had not that man's ingenuity represented us as pilgrims,
and, under that character, acted as our interpreter--and in that
character he entirely precluded us from getting information from
any one respecting the state of things here, which it behoved your
lordship much to know, and which I must needs say looks gloomy and
suspicious enough."

"Still art thou a fool, Guarine," said the Constable; "for, look
you, had Vidal meant ill by us, why should he not have betrayed us
to the Welsh, or suffered us, by showing such knowledge as thou
and I may have of their gibberish, to betray ourselves?'

"Well, my lord," said Guarine, "I may be silenced, but not
satisfied. All the fair words he can speak--all the fine tunes he
can play--Renault Vidal will be to my eyes ever a dark and
suspicious man, with features always ready to mould themselves
into the fittest form to attract confidence; with a tongue framed
to utter the most flattering and agreeable words at one time, and
at another to play shrewd plainness or blunt honesty; and an eye
which, when he thinks himself unobserved, contradicts every
assumed expression of features, every protestation of honesty, and
every word of courtesy or cordiality to which his tongue has given
utterance. But I speak not more on the subject; only I am an old
mastiff, of the true breed--I love my master, but cannot endure
some of those whom he favours; and yonder, as I judge, comes
Vidal, to give us such an account of our situation as it shall
please him."

A horseman was indeed seen advancing in the path towards the Kist-
vaen, with a hasty pace; and his dress, in which something of the
Eastern fashion was manifest, with the fantastic attire usually
worn by men of his profession, made the Constable aware that the
minstrel, of whom they were speaking, was rapidly approaching
them.

Although Hugo de Lacy rendered this attendant no more than what in
justice he supposed his services demanded, when he vindicated him
from the suspicions thrown out by Guarine, yet at the bottom of
his heart he had sometimes shared those suspicions, and was often
angry at himself, as a just and honest man, for censuring, on the
slight testimony of looks, and sometimes casual expressions, a
fidelity which seemed to be proved by many acts of zeal and
integrity.

When Vidal approached and dismounted to make his obeisance, his
master hasted to speak to him in words of favour, as if conscious
he had been partly sharing Guarine's unjust judgment upon him, by
even listening to it. "Welcome, my trusty Vidal," he said; "thou
hast been the raven that fed us on the mountains of Wales, be
now the dove that brings us good tidings from the Marches.--Thou
art silent. What mean these downcast looks--that embarrassed
carriage--that cap plucked down o'er thine eyes?--In God's name,
man, speak!--Fear not for me--I can bear worse than tongue of man
may tell. Thou hast seen me in the wars of Palestine, when my
brave followers fell, man by man, around me, and when I was left
well-nigh alone--and did I blench then?--Thou hast seen me when
the ship's keel lay grating on the rock, and the billows flew in
foam over her deck--did I blench then?--No--nor will I now."

"Boast not," said the minstrel, looking fixedly upon the
Constable, as the former assumed the port and countenance of one
who sets Fortune and her utmost malice at defiance--"boast not,
lest thy bands be made strong." There was a pause of a minute,
during which the group formed at this instant a singular picture.

Afraid to ask, yet ashamed to _seem to fear the ill tidings
which impended, the Constable confronted his messenger with person
erect, arms folded, and brow expanded with resolution: while the
minstrel, carried beyond his usual and guarded apathy by the
interest of the moment, bent on his master a keen fixed glance, as
if to observe whether his courage was real or assumed.

Philip Guarine, on the other hand, to whom Heaven, in assigning
him a rough exterior, had denied neither sense nor observation,
kept his eye in turn, firmly fixed on Vidal, as if endeavouring to
determine what was the character of that deep interest which
gleamed in the minstrel's looks apparently, and was unable to
ascertain whether it was that of a faithful domestic
sympathetically agitated by the bad news with which he was about
to afflict his master, or that of an executioner standing with his
knife suspended over his victim, deferring his blow until he
should discover where it would be most sensibly felt. In Guarine's
mind, prejudiced, perhaps, by the previous opinion he had
entertained, the latter sentiment so decidedly predominated, that
he longed to raise his staff, and strike down to the earth the
servant, who seemed thus to enjoy the protracted sufferings of
their common master.

At length a convulsive movement crossed the brow of the Constable,
and Guarine, when he beheld a sardonic smile begin to curl Vidal's
lip, could keep silence no longer. "Vidal," he said, "thou art a--"

"A bearer of bad tidings," said Vidal, interrupting him,
"therefore subject to the misconstruction of every fool who cannot
distinguish between the author of harm, and him who unwillingly
reports it."

"To what purpose this delay?" said the Constable. "Come, Sir
Minstrel, I will spare you a pang--Eveline has forsaken and
forgotten me?" The minstrel assented by a low inclination.

Hugo de Lacy paced a short turn before the stone monument,
endeavouring to conquer the deep emotion which he felt. "I forgive
her," he said. "Forgive, did I say--Alas! I have nothing to
forgive. She used but the right I left in her hand--yes--our date
of engagement was out--she had heard of my losses--my defeats--the
destruction of my hopes--the expenditure of my wealth; and has
taken the first opportunity which strict law afforded to break off
her engagement with one bankrupt in fortune and fame. Many a
maiden would have done--perhaps in prudence should have done--
this;--but that woman's name should not have been Eveline
Berenger."