He leaned on his esquire's arm, and for an instant laid his head
on his shoulder with a depth of emotion which Guarine had never
before seen him betray, and which, in awkward kindness, he could
only attempt to console, by bidding his master "be of good
courage--he had lost but a woman."

"This is no selfish emotion, Philip," said the Constable, resuming
self-command. "I grieve less that she has left me, than that she
has misjudged me--that she has treated me as the pawnbroker does
his wretched creditor, who arrests the pledge as the very moment
elapses within which it might have been relieved. Did she then
think that I in my turn would have been a creditor so rigid?--that
I, who, since I knew her, scarce deemed myself worthy of her when
I had wealth and fame, should insist on her sharing my diminished
and degraded fortunes? How little she ever knew me, or how selfish
must she have supposed my misfortunes to have made me! But be it
so--she is gone, and may she be happy. The thought that she
disturbed me shall pass from my mind; and I will think she has
done that which I myself, as her best friend, must in honour have
advised."

So saying, his countenance, to the surprise of his attendants,
resumed its usual firm composure.

"I give you joy," said the esquire, in a whisper to the minstrel;
"your evil news have wounded less deeply than, doubtless, you
believed was possible."

"Alas!" replied the minstrel, "I have others and worse behind."
This answer was made in an equivocal tone of voice, corresponding
to the peculiarity of his manner, and like that seeming emotion of
a deep but very doubtful character.

"Eveline Berenger is then married," said the Constable; "and, let
me make a wild guess,--she has not abandoned the family, though
she has forsaken the individual--she is still a Lacy? ha?--Dolt
that thou art, wilt thou not understand me? She is married to
Damian de Lacy--to my nephew?"

The effort with which the Constable gave breath to this
supposition formed a strange contrast to the constrained smile to
which he compelled his features while he uttered it. With such a
smile a man about to drink poison might name a health, as he put
the fatal beverage to his lips. "No, my lord--not married,"
answered the minstrel, with an emphasis on the word, which the
Constable knew how to interpret.

"No, no," he replied quickly, "not married, perhaps, but engaged-
troth-plighted. Wherefore not? The date of her old alliance was
out, why not enter into a new engagement?"

"The Lady Eveline and Sir Damian de Lacy are not affianced that I
know of," answered his attendant.

This reply drove De Lacy's patience to extremity.

"Dog! dost thou trifle with me?" he exclaimed: "Vile wire-pincher,
thou torturest me! Speak the worst at once, or I will presently
make thee minstrel to the household of Satan."

Calm and collected did the minstrel reply,--"The Lady Eveline and
Sir Damian are neither married nor affianced, my lord. They have
loved and lived together--_par amours_."

"Dog, and son of a dog," said De Lacy, "thou liest!" And, seizing
the minstrel by the breast, the exasperated baron shook him with
his whole strength. But great as that strength was, it was unable
to stagger Vidal, a practised wrestler, in the firm posture which
he had assumed, any more than his master's wrath could disturb the
composure of the minstrel's bearing.

"Confess thou hast lied," said the Constable, releasing him, after
having effected by his violence no greater degree of agitation
than the exertion of human force produces upon the Rocking Stones
of the Druids, which may be shaken, indeed, but not displaced.

"Were a lie to buy my own life, yea, the lives of all my tribe,"
said the minstrel, "I would not tell one. But truth itself is ever
termed falsehood when it counteracts the train of our passions."

"Hear him, Philip Guarine, hear him!" exclaimed the Constable,
turning hastily to his squire: "He tells me of my disgrace--of the
dishonour of my house--of the depravity of those whom I have loved
the best in the world--he tells me of it with a calm look, an eye
composed, an unfaltering tongue.--Is this--can it be natural? Is
De Lacy sunk so low, that his dishonour shall be told by a common
strolling minstrel, as calmly as if it were a theme for a vain
ballad? Perhaps thou wilt make it one, ha!" as he concluded,
darting a furious glance at the minstrel.

"Perhaps I might, my lord," replied the minstrel, "were it not
that I must record therein the disgrace of Renault Vidal, who
served a lord without either patience to bear insults and wrongs,
or spirit to revenge them on the authors of his shame."

"Thou art right, thou art right, good fellow," said the Constable,
hastily; "it is vengeance now alone which is left us--And yet upon
whom?"

As he spoke he walked shortly and hastily to and fro; and,
becoming suddenly silent, stood still and wrung his hands with
deep emotion.

"I told thee," said the minstrel to Guarine, "that my muse would
find a tender part at last. Dost thou remember the bull-fight we
saw in Spain? A thousand little darts perplexed and annoyed the
noble animal, ere he received the last deadly thrust from the
lance of the Moorish Cavalier."

"Man, or fiend, be which thou wilt," replied Guarine, "that can
thus drink in with pleasure, and contemplate at your ease, the
misery of another, I bid thee beware of me! Utter thy cold-blooded
taunts in some other ear; for if my tongue be blunt, I wear a
sword that is sharp enough."

"Thou hast seen me amongst swords," answered the minstrel, "and
knowest how little terror they have for such as I am." Yet as he
spoke he drew off from the esquire. He had, in fact, only
addressed him in that sort of fulness of heart, which would have
vented itself in soliloquy if alone, and now poured itself out on
the nearest auditor, without the speaker being entirely conscious
of the sentiments which his speech excited.

Few minutes had elapsed before the Constable of Chester had
regained the calm external semblance with which, until this last
dreadful wound, he had borne all the inflictions of fortune. He
turned towards his followers, and addressed the minstrel with his
usual calmness, "Thou art right, good fellow," he said, "in what
thou saidst to me but now, and I forgive thee the taunt which
accompanied thy good counsel. Speak out, in God's name! and speak
to one prepared to endure the evil which God hath sent him.
Certes, a good knight is best known in battle, and a Christian in
the time of trouble and adversity."

The tone in which the Constable spoke, seemed to produce a
corresponding effect upon the deportment of his followers. The
minstrel dropped at once the cynical and audacious tone in which
he had hitherto seemed to tamper with the passions of his master;
and in language simple and respectful, and which even approached
to sympathy, informed him of the evil news which he had collected
during his absence. It was indeed disastrous.

The refusal of the Lady Eveline Berengor to admit Monthermer and
his forces into her castle, had of course given circulation and
credence to all the calumnies which had been circulated to her
prejudice, and that of Damian de Lacy; and there were many who,
for various causes, were interested in spreading and supporting
these slanders. A large force had been sent into the country to
subdue the insurgent peasants; and the knights and nobles
despatched for that purpose, failed not to avenge to the utter-
most, upon the wretched plebeians, the noble blood which they had
spilled during their temporary triumph.

The followers of the unfortunate Wenlock were infected with the
same persuasion. Blamed by many for a hasty and cowardly surrender
of a post which might have been defended, they endeavoured to
vindicate themselves by alleging the hostile demonstrations of De
Lacy's cavalry as the sole cause of their premature submission.

These rumours, supported by such interested testimony, spread wide
and far through the land; and, joined to the undeniable fact that
Damian had sought refuge in the strong castle of Garde Doloureuse,
which was now defending itself against the royal arms, animated
the numerous enemies of the house of De Lacy, and drove its
vassals and friends almost to despair, as men reduced either to
disown their feudal allegiance, or renounce that still more sacred
fealty which they owed to their sovereign.

At this crisis they received intelligence that the wise and active
monarch by whom the sceptre of England was then swayed, was moving
towards that part of England, at the head of a large body of
soldiers, for the purpose at once of pressing the siege of the
Garde Doloureuse, and completing the suppression of the
insurrection of the peasantry, which Guy Monthermer had nearly
accomplished.

In this emergency, and when the friends and dependents of the
House of Lacy scarcely knew which hand to turn to, Randal, the
Constable's kinsman, and, after Damian, his heir, suddenly
appeared amongst them, with a royal commission to raise and
command such followers of the family as might not desire to be
involved in the supposed treason of the Constable's delegate. In
troublesome times, men's vices are forgotten, provided they
display activity, courage, and prudence, the virtues then most
required; and the appearance of Randal, who was by no means
deficient in any of these attributes, was received as a good omen
by the followers of his cousin. They quickly gathered around him,
surrendered to the royal mandate such strongholds as they
possessed, and, to vindicate themselves from any participation in
the alleged crimes of Damian, they distinguished themselves, under
Randal's command, against such scattered bodies of peasantry as
still kept the field, or lurked in the mountains and passes; and
conducted themselves with such severity after success, as made the
troops even of Monthermer appear gentle and clement in comparison
with those of De Lacy. Finally, with the banner of his ancient
house displayed, and five hundred good men assembled under it,
Randal appeared before the Garde Poloureuse, and joined Henry's
camp there.

The castle was already hardly pressed, and the few defenders,
disabled by wounds, watching, and privation, had now the
additional discouragement to see displayed against their walls the
only banner in England under which they had hoped forces might be
mustered for their aid.

The high-spirited entreaties of Eveline, unbent by adversity and
want, gradually lost effect on the defenders of the castle; and
proposals for surrender were urged and discussed by a tumultuary
council, into which not only the inferior officers, but many of
the common men, had thrust themselves, as in a period of such
general distress as unlooses all the bonds of discipline, and
leaves each man at liberty to speak and act for himself. To their
surprise, in the midst of their discussions, Damian de Lacy,
arisen from the sick-bed to which he had been so long confined,
appeared among them, pale and feeble, his cheek tinged with the
ghastly look which is left by long illness--he leaned on his page
Amelot. "Gentlemen," he said, "and soldiers--yet why should I call
you either?--Gentlemen are ever ready to die in behalf of a lady--
soldiers hold life in scorn compared to their honour."

"Out upon him! out upon him!" exclaimed some of the soldiers,
interrupting him; "he would have us, who are innocent, die the
death of traitors, and be hanged in our armour over the walls,
rather than part with his leman."

"Peace, irreverent slave!" said Damian, in a voice like thunder,
"or my last blow shall be a mean one, aimed against such a caitiff
as thou art.--And you," he continued, addressing the rest,--"you,
who are shrinking from the toils of your profession, because if
you persist in a course of honour, death may close them a few
years sooner than it needs must--you, who are scared like children
at the sight of a death's-head, do not suppose that Damian de Lacy
would desire to shelter himself at the expense of those lives
which you hold so dear. Make your bargain with King Henry.
Deliver me up to his justice, or his severity; or, if you like
it better, strike my head from my body, and hurl it, as a peace-
offering, from the walls of the castle. To God, in his good time,
will I trust for the clearance of mine honour. In a word,
surrender me, dead or alive, or open the gates and permit me to
surrender myself. Only, as ye are men, since I may not say better
of ye, care at least for the safety of your mistress, and make
such terms as may secure HER safety, and save yourselves from the
dishonour of being held cowardly and perjured caitiffs in your
graves."

"Methinks the youth speaks well and reasonably," said William
Flammock. "Let us e'en make a grace of surrendering his body up to
the King, and assure thereby such terms as we can for ourselves
and the lady, ere the last morsel of our provision is consumed."

"I would hardly have proposed this measure," said, or rather
mumbled, Father Aldrovand, who had recently lost four of his front
teeth by a stone from a sling,--"yet, being so generously offered
by the party principally concerned, I hold with the learned
scholiast, _Volenti non fit injuria_."

"Priest and Fleming," said the old banner-man, Ralph Genvil, "I
see how the wind stirreth you; but you deceive yourselves if you
think to make our young master, Sir Damian, a scape-goat for your
light lady.--Nay, never frown nor fume, Sir Damian; if you know
not your safest course, we know it for you.--Followers of De Lacy,
throw yourselves on your horses, and two men on one, if it be
necessary--we will take this stubborn boy in the midst of us, and
the dainty squire Amelot shall be prisoner too, if he trouble us
with his peevish opposition. Then, let us make a fair sally upon
the siegers. Those who can cut their way through will shift well
enough; those who fall, will be provided for."

A shout from the troopers of Lacy's band approved this proposal.
Whilst the followers of Berenger expostulated in loud and angry
tone, Eveline, summoned by the tumult, in vain endeavoured to
appease it; and the anger and entreaties of Damian were equally
lost on his followers. To each and either the answer was the same.

"Have you no care of it--Because you love _par amours_, is it
reasonable you should throw away your life and ours?" So exclaimed
Genvil to De Lacy; and in softer language, but with equal
obstinacy, the followers of Raymond Berenger refused on the
present occasion to listen, to the commands or prayers of his
daughter.

Wilkin Flammock had retreated from the tumult, when he saw the
turn which matters had taken. He left the castle by a sally-port,
of which he had been intrusted with the key, and proceeded without
observation or opposition to the royal camp, where he requested
access to the Sovereign. This was easily obtained, and Wilkin
speedily found himself in the presence of King Henry. The monarch
was in his royal pavilion, attended by two of his sons, Richard
and John, who afterwards swayed the sceptre of England with very
different auspices.

"How now?--What art thou?" was the royal question.

"An honest man, from the castle of the Garde Doloureuse."

"Thou may'st be honest," replied the Sovereign, "but thou comest
from a nest of traitors."

"Such as they are, my lord, it is my purpose to put them at your
royal disposal; for they have no longer the wisdom to guide
themselves, and lack alike prudence to hold out, and grace to
submit. But I would first know of your grace to what terms you
will admit the defenders of yonder garrison?"

"To such as kings give to traitors," said Henry, sternly--"sharp
knives and tough cords."

"Nay, my gracious lord, you must be kinder than that amounts to,
if the castle is to be rendered by my means; else will your cords
and knives have only my poor body to work upon, and you will be as
far as ever from the inside of the Garde Doloureuse."

The King looked at him fixedly. "Thou knowest," he said, "the law
of arms. Here, provost-marshal, stands a traitor, and yonder
stands a tree."

"And here is a throat," said the stout-hearted Fleming,
unbuttoning the collar of his doublet.

"By mine honour," said Prince Richard, "a sturdy and faithful
yeoman! It were better send such fellows their dinners, and then
buffet it out with them for the castle, than to starve them as the
beggarly Frenchmen famish their hounds."

"Peace, Richard," said his father; "thy wit is over green, and thy
blood over hot, to make thee my counsellor here.--And you, knave,
speak you some reasonable terms, and we will not be over strict
with thee."

"First, then," said the Fleming, "I stipulate full and free pardon
for life, limb, body, and goods, to me, Wilkin Flammock, and my
daughter Rose."

"A true Fleming," said Prince John; "he takes care of himself in
the first instance."

"His request," said the King, "is reasonable. What next?"

"Safety in life, honour, and land, for the demoiselle Eveline
Berenger."

"How, sir knave!" said the King, angrily, "is it for such as thou
to dictate to our judgment or clemency in the case of a noble
Norman Lady? Confine thy mediation to such as thyself; or rather
render us this castle without farther delay; and be assured thy
doing so will be of more service to the traitors within, than
weeks more of resistance, which must and shall be bootless."

The Fleming stood silent, unwilling to surrender without some
specific terms, yet half convinced, from the situation in which he
had left the garrison of the Garde Doloureuse, that his admitting
the King's forces would be, perhaps, the best he could do for Lady
Eveline.

"I like thy fidelity, fellow," said the King, whose acute eye
perceived the struggle in the Fleming's bosom; "but carry not thy
stubbornness too far. Have we not said we will be gracious to
yonder offenders, as far as our royal duty will permit?"

"And, royal father," said Prince John, interposing, "I pray you
let me have the grace to take first possession, of the Garde
Doloureuse, and the wardship or forfeiture of the offending lady."

"_I_ pray you also, my royal father, to grant John's boon,"
said his brother Richard, in a tone of mockery. "Consider, royal
father, it is the first desire he hath shown to approach the
barriers of the castle, though we have attacked them forty times
at least. Marry, crossbow and mangonel were busy on the former
occasions, and it is like they will be silent now."

"Peace, Richard," said the King; "your words, aimed at thy
brother's honour, pierce my heart.--John, thou hast thy boon as
concerns the castle; for the unhappy young lady, we will take her
in our own charge.--Fleming, how many men wilt thou undertake to
admit?"

Ere Flammock could answer, a squire approached Prince Richard, and
whispered in his ear, yet so as to be heard by all present, "We
have discovered that some internal disturbance, or other cause
unknown, has withdrawn many of the warders from the castle walls,
and that a sudden attack might--"

"Dost thou hear that, John?" exclaimed Richard. "Ladders, man--get
ladders, and to the wall. How I should delight to see thee on the
highest round--thy knees shaking--thy hands grasping convulsively,
like those of one in an ague fit--all air around thee, save a
baton or two of wood--the moat below--half-a-dozen pikes at thy
throat--"

"Peace, Richard, for shame, if not for charity!" said his father,
in a tone of anger, mingled with grief. "And thou, John, get ready
for the assault."

"As soon as I have put on my armour, father," answered the Prince;
and withdrew slowly, with a visage so blank as to promise no speed
in his preparations.

His brother laughed as he retired, and said to his squire, "It
were no bad jest, Alberick, to carry the place ere John can change
his silk doublet for a steel one."

So saying, he hastily withdrew, and his father exclaimed in
paternal distress, "Out, alas! as much too hot as his brother is
too cold; but it is the manlier fault.--Gloucester," said he to
that celebrated earl, "take sufficient strength, and follow Prince
Richard to guard and sustain him. If any one can rule him, it must
be a knight of thy established fame. Alas, alas! for what sin have
I deserved the affliction of these cruel family feuds!"

"Be comforted, my lord," said the chancellor, who was also in
attendance.

"Speak not of comfort to a father, whose sons are at discord with
each other, and agree only in their disobedience to him!"

Thus spoke Henry the Second, than whom no wiser, or, generally
speaking, more fortunate monarch ever sat upon the throne of
England; yet whose life is a striking illustration, how family
dissensions can tarnish the most brilliant lot to which Heaven
permits humanity to aspire; and how little gratified ambition,
extended power, and the highest reputation in war and in peace,
can do towards curing the wounds of domestic affliction.

The sudden and fiery attack of Richard, who hastened to the
escalade at the head of a score of followers, collected at random,
had the complete effect of surprise; and having surmounted the
walls with their ladders, before the contending parties within
were almost aware of the assault, the assailants burst open the
gates, and admitted Gloucester, who had hastily followed with a
strong body of men-at-arms. The garrison, in their state of
surprise, confusion, and disunion, offered but little resistance,
and would have been put to the sword, and the place plundered, had
not Henry himself entered it, and by his personal exertions and
authority, restrained the excesses of the dissolute soldiery.

The King conducted himself, considering the times and the
provocation, with laudable moderation. He contented himself with
disarming and dismissing the common soldiers, giving them some
trifle to carry them out of the country, lest want should lead
them to form themselves into bands of robbers. The officers were
more severely treated, being for the greater part thrown into
dungeons, to abide the course of the law. In particular,
imprisonment was the lot of Damian de Lacy, against whom,
believing the various charges with which he was loaded, Henry was
so highly incensed, that he purposed to make him an example to all
false knights and disloyal subjects. To the Lady Eveline Berenger
he assigned her own apartment as a prison, in which she was
honourably attended by Rose and Alice, but guarded with the utmost
strictness. It was generally reported that her demesnes would be
declared a forfeiture to the crown, and bestowed, at least in
part, upon Randal de Lacy, who had done good service during the
siege. Her person, it was thought, was destined to the seclusion
of some distant French nunnery, where she might at leisure repent
her of her follies and her rashness.

Father Aldrovand was delivered up to the discipline of the
convent, long experience having very effectually taught Henry the
imprudence of infringing on the privileges of the church;
although, when the King first beheld him with a rusty corslet
clasped over his frock, he with difficulty repressed the desire to
cause him to hanged over the battlements, to preach to the ravens.

With Wilkin Flammock, Henry held much conference, particularly on
his subject of manufactures and commerce; on which the sound-
headed, though blunt-spoken Fleming, was well qualified to
instruct an intelligent monarch. "Thy intentions," he said, "shall
not be forgotten, good fellow, though they have been anticipated
by the headlong valour of my son Richard, which has cost some poor
caitiffs their lives--Richard loves not to sheathe a bloodless
weapon. But thou and thy countrymen shall return to thy mills
yonder, with a full pardon for past offences, so that you meddle
no more with such treasonable matters."

"And our privileges and duties, my liege?" said Flammock. "Your
Majesty knows well we are vassals to the lord of this castle, and
must follow him in battle."

"It shall no longer be so," said Henry; "I will form a community
of Flemings here, and thou, Flammock, shalt be Mayor, that thou
may'st not plead feudal obedience for a relapse into treason."

"Treason, my liege!" said Flammock, longing, yet scarce venturing,
to 'interpose a word in behalf of Lady Eveline, for whom, despite
the constitutional coolness of his temperament, he really felt
much interest--"I would that your Grace but justly knew how many
threads went to that woof."

"Peace, sirrah!--meddle with your loom," said Henry; "and if we
deign to speak to thee concerning the mechanical arts which thou
dost profess, take it for no warrant to intrude farther on our
privacy."

The Fleming retired, rebuked, and in silence; and the fate of the
unhappy prisoners remained in the King's bosom. He himself took up
his lodging in the castle of the Garde Doloureuse, as a convenient
station for sending abroad parties to suppress and extinguish all
the embers of rebellion; and so active was Randal de Lacy on these
occasions, that he appeared daily to rise in the King's grace, and
was gratified with considerable grants out of the domains of
Berenger and Lacy, which the King seemed already to treat as
forfeited property. Most men considered this growing favour of
Randal as a perilous omen, both far the life of young De Lacy, and
for the fate of the unfortunate Eveline.




CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH


   A vow, a vow--I have a vow in Heaven.
   Shall I bring perjury upon my soul?
   No, not for Venice.
     MERCHANT OF VENICE.


The conclusion of the last chapter contains the tidings with which
the minstrel greeted his unhappy master, Hugo de Lacy; not indeed
with the same detail of circumstances with which we have been able
to invest the narrative, but so as to infer the general and
appalling facts, that his betrothed bride, and beloved and trusted
kinsman, had leagued together for his dishonour--had raised the
banner of rebellion against their lawful sovereign, and, failing
in their audacious attempt, had brought the life of one of them,
at least, into the most imminent danger, and the fortunes of the
House of Lacy, unless some instant remedy could be found, to the
very verge of ruin.

Vidal marked the countenance of his master as he spoke, with the
same keen observation which the chirurgeon gives to the progress
of his dissecting-knife. There was grief on the Constable's
features--deep grief--but without the expression of abasement or
prostration which usually accompanies it; anger and shame were
there--but they were both of a noble character, seemingly excited
by his bride and nephew's transgressing the laws of allegiance,
honour, and virtue, rather than by the disgrace and damage which
he himself sustained through their crime.

The minstrel was so much astonished at this change of deportment,
from the sensitive acuteness of agony which attended the beginning
of his narrative, that he stepped back two paces, and gazing on
the Constable with wonder, mixed with admiration, exclaimed, "We
have heard of martyrs in. Palestine, but this exceeds them!"

"Wonder not so much, good friend," said the Constable, patiently;
"it is the first blow of the lance or mace which pierces or stuns
--those which follow are little felt." [Footnote: Such an
expression is said to have been used by Mandrin, the celebrated
smuggler, while in the act of being broken upon the wheel. This
dreadful punishment consists in the executioner, with a bar of
iron, breaking the shoulder-bones, arms, thigh-bones, and legs of
the criminal, taking--his alternate sides. The punishment is
concluded by a blow across the breast, called the _coup de
grace_, because it removes the sufferer from his agony. When
Mandrin received the second blow over the left shoulder-bone, he
laughed. His confessor inquired the reason of demeanour so
unbecoming--his situation. "I only lavish at my own folly, my
father," answered Mandrin, "who could suppose that sensibility of
pain should continue after the nervous system had been completely
deranged by the first blow.]

"Think, my lord," said Vidal, "all is lost--love, dominion, high
office, and bright fame--so late a chief among nobles, now a poor
palmer!"

"Wouldst thou make sport with my misery?" said Hugo, sternly; "but
even that comes of course behind my back, and why should it not be
endured when said to my face?--Know, then, minstrel, and put it in
song if you list, that Hugo de Lacy, having lost all he carried to
Palestine, and all which he left at home, is still lord of his own
mind; and adversity can no more shake him, than the breeze which
strips the oak of its leaves can tear up the trunk by the roots."

"Now, by the tomb of my father," said the minstrel, rapturously,
"this man's nobleness is too much for my resolve!" and stepping
hastily to the Constable, he kneeled on one knee, and caught his
hand more freely than the state maintained by men of De Lacy's
rank usually permitted. "Here," said Vidal, "on this hand--this
noble hand--I renounce--" But ere he could utter another word,
Hugo de Lacy, who, perhaps, felt the freedom of the action as an
intrusion on his fallen condition, pulled back his hand, and bid
the minstrel, with as stern frown, arise, and remember that
misfortune made not De Lacy a fit personage for a mummery.

Renault Vidal rose rebuked. "I had forgot," he said, "the distance
between an Armorican violer and a high Norman baron. I thought
that the same depth of sorrow, the same burst of joy, levelled,
for a moment at least, those artificial barriers by which men are
divided. But it is well as it is. Live within the limits of your
rank, as heretofore within your donjon tower and your fosses, my
lord, undisturbed by the sympathy of any mean man like me. I, too,
have my duties to discharge."

"And now to the Garde Doloureuse," said the baron, turning to
Philip Guarine--"God knoweth how well it deserveth the name!--
there to learn, with our own eyes and ears, the truth of these
woful tidings. Dismount, minstrel, and give me thy palfrey--I
would, Guarine, that I had one for thee--as for Vidal, his
attendance is less necessary. I will face my foes, or my
misfortunes, like a man--that be assured of, violer; and look not
so sullen, knave--I will not forget old adherents."

"One of them, at least, will not forget you, my lord," replied the
minstrel, with his usual dubious tone of look and emphasis.

But just as the Constable was about to prick forwards, two persons
appeared on the path, mounted on one horse, who, hidden by some
dwarf-wood, had come very near them without being perceived. They
were male and female; and the man, who rode foremost, was such a
picture of famine, as the eyes of the pilgrims had scarce
witnessed in all the wasted land through which they had travelled.
His features, naturally sharp and thin, had disappeared almost
entirely among the uncombed gray beard and hairs with which they
were overshadowed; and it was but the glimpse of a long nose, that
seemed as sharp as the edge of a knife, and the twinkling glimpse
of his gray eyes, which gave any intimation of his lineaments. His
leg, in the wide old boot which enclosed it, looked like the
handle of a mop left by chance in a pail--his arms were about the
thickness of riding-rods--and such parts of his person as were not
concealed by the tatters of a huntsman's cassock, seemed rather
the appendages of a mummy than a live man.

The female who sat behind this spectre exhibited also some
symptoms of extenuation; but being a brave jolly dame naturally,
famine had not been able to render her a spectacle so rueful as
the anatomy behind which she rode. Dame Gillian's cheek (for it
was the reader's old acquaintance) had indeed lost the rosy hue of
good cheer, and the smoothness of complexion which art and easy
living had formerly substituted for the more delicate bloom of
youth; her eyes were sunken, and had lost much of their bold and
roguish lustre; but she was still in some measure herself, and the
remnants of former finery, together with the tight-drawn scarlet
hose, though sorely faded, showed still a remnant of coquettish
pretension.

So soon as she came within sight of the pilgrims, she began to
punch Raoul with the end of her riding-rod. "Try thy new trade,
man, since thou art unfit for any other--to the good man--to them
--crave their charity."

"Beg from beggars?" muttered Raoul; "that were hawking at
sparrows, dame."

"It will bring our hand in use though," said Gillian; and
commenced, in a whining tone, "God love you, holy men, who have
had the grace to go to the Holy Land, and, what is more, have had
the grace to come back again; I pray, bestow some of your alms
upon my poor old husband, who is a miserable object, as you see,
and upon one who has the bad luck to be his wife--Heaven help me!"

"Peace, woman, and hear what I have to say," said the Constable,
laying his hand upon the bridle of the horse--"I have present
occasion for that horse, and----"

"By the hunting-horn of St. Hubert, but thou gettest him not
without blows!" answered the old huntsman "A fine world it is,
when palmers turn horse-stealers."

"Peace, fellow" said the Constable, sternly,--"I say I have
occasion presently for the service of thy horse. Here be two gold
bezants for a day's use of the brute; it is well worth the
fee-simple of him, were he never returned."

"But the palfrey is an old acquaintance, master," said Raoul; "and
if perchance--"

"Out upon _if_ and _perchance_ both," said the dame,
giving her husband so determined a thrust as well-nigh pushed him
out of the saddle. "Off the horse! and thank God and this worthy
man for the help he hath sent us in this extremity. What signifies
the palfrey, when we have not enough to get food either for the
brute or ourselves? not though we would eat grass and corn with
him, like King Somebody, whom the good father used to read us to
sleep about."

"A truce with your prating, dame," said Raoul, offering his
assistance to help her from the croupe; but she preferred that of
Guarine, who, though advanced in years, retained the advantage of
his stout soldierly figure. "I humbly thank your goodness," said
she, as, (having first kissed her,) the squire set her on the
ground. "And, pray, sir, are ye come from the Holy Land?--Heard ye
any tidings there of him that was Constable of Chester?"

De Lacy, who was engaged in removing the pillion from behind the
saddle, stopped short in his task, and said, "Ha, dame! what would
you with him?"

"A great deal, good palmer, an I could light on him; for his lands
and offices are all to be given, it's like, to that false thief,
his kinsman."

"What!--to Damian, his nephew?" exclaimed the Constable, in a
harsh and hasty tone.

"Lord, how you startle me, sir!" said Gillian; then continued,
turning to Philip Guarine, "Your friend is a hasty man, belike.";

"It is the fault of the sun he has lived under so long," said the
squire; "but look you answer his questions truly, and he will make
it the better for you."

Gillian instantly took the hint. "Was it Damian de Lacy you asked
after?--Alas I poor young gentleman! no offices or lands for him--
more likely to have a gallows-cast, poor lad--and all for nought,
as I am a true dame. Damian!--no, no, it is not Damian, or damson
neither--but Randal Lacy, that must rule the roast, and have all
the old man's lands, and livings, and lordships."

"What?" said the Constable--"before they know whether the old man.
is dead or no?-Methinks that were against law and reason both."

"Ay, but Randal Lacy has brought about less likely matters. Look
you, he hath sworn to the King that they have true tidings of the
Constable's death--ay, and let him alone to make them soothfast
enough, if the Constable were once within his danger."

"Indeed!" said the Constable. "But you are forging tales on a
noble gentleman. Come, come, dame, you say this because you like
not Randal Lacy."

"Like him not!--And what reason have I to like him, I trow?"
answered Gillian. "Is it because he seduced my simplicity to let
him into the castle of the Garde Doloureuse-ay, oftener than once
or twice either,-when he was disguised as a pedlar, and told him
all the secrets of the family, and how the boy Damian, and the
girl Eveline, were dying of love with each other, but had not
courage to say a word of it, for fear of the Constable, though he
were a thousand miles off?-You seem concerned, worthy sir--may I
offer your reverend worship a trifling sup from my bottle, which
is sovereign for _tremor cordis_, and fits of the spleen?"

"No, no," ejaculated De Lacy--"I was but grieved with the shooting
of an old wound. But, dame, I warrant me this Damian and Eveline,
as you call them, became better, closer friends, in time?"

"They?--not they indeed, poor simpletons!" answered the dame;
"they wanted some wise counsellor to go between and advise them.
For, look you, sir, if old Hugo be dead, as is most like, it were
more natural that his bride and his nephew should inherit his
lands, than this same Randal who is but a distant kinsman, and a
foresworn caitiff to boot.--Would you think it, reverend pilgrim,
after the mountains of gold he promised me?--when the castle was
taken, and he saw I could serve him no more, he called me old
beldame, and spoke of the beadle and the cucking-stool.--Yes,
reverend sir, old beldame and cucking-stool were his best words,
when he knew I had no one to take my part, save old Raoul, who
cannot take his own. But if grim old Hugh bring back his
weatherbeaten carcass from Palestine, and have but half the devil
in him which he had when he was fool enough to go away, Saint
Mary, but I will do his kinsman's office to him!"

There was a pause when she had done speaking.

"Thou say'st," at length exclaimed the Constable, "that Damian de
Lacy and Eveline love each other, yet are unconscious of guilt or
falsehood, or ingratitude to me--I would say, to their relative in
Palestine!"

"Love, sir!--in troth and so it is--they do love each other," said
Gillian; "but it is like angels--or like lambs--or like fools, if
you will; for they would never so much as have spoken together,
but for a prank of that same Randal Lacy's."

"How!" demanded the Constable--"a prank of Randal's?--What motive
had he that these two should meet?"

"Nay, their meeting was none of his seeking; but he had formed a
plan to carry off the Lady Eveline himself, for he was a wild
rover, this same Randal; and so he came disguised as a merchant of
falcons, and trained out my old stupid Raoul, and the Lady
Eveline, and all of us, as if to have an hour's mirth in hawking
at the heron. But he had a band of Welsh kites in readiness to
pounce upon us; and but for the sudden making in of Damian to our
rescue, it is undescribable to think what might have come of us;
and Damian being hurt in the onslaught, was carried to the Garde
Doloureuse in mere necessity; and but to save his life, it is my
belief my lady would never have asked him to cross the drawbridge,
even if he had offered."

"Woman," said the Constable, "think what thou say'st! If thou hast
done evil in these matters heretofore, as I suspect from thine own
story, think not to put it right by a train of new falsehoods,
merely from spite at missing thy reward."

"Palmer," said old Raoul, with his broken-toned voice, cracked by
many a hollo, "I am wont to leave the business of tale-bearing to
my wife Gillian, who will tongue-pad it with any shrew in
Christendom. But thou speak'st like one having some interest in
these matters, and therefore I will tell thee plainly, that
although this woman has published her own shame in avowing her
correspondence with that same Randal Lacy, yet what she has said
is true as the gospel; and, were it my last word, I would say that
Damian and the Lady Eveline are innocent of all treason and all
dishonesty, as is the babe unborn.--But what avails what the like
of us say, who are even driven to the very begging for mere
support, after having lived at a good house, and in a good lord's
service-blessing be with him!"

"But hark you," continued the Constable, "are there left no
ancient servants of the House, that could speak out as well as
you?" "Humph!" answered the huntsman--"men are not willing to
babble when Randal Lacy is cracking his thong above their heads.
Many are slain, or starved to death--some disposed of--some
spirited away. But there are the weaver Flammock and his daughter
Rose, who know as much of the matter as we do."

"What!--Wilkin Flammock the stout Netherlander?" said the
Constable; "he and his blunt but true daughter Rose?--I will
venture my life on their faith. Where dwell they?--What has been
their lot amidst these changes?" "And in God's name who are you
that ask these questions?" said Dame Gillian. "Husband, husband--
we have been too free; there is something in that look and that
tone which I should remember."

"Yes, look at me more fixedly," said the Constable, throwing "back
the hood which had hitherto in some degree obscured his features.

"On your knees--on your knees, Raoul!" exclaimed Gillian, dropping
on her own at the same time; "it is the Constable himself, and he
has heard me call him old Hugh!"

"It is all that is left of him who was the Constable, at least,"
replied De Lacy; "and old Hugh willingly forgives your freedom, in
consideration of your good news. Where are Flammock and his
daughter?"

"Rose is with the Lady Eveline," said Dame Gillian; "her ladyship,
belike, chose her for bower-woman in place of me, although Rose
was never fit to attire so much as a Dutch doll."

"The faithful girl!" said the Constable. "And where is Flammock?"

"Oh, for him, he has pardon and favour from the King," said Raoul;
"and is at his own house, with his rabble of weavers, close beside
the Battle-bridge, as they now call the place where your lordship
quelled the Welsh."

"Thither will I then," said the Constable; "and will then see what
welcome King Henry of Anjou has for an old servant. You two must
accompany me."

"My lord," said Gillian, with hesitation, "you know poor folk are
little thanked for interference with great men's affairs. I trust
your lordship will be able to protect us if we speak the truth;
and that you will not look back with displeasure on what I did,
acting for the best."

"Peace, dame, with a wanion to ye!" said Raoul. "Will you think of
your own old sinful carcass, when you should be saving your sweet
young mistress from shame and oppression?--And for thy ill tongue,
and worse practices, his lordship knows they are bred in the bone
of thee."

"Peace, good fellow!" said the Constable; "we will not look back
on thy wife's errors, and your fidelity shall be rewarded.--For
you, my faithful followers," he said, turning towards Guarine and
Vidal, "when De Lacy shall receive his rights, of which he doubts
nothing, his first wish shall be to reward your fidelity."

"Mine, such as it is, has been and shall be its own reward," said
Vidal. "I will not accept favours from him in prosperity, who, in
adversity, refused me his hand--our account stands yet open."

"Go to, thou art a fool; but thy profession hath a privilege to be
humorous," said the Constable, whose weatherbeaten and homely
features looked even handsome, when animated by gratitude to
Heaven and benevolence towards mankind. "We will meet," he said,
"at Battle-bridge, an hour before vespers--I shall have much
achieved before that time."

"The space is short," said his esquire.

"I have won a battle in yet shorter," replied the Constable.


"In which," said the minstrel, "many a man has died that thought
himself well assured of life and victory."

"Even so shall my dangerous cousin Randal find his schemes of
ambition blighted," answered the Constable; and rode forwards,
accompanied by Raoul and his wife, who had remounted their
palfrey, while the minstrel and squire followed a-foot, and, of
course, much more slowly.




CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST


   "Oh, fear not, fear not, good Lord John,
   That I would you betray,
   Or sue requital for a debt,
   Which nature cannot pay.
   Bear witness, all ye sacred powers--
   Ye lights that 'gin to shine--
   This night shall prove the sacred tie
   That binds your faith and mine."
     ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD.


Left behind by their master, the two dependants of Hugh de Lacy
marched on in sullen silence, like men who dislike and distrust
each other, though bound to one common service, and partners,
therefore, in the same hopes and fears. The dislike, indeed, was
chiefly upon Guarine's side; for nothing could be more indifferent
to Renault Vidal than was his companion, farther than as he was
conscious that Philip loved him not, and was not unlikely, so far
as lay in his power, to thwart some plans which he had nearly at
heart. He took little notice of his companion, but hummed over to
himself, as for the exercise of his memory, romances and songs,
many of which were composed in languages which Guarine, who had
only an ear for his native Norman, did not understand.

They had proceeded together in this sullen manner for nearly two
hours, when they were met by a groom on horseback, leading a
saddled palfrey. "Pilgrims," said the man, after looking at them
with some attention, "which of you is called Philip Guarine?"

"I, for fault of a better," said the esquire, "reply to that
name."

"Thy lord, in that case, commends him to you," said the groom;
"and sends you this token, by which you shall know that I am his
true messenger."

He showed the esquire a rosary, which Philip instantly recognized
as that used by the Constable.

"I acknowledge the token," he said; "speak my master's pleasure."

"He bids me say," replied the rider, "that his visit thrives as
well as is possible, and that this very evening, by time that the
sun sets, he will be possessed of his own. He desires, therefore,
you will mount this palfrey, and come with me to the Garde
Doloureuse, as your presence would be wanted there."

"It is well, and I obey him," said the esquire, much pleased with
the Import of the message, and not dissatisfied at being separated
from his travelling companion.

"And what charge for me?" said the minstrel, addressing the
messenger.

"If you, as I guess, are the minstrel, Renault Vidal, you are to
abide your master at the Battle-bridge, according to the charge
formerly given."

"I will meet him, as in duty bound," was Vidal's answer; and
scarce was it uttered, ere the two horsemen, turning their backs
on him, rode briskly forward, and were speedily out of sight.

It was now four hours past noon, and the sun was declining, yet
there was more than three hours' space to the time of rendezvous,
and the distance from the place did not now exceed four miles.
Vidal, therefore, either for the sake of rest or reflection,
withdrew from the path into a thicket on the left hand, from which
gushed the waters of a streamlet, fed by a small fountain that
bubbled up amongst the trees. Here the traveller sat himself down,
and with an air which seemed unconscious of what he was doing,
bent his eye on the little sparkling font for more than half an
hour, without change of posture; so that he might, in Pagan times,
have represented the statue of a water-god bending over his urn,
and attentive only to the supplies which it was pouring forth. At
length, however, he seemed to recall himself from this state of
deep abstraction, drew himself up, and took some coarse food from
his pilgrim's scrip, as if suddenly reminded that life is not
supported without means. But he had probably something at his
heart which affected his throat or appetite. After a vain attempt
to swallow a morsel, he threw it from him in disgust, and applied
him to a small flask, in which he had some wine or other liquor.
But seemingly this also turned distasteful, for he threw from him
both scrip and bottle, and, bending down to the spring, drank
deeply of the pure element, bathed in it his hands and face, and
arising from the fountain apparently refreshed, moved slowly on
his way, singing as he went, but in a low and saddened tone, wild
fragments of ancient poetry, in a tongue equally ancient.

Journeying on in this melancholy manner, he at length came in
sight of the Battle-bridge; near to which arose, in proud and
gloomy strength, the celebrated castle of the Garde Doloureuse.
"Here, then," he said--"here, then, I am to await the proud De
Lacy. Be it so, in God's name!--he shall know me better ere we
part."

So saying, he strode, with long and resolved steps, across the
bridge, and ascending a mound which arose on the opposite side at
some distance, he gazed for a time upon the scene beneath--the
beautiful river, rich with the reflected tints of the western sky--
the trees, which were already brightened to the eye, and saddened
to the fancy, with the hue of autumn--and the darksome walls and
towers of the feudal castle, from which, at times, flashed a
glimpse of splendour, as some sentinel's arms caught and gave back
a transient ray of the setting sun.

The countenance of the minstrel, which had hitherto been dark and
troubled, seemed softened by the quiet of the scene. He threw
loose his pilgrim's dress, yet suffering part of its dark folds to
hang around him mantle-wise; under which appeared his minstrel's
tabard. He took from his side a _rote_, and striking, from
time to time, a "Welsh descant, sung at others a lay, of which we
can offer only a few fragments, literally translated from the
ancient language in which they were chanted, premising that they
are in that excursive symbolical style of poetry, which Taliessin,
Llewarch Hen, and other bards, had derived perhaps from the time
of the Druids.

  "I asked of my harp, 'Who hath injured thy chords?'
  And she replied, 'The crooked finger, which I mocked in my tune.'
  A blade of silver may be bended--a blade of steel abideth--
  Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth.

  "The sweet taste of mead passeth from the lips,
  But they are long corroded by the juice of wormwood;
  The lamb is brought to the shambles, but the wolf rangeth the mountain;
  Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth.