Julia. —— Gentle sir,
You are our captive — but we’ll use you so,
That you shall think your prison joys may match
Whate’er your liberty hath known of pleasure.
Roderick.
No, fairest, we have trifled here too long;
And, lingering to see your roses blossom,
I’ve let my laurels wither.
OLD PLAY.
Arrayed in garments of a mourning colour, and of a fashion more matronly than perhaps altogether befitted her youth — plain to an extremity, and devoid of all ornament, save her rosary — Eveline now performed the duty of waiting upon her wounded deliverer; a duty which the etiquette of the time not only permitted, but peremptorily enjoined. She was attended by Rose and Dame Gillian. Margery, whose element was a sick-chamber, had been already despatched to that of the young knight, to attend to whatever his condition might require.
Eveline entered the room with a light step, as if unwilling to disturb the patient. She paused at the door, and cast her eyes around her. It had been her father’s chamber; nor had she entered it since his violent death. Around the walls hung a part of his armour and weapons, with hawking gloves, hunting-poles, and other instruments of silvan sport. These relics brought as it were in living form before her the stately presence of old Sir Raymond. “Frown not, my father,”— her lips formed the words, though her voice did not utter them —“Frown not — Eveline will never be unworthy of thee.”
Father Aldrovand, and Amelot, the page of Damian, were seated by the bedside. They rose as Lady Eveline entered; and the first, who meddled a little with the healing art, said to Eveline “that the knight had slumbered for some time, and was now about to awake.”
Amelot at the same time came forward, and in a hasty and low voice, begged that the chamber might be kept quiet, and the spectators requested to retire. “My lord,” he said, “ever since his illness at Gloucester, is apt to speak something wildly as he awakes from sleep, and will be displeased with me should I permit any one to be near him.”
Eveline accordingly caused her women and the monk to retire into the anteroom, while she herself remained standing by the door-communication which connected the apartments, and heard Damian mention her name as he turned himself painfully on his couch. “Is she safe and unharmed?” was his first question, and it was asked with an eagerness which intimated how far it preceded all other considerations. When Amelot replied in the affirmative, he sighed, as one whose bosom is relieved from some weighty load, and in a less animated voice, asked of the page where they were. “This apartment,” he said, “with its furniture, are all strange to me.”
“My dear master,” said Amelot, “you are at present too weak to ask questions and receive explanations.”
“Be I where I will,” said Damian, as if recovering his recollection, “I am not in the place where my duty calls me. Tell my trumpets to sound to horse — to horse, and let Ralph Genvil carry my banner. To horse — to horse! we have not a moment to lose!”
The wounded knight made some effort to rise, which, in his state of weakness, Amelot was easily able to frustrate. “Thou art right,” he said, as he sunk back into his reclining posture —“thou art right — I am weak — but why should strength remain when honour is lost?” The unhappy young man covered his face with his hands, and groaned in agony, which seemed more that of the mind than of the body. Lady Eveline approached his bedside with unassured steps, fearing she knew not what, yet earnest to testify the interest she felt in the distresses of the sufferer. Damian looked up and beheld her, and again hid his face with his hands.
“What means this strange passion, Sir Knight?” said Eveline, with a voice which, at first weak and trembling, gradually obtained steadiness and composure. “Ought it to grieve you so much, sworn as you are to the duties of chivalry, that Heaven hath twice made you its instrument to save the unfortunate Eveline Berenger?”
“Oh no, no!” he exclaimed with rapidity; “since you are saved, all is well — but time presses — it is necessary I should presently depart — no-where ought I now to tarry — least of all, within this castle — Once more, Amelot, let them get to horse!”
“Nay, my good lord.” said the damsel, “this must not be. As your ward, I cannot let my guardian part thus suddenly — as a physician, I cannot allow my patient to destroy himself — It is impossible that you can brook the saddle.”
“A litter — a bier — a cart, to drag forth the dishonoured knight and traitor — all were too good for me — a coffin were best of all! — But see, Amelot, that it be framed like that of the meanest churl — no spurs displayed on the pall — no shield with the ancient coat of the De Lacys — no helmet with their knightly crest must deck the hearse of him whose name is dishonoured!”
“Is his brain unsettled?” said Eveline, looking with terror from the wounded man to his attendant; “or is there some dreadful mystery in these broken words?— If so, speak it forth; and if it may be amended by life or goods, my deliverer will sustain no wrong.”
Amelot regarded her with a dejected and melancholy air, shook his head, and looked down on his master with a countenance which seemed to express, that the questions which she asked could not be prudently answered in Sir Damian’s presence. The Lady Eveline, observing this gesture, stepped back into the outer apartment, and made Amelot a sign to follow her. He obeyed, after a glance at his master, who remained in the same disconsolate posture as formerly, with his hands crossed over his eyes, like one who wished to exclude the light, and all which the light made visible.
When Amelot was in the wardrobe, Eveline, making signs to her attendants to keep at such distance as the room permitted, questioned him closely on the cause of his master’s desperate expression of terror and remorse. “Thou knowest,” she said, “that I am bound to succour thy lord, if I may, both from gratitude, as one whom he hath served to the peril of his life — and also from kinsmanship. Tell me, therefore, in what case he stands, that I may help him if I can — that is,” she added, her pale cheeks deeply colouring, “if the cause of the distress be fitting for me to hear.”
The page bowed low, yet showed such embarrassment when he began to speak, as produced a corresponding degree of confusion in the Lady Eveline, who, nevertheless, urged him as before “to speak without scruple or delay — so that the tenor of his discourse was fitting for her ears.”
“Believe me, noble lady,” said Amelot, “your commands had been instantly obeyed, but that I fear my master’s displeasure if I talk of his affairs without his warrant; nevertheless, on your command, whom I know he honours above all earthly beings, I will speak thus far, that if his life be safe from the wounds he has received, his honour and worship may be in great danger, if it please not Heaven to send a remedy.”
“Speak on,” said Eveline; “and be assured you will do Sir Damian de Lacy no prejudice by the confidence you may rest in me.”
“I well believe it, lady,” said the page. “Know, then, if it be not already known to you, that the clowns and rabble, who have taken arms against the nobles in the west, pretend to be favoured in their insurrection, not only by Randal Lacy, but by my master, Sir Damian.”
“They lie that dare charge him with such foul treason to his own blood, as well as to his sovereign!” replied Eveline.
“Well do I believe they lie,” said Amelot; “but this hinders not their falsehoods from being believed by those who know him less inwardly. More than one runaway from our troop have joined this rabblement, and that gives some credit to the scandal. And then they say — they say — that — in short, that my master longs to possess the lands in his proper right which he occupies as his uncle’s administrator; and that if the old Constable — I crave your pardon, madam — should return from Palestine, he should find it difficult to obtain possession of his own again.”
“The sordid wretches judge of others by their own base minds, and conceive those temptations too powerful for men of worth, which they are themselves conscious they would be unable to resist. But are the insurgents then so insolent and so powerful? We have heard of their violences, but only as if it had been some popular tumult.”
“We had notice last night that they have drawn together in great force, and besieged or blockaded Wild Wenlock, with his men-at-arms, in a village about ten miles hence. He hath sent to my master, as his kinsman and companion-at-arms, to come to his assistance. We were on horseback this morning to march to the rescue — when —”
He paused, and seemed unwilling to proceed. Eveline caught at the word. “When you heard of my danger?” she said. “I would ye had rather heard of my death!”
“Surely, noble lady,” said the page, with his eyes fixed on the ground, “nothing but so strong a cause could have made my master halt his troop, and carry the better part of them to the Welsh mountains, when his countryman’s distress, and the commands of the King’s Lieutenant, so peremptorily demanded his presence elsewhere.”
“I knew it,” she said —“I knew I was born to be his destruction! yet methinks this is worse than I dreamed of, when the worst was in my thoughts. I feared to occasion his death, not his loss of fame. For God’s sake, young Amelot, do what thou canst, and that without loss of time! Get thee straightway to horse, and join to thy own men as many as thou canst gather of mine — Go — ride, my brave youth — show thy master’s banner, and let them see that his forces and his heart are with them, though his person be absent. Haste, haste, for the time is precious.”
“But the safety of this castle — But your own safety?” said the page. “God knows how willingly I would do aught to save his fame! But I know my master’s mood; and were you to suffer by my leaving the Garde Doloureuse, even although I were to save him lands, life, and honour, by my doing so, I should be more like to taste of his dagger, than of his thanks or bounty.”
“Go, nevertheless, dear Amelot,” said she; “gather what force thou canst make, and begone.”
“You spur a willing horse, madam,” said the page, springing to his feet; “and in the condition of my master, I see nothing better than that his banner should be displayed against these churls.”
“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 today” 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 in............