As when in tumults rise the ignoble crowd,

Mad are their motions, and their tongues are loud,

And stones and brands in rattling furies fly,

And all the rustic arms which fury can supply —

Then if some grave and pious man appear,

They hush their noise, and lend a listening ear.

Dryden’s Virgil

A dreadful shout of vengeance was raised by the revellers, whose sport was thus so fearfully interrupted; but for an instant, the want of weapons amongst the multitude, as well as the inflamed features arid brandished poniard of Roland Graeme, kept them at bay, while the Abbot, horror-struck at the violence, implored, with uplifted hands, pardon for blood-shed committed within the sanctuary. Magdalen Graeme alone expressed triumph in the blow her descendant had dealt to the scoffer, mixed, however, with a wild and anxious expression of terror for her grandson’s safety. “Let him perish,” she said, “in his blasphemy — let him die on the holy pavement which he has insulted!”

But the rage of the multitude, the grief of the Abbot, the exultation of the enthusiastic Magdalen, were all mistimed and unnecessary. Howleglas, mortally wounded as he was supposed to be, sprung alertly up from the floor, calling aloud, “A miracle, a miracle, my masters! as brave a miracle as ever was wrought in the kirk of Kennaquhair. And I charge you, my masters, as your lawfully chosen Abbot, that you touch no one without my command — You, wolf and bear, will guard this pragmatic youth, but without hurting him — And you, reverend brother, will, with your comrades, withdraw to your cells; for our conference has ended like all conferences, leaving each of his own mind, as before; and if we fight, both you, and your brethren, and the Kirk, will have the worst on’t — Wherefore, pack up you pipes and begone.”

The hubbub was beginning again to awaken, but still Father Ambrose hesitated, as uncertain to what path his duty called him, whether to face out the present storm, or to reserve himself for a better moment. His brother of Unreason observed his difficulty, and said, in a tone more natural and less affected than that with which he had hitherto sustained his character, “We came hither, my good sir, more in mirth than in mischief — our bark is worse than our bite — and, especially, we mean you no personal harm — wherefore, draw off while the play is good; for it is ill whistling for a hawk when she is once on the soar, and worse to snatch the quarry from the ban-dog — Let these fellows once begin their brawl, and it will be too much for madness itself, let alone the Abbot of Unreason, to bring them back to the lure.”

The brethren crowded around Father Ambrosius, and joined in urging him to give place to the torrent. The present revel was, they said, an ancient custom which his predecessors had permitted, and old Father Nicholas himself had played the dragon in the days of the Abbot Ingelram.

“And we now reap the fruit of the seed which they have so unadvisedly sown,” said Ambrosius; “they taught men to make a mock of what is holy, what wonder that the descendants of scoffers become robbers and plunderers? But be it as you list, my brethren — move towards the dortour — And you, dame, I command you, by the authority which I have over you, and by your respect for that youth’s safety, that you go with us without farther speech — Yet, stay — what are your intentions towards that youth whom you detain prisoner?— Wot ye,” he continued, addressing Howleglas in a stern tone of voice, “that he bears the livery of the House of Avenel? They who fear not the anger of Heaven, may at least dread the wrath of man.”

“Cumber not yourself concerning him,” answered Howleglas, “we know right well who and what he is.”

“Let me pray,” said the Abbot, in a tone of entreaty, “that you do him no wrong for the rash deed — which he attempted in his imprudent zeal.”

“I say, cumber not yourself about it, father,” answered Howleglas, “but move off with your train, male and female, or I will not undertake to save yonder she-saint from the ducking-stool — And as for bearing of malice, my stomach has no room for it; it is,” he added, clapping his hand on his portly belly, “too well bumbasted out with straw and buckram — gramercy to them both — they kept out that madcap’s dagger as well as a Milan corslet could have done.”

In fact, the home-driven poniard of Roland Graeme had lighted upon the stuffing of the fictitious paunch, which the Abbot of Unreason wore as a part of his characteristic dress, and it was only the force of the blow which had prostrated that reverend person on the ground for a moment.

Satisfied in some degree by this man’s assurances, and compelled — to give way to superior force, the Abbot Ambrosius retired from the Church at the head of the monks, and left the court free for the revellers to work their will. But, wild and wilful as these rioters were, they accompanied the retreat of the religionists with none of those shouts of contempt and derision with which they had at first hailed them. The Abbot’s discourse had affected some of them with remorse, others with shame, and all with a transient degree of respect. They remained silent until the last monk had disappeared through the side-door which communicated with their dwelling-place, and even then it cost some exhortations on the part of Howleglas, some caprioles of the hobby-horse, and some wallops of the dragon, to rouse once more the rebuked spirit of revelry.

“And how now, my masters?” said the Abbot of Unreason; “and wherefore look on me with such blank Jack-a-Lent visages? Will you lose your old pastime for an old wife’s tale of saints and purgatory? Why, I thought you would have made all split long since — Come, strike up, tabor and harp, strike up, fiddle and rebeck — dance and be merry today, and let care come tomorrow. Bear and wolf, look to your prisoner — prance, hobby — hiss, dragon, and halloo, boys — we grow older every moment we stand idle, and life is too short to be spent in playing mumchance.”

This pithy exhortation was attended with the effect desired. They fumigated the Church with burnt wool and feathers instead of incense, put foul water into the holy-water basins, and celebrated a parody on the Church-service, the mock Abbot officiating at the altar; they sung ludicrous and indecent parodies, to the tunes of church hymns; they violated whatever vestments or vessels belonging to the Abbey they could lay their hands upon; and, playing every freak which the whim of the moment could suggest to their wild caprice, at length they fell to more lasting deeds of demolition, pulled down and destroyed some carved wood-work, dashed out the painted windows which had escaped former violence, and in their rigorous search after sculpture dedicated to idolatry, began to destroy what ornaments yet remained entire upon the tombs, and around the cornices of the pillars.

The spirit of demolition, like other tastes, increases by indulgence; from these lighter attempts at mischief, the more tumultuous part of the meeting began to meditate destruction on a more extended scale —“Let us heave it down altogether, the old crow’s nest,” became a general cry among them; “it has served the Pope and his rooks too long;” and up they struck a ballad which was then popular among the lower classes. 19

“The Paip, that pagan full of pride,

Hath blinded us ower lang.

For where the blind the blind doth lead,

No marvel baith gae wrang.

Like prince and king,

He led the ring

Of all iniquity.

Sing hay trix, trim-go-trix,

Under the greenwood tree.

“The Bishop rich, he could not preach

For sporting with the lasses;

The silly friar behoved to fleech

For awmous as he passes:

The curate his creed

He could not read,—

Shame fa’ company!

Sing hay trix, trim-go-trix,

Under the greenwood tree.”

Thundering out this chorus of a notable hunting song, which had been pressed into the service of some polemical poet, the followers of the Abbot of Unreason were turning every moment more tumultuous, and getting beyond the management even of that reverend prelate himself, when a knight in full armour, followed by two or three men-at-arms, entered the church, and in a stern voice commanded them to forbear their riotous mummery.

His visor was up, but if it had been lowered, the cognizance of the holly-branch sufficiently distinguished Sir Halbert Glendinning, who, on his homeward road, was passing through the village of Kennaquhair; and moved, perhaps, by anxiety for his brother’s safety, had come directly to the church on hearing of the uproar.

“What is the meaning of this,” he said, “my masters? are ye Christian men, and the king’s subjects, and yet waste and destroy church and chancel like so many heathens?”

All stood silent, though doubtless there were several disappointed and surprised at receiving chiding instead of thanks from so zealous a protestant.

The dragon, indeed, did at length take upon him to be spokesman, and growled from the depth of his painted maw, that they did but sweep Popery out of the church with the besom of destruction.

“What! my friends,” replied Sir Halbert Glendinning, “think you this mumming and masking has not more of Popery in it than have these stone walls? Take the leprosy out of your flesh, before you speak of purifying stone walls — abate your insolent license, which leads but to idle vanity and sinful excess; and know, that what you now practise, is one of the profane and unseemly sports introduced by the priests of Rome themselves, to mislead and to brutify the souls which fell into their net.”

“Marry come up — are you there with your bears?” muttered the dragon, with a draconic sullenness, which was in good keeping with his character, “we had as good have been Romans still, if we are to have no freedom in our pastimes!”

“Dost thou reply to me so?” said Halbert Glendinning; “or is there any pastime in grovelling on the ground there like a gigantic kail-worm?— Get out of thy painted case, or, by my knighthood, I will treat you like the beast and reptile you have made yourself.”

“Beast and reptile?” retorted the offended dragon, “setting aside your knighthood, I hold myself as well a born man as thyself.”

The Knight made no answer in words, but bestowed two such blows with the butt of his lance on the petulant dragon, that had not the hoops which constituted the ribs of the machine been pretty strong, they would hardly have saved those of the actor from being broken. In all haste the masker crept out of his disguise, unwilling to abide a third buffet from the lance of the enraged Knight. And when the ex-dragon stood on the floor of the church, he presented to Halbert Glendinning the well-known countenance of Dan of the Howlet-hirst, an ancient comrade of his own, ere fate had raised him so high above the rank to which he was born. The clown looked sulkily upon the Knight, as if to upbraid him for his violence towards an old acquaintance, and Glendinning’s own good-nature reproached him for the violence he had acted upon him.

“I did wrong to strike thee,” he said, “Dan; but in truth, I knew thee not — thou wert ever a mad fellow — come to Avenel Castle, and we shall see how my hawks fly.”

“And if we show him not falcons that will mount as merrily as rockets,” said the Abbot of Unreason, “I would your honour laid as hard on my bones as you did on his even now.”

“How now, Sir Knave,” said the Knight, “and what has brought you hither?”

The Abbot, hastily ridding himself of the false nose which mystified his physiognomy, and the supplementary belly which made up his disguise, stood before his master in his real character, of Adam Woodcock, the falconer of Avenel.

“How, varlet!” said the Knight; “hast thou dared to come here and disturb the very house my brother was dwelling in?”

“And it was even for that reason, craving your honour’s pardon, that I came hither — for I heard the country was to be up to choose an Abbot of Unreason, and sure, thought I, I that can sing, dance, leap backwards over a broadsword, and am as good a fool as ever sought promotion, have all chance of carrying the office; and if I gain my election, I may stand his honour’s brother in some stead, supposing things fall roughly out at the Kirk of Saint Mary’s.”

“Thou art but a cogging knave,” said Sir Halbert, “and well I wot, that love of ale and brandy, besides the humour of riot and frolic, would draw thee a mile, when love of my house would not bring thee a yard. But, go to — carry thy roisterers elsewhere — to the alehouse if they list, and there are crowns to pay your charges — make out the day’s madness without doing more mischief, and be wise men tomorrow — and hereafter learn to serve a good cause better than by acting like buffoons or ruffians.”

Obedient to his master’s mandate, the falconer was collecting his discouraged followers, and whispering into their ears —“Away, away — tace is Latin for a candle — never mind the good Knight’s puritanism — we will play the frolic out over a stand of double ale in Dame Martin the Brewster’s barn-yard — draw off, harp and tabor — bagpipe and drum — mum till you are out of the church-yard, then let the welkin ring again — move on, wolf and bear — keep the hind legs till you cross the kirk-stile, and then show yourselves beasts of mettle — what devil sent him here to spoil our holiday!— but anger him not, my hearts; his lance is no goose-feather, as Dan’s ribs can tell.”

“By my soul,” said Dan, “had it been another than my ancient comrade, I would have made my father’s old fox 20 fly about his ears!”

“Hush! hush! man,” replied Adam Woodcock, “not a word that way, as you value the safety of your bones — what man? we must take a clink as it passes, so it is not bestowed in downright ill-will.”

“But I will take no such thing,” said Dan of the Howlet-hirst, suddenly resisting the efforts of Woodcock, who was dragging him out of the church; when the quick military eye of Sir Halbert Glendinning detecting Roland Graeme betwixt his two guards, the Knight exclaimed, “So ho! falconer,— Woodcock,— knave, hast thou brought my Lady’s page in mine own livery, to assist at this hopeful revel of thine, with your wolves and bears? Since you were at such mummings, you might, if you would, have at least saved the credit of my household, by dressing him up as a jackanapes — bring him hither, fellows!”

Adam Woodcock was too honest and downright, to permit blame to light upon the youth, when it was undeserved. “I swear,” he said, “by Saint Martin of Bullions —” 21

“And what hast thou to do with Saint Martin?”

“Nay, little enough, sir, unless when he sends such rainy days that we cannot fly a hawk — but I say to your worshipful knighthood, that as I am, a true man ——”

“As you are a false varlet, had been the better obtestation.”

“Nay, if your knighthood allows me not to speak,” said Adam, “I can hold my tongue — but the boy came not hither by my bidding, for all that.”

“But to gratify his own malapert pleasure, I warrant me,” said Sir Halbert Glendinning —“Come hither, young springald, and tell me whether you have your mistress’s license to be so far absent from the castle, or to dishonour my livery by mingling in such a May-game?”

“Sir Halbert Glendinning,” answered Roland Graeme with steadiness, “I have obtained the permission, or rather the commands, of your lady, to dispose of my time hereafter according to my own pleasure. I have been a most unwilling spectator of this May-game, since it is your pleasure so to call it; and I only wear your livery until I can obtain clothes which bear no such badge of servitude.”

“How am I to understand this, young man?” said Sir Halbert Glendinning; “speak plainly, for I am no reader of riddles.— That my lady favoured thee, I know. What hast thou done to disoblige her, and occasion thy dismissal?”

“Nothing to speak of,” said Adam Woodcock, answering for the boy —“a foolish quarrel with me, which was more foolishly told over again to my honoured lady, cost the poor boy his place. For my part, I will say freely, that I was wrong from beginning to end, except about the washing of the eyas’s meat. There I stand to it that I was right.”

With that, the good-natured falconer repeated to his master the whole history of the squabble which had brought Roland Graeme into disgrace with his mistress, but in a manner so favourable for the page, that Sir Halbert could not but suspect his generous motive.

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