“Oh, night of wo,” she said, and wept,
“Oh, night foreboding sorrow!
“Oh, night of wo,” she said and wept,
“But more I dread the morrow!”
SIR GILBERT ELLIOT.
The fatigue which had exhausted Flammock and the monk, was unfelt by the two anxious maidens, who remained with their eyes bent, now upon the dim landscape, now on the stars by which it was lighted, as if they could have read there the events which the morrow was to bring forth. It was a placid and melancholy scene. Tree and field, and hill and plain, lay before them in doubtful light, while at greater distance, their eye could with difficulty trace one or two places where the river, hidden in general by banks and trees, spread its more expanded bosom to the stars, and the pale crescent. All was still, excepting the solemn rush of the waters, and now and then the shrill tinkle of a harp, which, heard from more than a mile’s distance through the midnight silence, announced that some of the Welshmen still protracted their most beloved amusement. The wild notes, partially heard, seemed like the voice of some passing spirit; and, connected as they were with ideas of fierce and unrelenting hostility, thrilled on Eveline’s ear, as if prophetic of war and wo, captivity and death. The only other sounds which disturbed the extreme stillness of the night, were the occasional step of a sentinel upon his post, or the hooting of the owls, which seemed to wail the approaching downfall of the moonlight turrets, in which they had established their ancient habitations.
The calmness of all around seemed to press like a weight on the bosom of the unhappy Eveline, and brought to her mind a deeper sense of present grief, and keener apprehension of future horrors, than had reigned there during the bustle, blood, and confusion of the preceding day. She rose up — she sat down — she moved to and fro on the platform — she remained fixed like a statue to a single spot, as if she were trying by variety of posture to divert her internal sense of fear and sorrow.
At length, looking at the monk and the Fleming as they slept soundly under the shade of the battlement, she could no longer forbear breaking silence. “Men are happy,” she said, “my beloved Rose; their anxious thoughts are either diverted by toilsome exertion, or drowned in the insensibility which follows it. They may encounter wounds and death, but it is we who feel in the spirit a more keen anguish than the body knows, and in the gnawing sense of present ill and fear of future misery, suffer a living death, more cruel than that which ends our woes at once.”
“Do not be thus downcast, my noble lady,” said Rose; “be rather what you were yesterday, caring for the wounded, for the aged, for every one but yourself — exposing even your dear life among the showers of the Welsh arrows, when doing so could give courage to others; while I— shame on me — could but tremble, sob, and weep, and needed all the little wit I have to prevent my shouting with the wild cries of the Welsh, or screaming and groaning with those of our friends who fell around me.”
“Alas! Rose,” answered her mistress, “you may at pleasure indulge your fears to the verge of distraction itself — you have a father to fight and watch for you. Mine — my kind, noble, and honoured parent, lies dead on yonder field, and all which remains for me is to act as may best become his memory. But this moment is at least mine, to think upon and to mourn for him.”
So saying, and overpowered by the long-repressed burst of filial sorrow, she sunk down on the banquette which ran along the inside of the embattled parapet of the platform, and murmuring to herself, “He is gone for ever!” abandoned herself to the extremity of grief. One hand grasped unconsciously the weapon which she held, and served, at the same time, to prop her forehead, while the tears, by which she was now for the first time relieved, flowed in torrents from her eyes, and her sobs seemed so convulsive, that Rose almost feared her heart was bursting. Her affection and sympathy dictated at once the kindest course which Eveline’s condition permitted. Without attempting to control the torrent of grief in its full current, she gently sat her down beside the mourner, and possessing herself of the hand which had sunk motionless by her side, she alternately pressed it to her lips, her bosom, and her brow — now covered it with kisses, now bedewed it with tears, and amid these tokens of the most devoted and humble sympathy, waited a more composed moment to offer her little stock of consolation in such deep silence and stillness, that, as the pale light fell upon the two beautiful young women, it seemed rather to show a group of statuary, the work of some eminent sculptor, than beings whose eyes still wept, and whose hearts still throbbed. At a little distance, the gleaming corslet of the Fleming, and the dark garments of Father Aldrovand, as they lay prostrate on the stone steps, might represent the bodies of those for whom the principal figures were mourning.
After a deep agony of many minutes, it seemed that the sorrows of Eveline were assuming a more composed character; her convulsive sobs were changed for long, low, profound sighs, and the course of her tears, though they still flowed, was milder and less violent. Her kind attendant, availing herself of these gentler symptoms, tried softly to win the spear from her lady’s grasp. “Let me be sentinel for a while.” she said, “my sweet lady — I will at least scream louder than you, if any danger should approach.” She ventured to kiss her cheek, and throw her arms around Eveline’s neck while she spoke; but a mute caress, which expressed her sense of the faithful girl’s kind intentions to minister if possible to her repose, was the only answer returned. They remained for many minutes silent in the same posture,— Eveline, like an upright and tender poplar,— Rose, who encircled her lady in her arms, like the woodbine which twines around it.
At length Rose suddenly felt her young mistress shiver in her embrace, and then Eveline’s hand grasped her arm rigidly as she whispered, “Do you hear nothing?”
“No — nothing but the hooting of the owl,” answered Rose, timorously.
“I heard a distant sound,” said Eveline,—“I thought I heard it — hark, it comes again!— Look from the battlements, Rose, while I awaken the priest and thy father.”
“Dearest lady,” said Rose, “I dare not — what can this sound be that is heard by one only?— You are deceived by the rush of the river.”
“I would not alarm the castle unnecessarily,” said Eveline, pausing, “or even break your father’s needful slumbers, by a fancy of mine — But hark — I hear it again — distinct amidst the intermitting sounds of the rushing water — a low tremulous sound, mingled with a tinkling like smiths or armourers at work upon their anvils.”
Rose had by this time sprung up on the banquette, and flinging back her rich tresses of fair hair, had applied her hand behind her ear to collect the distant sound. “I hear it,” she cried, “and it increases — Awake them, for Heaven’s sake, and without a moment’s delay!”
Eveline accordingly stirred the sleepers with the reversed end of the lance, and as they started to their feet in haste, she whispered in a hasty but cautious voice, “To arms — the Welsh are upon us!” “What — where?” said Wilkin Flammock,—“where be they?”
“Listen, and you will hear them arming,” she replied.
“The noise is but in thine own fancy, lady,” said the Fleming, whose organs were of the same heavy character with his form and his disposition. “I would I had not gone to sleep at all, since I was to be awakened so soon.”
“Nay, but listen, good Flammock-the sound of armour comes from the north-east.”
“The Welsh lie not in that quarter, lady,” said Wilkin; “and besides, they wear no armour.”
“I hear it — I hear it!” said Father Aldrovand, who had been listening for some time. “All praise to St. Benedict!— Our Lady of the Garde Doloureuse has been gracious to her servants as ever!— It is the tramp of horses — it is the clash of armour — the chivalry of the Marches are coming to our relief-Kyrie Eleison!”
“I hear something too,” said Flammock,—“something like the hollow sound of the great sea, when it burst into my neighbour Klinkerman’s warehouse, and rolled his pots and pans against each other. But it were an evil mistake, father, to take foes for friends — we were best rouse the people.”
“Tush!” said the priest, “talk to me of pots and kettles?— Was I, squire of the body to Count Stephen Mauleverer for twenty years, and do I not know the tramp of a war-horse, or the clash of a mail-coat?— But call the men to the walls at any rate, and have me the best drawn up at the base-court — we may help them by a sally.”
“That will not be rashly undertaken with my consent,” murmured the Fleming; “but to the wall if you will, and 111 good time. But keep your Normans and English silent, Sir Priest, else their unruly and noisy joy will awaken the Welsh camp, and prepare them for their unwelcome visitors.”
The monk laid his finger on his lip in sign of obedience, and they parted in opposite directions, each to rouse the defenders of the castle, who were soon heard drawing from all quarters to their posts upon the walls, with hearts in a very different mood from that in which they had descended from them. The utmost caution being used to prevent noise, the manning of the walls was accomplished in silence, and the garrison awaited in, breathless expectation the success of the forces who were rapidly advancing to their relief.
The character of the sounds which now loudly awakened the silence of this eventful night, could no longer be mistaken. They were distinguishable from the rushing of a mighty river, or from the muttering sound of distant thunder, by the sharp and angry notes which the clashing of the rider’s arms mingled with the deep bass of the horses’ rapid tread. From the long continuance of the sounds, their loudness, and the extent of horizon from which they seemed to come, all in the castle were satisfied that the approaching relief consisted of several very strong bodies of horse. [Footnote: Even the sharp and angry clang made by the iron scabbards of modern cavalry ringing against the steel-tipp’d saddles and stirrup, betrays their approach from a distance. The clash of the armour of knights, armed cap-a-pie , must have been much more easily discernible.] At once this mighty sound ceased, as if the earth on which they trod had either devoured the armed squadrons or had become incapable of resounding to their tramp. The defenders of the Garde Doloureuse concluded that their friends had made a sudden halt, to give their horses breath, examine the leaguer of the enemy, and settle the order ............