The Monastery, Walter Scott [if you liked this book txt] 📗

the dead or wounded, he could discover any traces of his brother Edward. He experienced no interruption from the English. A distant cloud of dust announced that they were still pursuing the scattered fugitives, and he guessed, that to approach them with his followers, until they were again under some command, would be to throw away his own life, and that of his men, whom the victors would instantly confound with the Scots, against whom they had been successful. He resolved, therefore, to pause until Murray came up with his forces, to which he was the more readily moved, as he heard the trumpets of the English Warden sounding the retreat, and recalling from the pursuit. He drew his men together, and made a stand in an advantageous spot of ground, which had been occupied by the Scots in the beginning of the action, and most fiercely disputed while the skirmish lasted.

While he stood here, Halbert's ear was assailed by the feeble moan of a woman, which he had not expected to hear amid that scene, until the retreat of the foes had permitted the relations of the slain to approach, for the purpose of paying them the last duties. He looked with anxiety, and at length observed, that by the body of a knignt in bright armour, whose crest, though soiled and broken, still showed the marks of rank and birth, there sat a female wrapped in a horseman's cloak, and holding something pressed against her bosom, which he soon discovered to be a child. He glanced towards the English. They advanced not, and the continued and prolonged sound of their trumpets, with the shouts of the leaders, announced that their powers would not be instantly re-assembled. He had, therefore, a moment to look after this unfortunate woman. He gave his horse to a spearman as he dismounted, and, approaching the unhappy female, asked her, in the most soothing tone he could assume, whether he could assist her in her distress. The mourner made him no direct answer; but endeavouring, with a trembling and unskilful hand, to undo the springs of the visor and gorget, said, in a tone of impatient grief, “Oh, he would recover instantly could I but give him air—land and living, life and honour, would I give for the power of undoing these cruel iron platings that suffocate him!” He that would soothe sorrow must not argue on the vanity of the most deceitful hopes. The body lay as that of one whose last draught of vital air had been drawn, and who must never more have concern with the nether sky. But Halbert Glendinning failed not to raise the visor and cast loose the gorget, when, to his great surprise, he recognized the pale face of Julian Avenel. His last fight was over, the fierce and turbid spirit had departed in the strife in which it had so long delighted.

“Alas! he is gone,” said Halbert, speaking to the young woman, in whom he had now no difficulty of knowing the unhappy Catherine.

“Oh, no, no, no!” she reiterated, “do not say so—he is not dead—he is but in a swoon. I have lain as long in one myself—and then his voice would arouse me, when he spoke kindly, and said, Catherine, look up for my sake—And look up, Julian, for mine!” she said, addressing the senseless corpse; “I know you do but counterfeit to frighten me, but I am not frightened,” she added, with an hysterical attempt to laugh; and then instantly changing her tone, entreated him to “speak, were it but to curse my folly. Oh, the rudest word you ever said to me would now sound like the dearest you wasted on me before I gave you all. Lift him up,” she said, “lift him up, for God's sake!—have you no compassion? He promised to wed me if I bore him a boy, and this child is so like to its father!—How shall he keep his word, if you do not help me to awaken him?—Christie of the Clinthill, Rowley, Hutcheon! ye were constant at his feast, but ye fled from him at the fray, false villains as ye are!”

“Not I, by Heaven!” said a dying man, who made some shift to raise himself on his elbow, and discovered to Halbert the well-known features of Christie; “I fled not a foot, and a man can but fight while his breath lasts—mine is going fast.—So, youngster,” said he, looking at Glendinning, and seeing his military dress, “thou hast ta'en the basnet at last? it is a better cap to live in than die in. I would chance had sent thy brother here instead—there was good in him—but thou art as wild, and wilt soon be as wicked as myself.”

“God forbid!” said Halbert, hastily.

“Marry, and amen, with all my heart,” said the wounded man, “there will be company enow without thee where I am going. But God be praised I had no hand in that wickedness,” said he, looking to poor Catherine; and with some exclamation in his mouth, that sounded betwixt a prayer and a curse, the soul of Christie of the Clinthill took wing to the last account.

Deeply wrapt in the painful interest which these shocking events had excited, Glendinning forgot for a moment his own situation and duties, and was first recalled to them by a trampling of horse, and the cry of Saint George for England, which the English soldiers still continued to use. His handful of men, for most of the stragglers had waited for Murray's coming up, remained on horseback, holding their lances upright, having no command either to submit or resist.

“There stands our Captain,” said one of them, as a strong party of English came up, the vanguard of Foster's troop.

“Your Captain! with his sword sheathed, and on foot in the presence of his enemy? a raw soldier, I warrant him,” said the English leader. “So! ho! young man, is your dream out, and will you now answer me if you will fight or fly?”

“Neither,” answered Halbert Glendinning, with great tranquillity.

“Then throw down thy sword and yield thee,” answered the Englishman.

“Not till I can help myself no otherwise,” said Halbert, with the same moderation of tone and manner.

“Art thou for thine own hand, friend, or to whom dost thou owe service?” demanded the English Captain.

“To the noble Earl of Murray.”

“Then thou servest,” said the Southron, “the most disloyal nobleman who breathes—false both to England and Scotland.”

“Thou liest,” said Glendinning, regardless of all consequences.

“Ha! art thou so hot how, and wert so cold but a minute since? I lie, do I? Wilt thou do battle with me on that quarrel?”

“With one to one—one to two—or two to five, as you list,” said Halbert Glendinning; “grant me but a fair field.”

“That thou shalt have.—Stand back, my mates,” said the brave Englishman. “If I fall, give him fair play, and let him go off free with his people.”

“Long life to the noble Captain!” cried the soldiers, as impatient to see the duel, as if it had been a bull-baiting.

“He will have a short life of it, though,” said the sergeant, “if he, an old man of sixty, is to fight, for any reason, or for no reason, with every man he meets, and especially the young fellows he might be father to.—And here comes the Warden besides to see the sword-play.”

In fact, Sir John Foster came up with a considerable body of his horsemen, just as his Captain, whose age rendered him unequal to the combat with so