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

the Euphuist flung from him the mantle in which he was muffled. “Via the cloud that shadowed Shafton!” said he; “behold, my lords, the Knight of Wilverton, who spares you the guilt of violence and sacrilege.”

“I protest before God and man against any infraction of the privileges of this house,” said the Abbot, “by an attempt to impose violent hands upon the person of this noble knight. If there be yet spirit in a Scottish Parliament, we will make you hear of this elsewhere, my lords!”

“Spare your threats,” said Murray; “it may be, my purpose with Sir Piercie Shafton is not such as thou dost suppose—Attach him, pursuivant, as our prisoner, rescue or no rescue.”

“I yield myself,” said the Euphuist, “reserving my right to defy my Lord of Murray and my Lord of Morton to single duel, even as one gentleman may demand satisfaction of another.”

“You shall not want those who will answer your challenge, Sir Knight,” replied Morton, “without aspiring to men above thine own degree.”

“And where am I to find these superlative champions,” said the English knight, “whose blood runs more pure than that of Piercie Shafton?”

“Here is a flight for you, my lord!” said Murray.

“As ever was flown by a wild-goose,” said Stawarth Bolton, who had now approached to the front of the party.

“Who dared to say that word?” said the Euphuist, his face crimson with rage.

“Tut! man,” said Bolton, “make the best of it, thy mother's father was but a tailor, old Overstitch of Holderness—Why, what! because thou art a misproud bird, and despiseth thine own natural lineage, and rufflest in unpaid silks and velvets, and keepest company with gallants and cutters, must we lose our memory for that? Thy mother, Moll Overstitch, was the prettiest wench in those parts—she was wedded by wild Shafton of Wilverton, who men say, was akin to the Piercie on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“Help the knight to some strong waters,” said Morton; “he hath fallen from such a height, that he is stunned with the tumble.”

In fact, Sir Piercie Shafton looked like a man stricken by a thunderbolt, while, notwithstanding the seriousness of the scene hitherto, no one of those present, not even the Abbot himself, could refrain from laughing at the rueful and mortified expression of his face.

“Laugh on,” he said at length, “laugh on, my masters,” shrugging his shoulders; “it is not for me to be offended—yet would I know full fain from that squire who is laughing with the loudest, how he had discovered this unhappy blot in an otherwise spotless lineage, and for what purpose he hath made it known?”

“I make it known?” said Halbert Glendinning, in astonishment,—for to him this pathetic appeal was made,—“I never heard the thing till this moment.”

{Footnote: The contrivance of provoking the irritable vanity of Sir Piercie Shafton, by presenting him with a bodkin, indicative of his descent from a tailor, is borrowed from a German romance, by the celebrated Tieck, called Das Peter Manchem, i. e. The Dwarf Peter. The being who gives name to the tale, is the Burg-geist, or castle spectre, of a German family, whom he aids with his counsel, as he defends their castle by his supernatural power. But the Dwarf Peter is so unfortunate an adviser, that all his counsels, though producing success in the immediate results, are in the issue attended with mishap and with guilt. The youthful baron, the owner of the haunted castle, falls in love with a maiden, the daughter of a neighbouring count, a man of great pride, who refuses him the hand of the young lady, on account of his own superiority of descent. The lover, repulsed and affronted, returns to take counsel with the Dwarf Peter, how he may silence the count, and obtain the victory in the argument, the next time they enter on the topic of pedigree. The dwarf gives his patron or pupil a horse-shoe, instructing him to give it to the count when he is next giving himself superior airs on the subject of his family. It has the effect accordingly. The count, understanding it as an allusion to a misalliance of one of his ancestors with the daughter of a blacksmith, is thrown into a dreadful passion with the young lover, the consequences of which are the seduction of the young lady, and the slaughter of her father.

If we suppose the dwarf to represent the corrupt part of human nature,—that “law in our members which wars against the law of our minds,”—the work forms an ingenious allegory.}

“Why, did not that old rude soldier learn it from thee?” said the knight, in increasing amazement.

“Not I, by Heaven!” said Bolton; “I never saw the youth in my life before.”

“But you have seen him ere now, my worthy master,” said Dame Glendinning, bursting in her turn from the crowd. “My son, this is Stawarth Bolton, he to whom we owe life, and the means of preserving it—if he be a prisoner, as seems most likely, use thine interest with these noble lords to be kind to the widow's friend.”

“What, my Dame of the Glen!” said Bolton, “thy brow is more withered, as well as mine, since we met last, but thy tongue holds the touch better than my arm. This boy of thine gave me the foil sorely this morning. The Brown Varlet has turned as stout a trooper as I prophesied; and where is White Head?”

“Alas!” said the mother, looking down, “Edward has taken orders, and become a monk of this Abbey.”

“A monk and a soldier!—Evil trades both, my good dame. Better have made one a good master fashioner, like old Overstitch, of Holderness. I sighed when I envied you the two bonny children, but I sigh not now to call either the monk or the soldier mine own. The soldier dies in the field, the monk scarce lives in the cloister.”

“My dearest mother,” said Halbert, “where is Edward—can I not speak with him?”

“He has just left us for the present,” said Father Philip, “upon a message from the Lord Abbot.”

“And Mary, my dearest mother?” said Halbert.—Mary Avenel was not far distant, and the three were soon withdrawn from the crowd, to hear and relate their various chances of fortune.

While the subordinate personages thus disposed of themselves, the Abbot held serious discussion with the two Earls, and, partly yielding to their demands, partly defending himself with skill and eloquence, was enabled to make a composition for his Convent, which left it provisionally in no worse situation than before. The Earls were the more reluctant to drive matters to extremity, since he protested, that if urged beyond what his conscience would comply with, he would throw the whole lands of the Monastery into the Queen of Scotland's hands, to be disposed of at her pleasure. This would not have answered the views of the Earls, who were contented, for the time, with a moderate sacrifice of money and lands. Matters being so far settled, the Abbot became anxious for the fate of Sir Piercie Shafton, and implored mercy in his behalf.

“He is a coxcomb,” he said, “my lords, but he is a generous, though a vain fool;