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

and it is my firm belief you have this day done him more pain than if you had run a poniard into him.”

“Run a needle into him you mean, Abbot,” said the Earl of Morton; “by mine honour, I thought this grandson of a fashioner of doublets was descended from a crowned head at least!”

“I hold with the Abbot,” said Murray; “there were little honour in surrendering him to Elizabeth, but he shall be sent where he can do her no injury. Our pursuivant and Bolton shall escort him to Dunbar, and ship him off for Flanders.—But soft, here he comes, and leading a female, as I think.”

“Lords and others,” said the English knight with great solemnity, “make way for the Lady of Piercie Shafton—a secret which I listed not to make known, till fate, which hath betrayed what I vainly strove to conceal, makes me less desirous to hide that which I now announce to you.”

“It is Mysie Happer, the Miller's daughter, on my life!” said Tibb Tacket. “I thought the pride of these Piercies would have a fa'.”

“It is indeed the lovely Mysinda,” said the knight, “whose merits towards her devoted servant deserved higher rank than he had to bestow.”

“I suspect, though,” said Murray, “that we should not have heard of the Miller's daughter being made a lady, had not the knight proved to be the grandson of a tailor.”

“My lord,” said Piercie Shafton, “it is poor valour to strike him that cannot smite again; and I hope you will consider what is due to a prisoner by the law of arms, and say nothing more on this odious subject. When I am once more mine own man, I will find a new road to dignity.”

“Shape one, I presume,” said the Earl of Morton.

“Nay, Douglas, you will drive him mad,”—said Murray; “besides, we have other matter in hand—I must see Warden wed Glendinning with Mary Avenel, and put him in possession of his wife's castle without delay. It will be best done ere our forces leave these parts.”

“And I,” said the Miller, “have the like grist to grind; for I hope some one of the good fathers will wed my wench with her gay bridegroom.”

“It needs not,” said Shafton; “the ceremonial hath been solemnly performed.”

“It will not be the worse of another bolting,” said the Miller; “it is always best to be sure, as I say when I chance to take multure twice from the same meal-sack.”

“Stave the miller off him,” said Murray, “or he will worry him dead. The Abbot, my lord, offers us the hospitality of the Convent; I move we should repair hither, Sir Piercie and all of us. I must learn to know the Maid of Avenel—to-morrow I must act as her father—All Scotland shall see how Murray can reward a faithful servant.”

Mary Avenel and her lover avoided meeting the Abbot, and took up their temporary abode in a house of the village, where next day their hands were united by the Protestant preacher in presence of the two Earls. On the same day Piercie Shafton and his bride departed, under an escort which was to conduct him to the sea-side, and see him embark for the Low Countries. Early on the following morning the bands of the Earls were under march to the Castle of Avenel, to invest the young bridegroom with the property of his wife, which was surrendered to them without opposition.

But not without those omens which seemed to mark every remarkable event which befell the fated family, did Mary take possession of the ancient castle of her forefathers. The same warlike form which had appeared more than once at Glendearg, was seen by Tibb Tacket and Martin, who returned with their young mistress to partake her altered fortunes. It glided before the cavalcade as they advanced upon the long causeway, paused at each drawbridge, and flourished its hand, as in triumph, as it disappeared under the gloomy archway, which was surmounted by the insignia of the house of Avenel. The two trusty servants made their vision only known to Dame Glendinning, who, with much pride of heart, had accompanied her son to see him take his rank among the barons of the land. “Oh, my dear bairn!” she exclaimed, when she heard the tale, “the castle is a grand place to be sure, but I wish ye dinna a' desire to be back in the quiet braes of Glendearg before the play be played out.” But this natural reflection, springing from maternal anxiety, was soon forgotten amid the busy and pleasing task of examining and admiring the new habitation of her son.

While these affairs were passing, Edward had hidden himself and his sorrows in the paternal Tower of Glendearg, where every object was full of matter for bitter reflection. The Abbot's kindness had despatched him thither upon pretence of placing some papers belonging to the Abbey in safety and secrecy; but in reality to prevent his witnessing the triumph of his brother. Through the deserted apartments, the scene of so many bitter reflections, the unhappy youth stalked like a discontented ghost, conjuring up around him at every step new subjects for sorrow and for self-torment. Impatient, at length, of the state of irritation and agonized recollection in which he found himself, he rushed out and walked hastily up the glen, as if to shake off the load which hung upon his mind. The sun was setting when he reached the entrance of Corri-nan-shian, and the recollection of what he had seen when he last visited that haunted ravine, burst on his mind. He was in a humour, however, rather to seek out danger than to avoid it.

“I will face this mystic being,” he said; “she foretold the fate which has wrapt me in this dress,—I will know whether she has aught else to tell me of a life which cannot but be miserable.”

He failed not to see the White Spirit seated by her accustomed haunt, and singing in her usual low and sweet tone. While she sung, she seemed to look with sorrow on her golden zone, which was now diminished to the fineness of a silken thread.

“Fare thee well, thou Holly green, Thou shall seldom now be seen, With all thy glittering garlands bending, As to greet my slow descending, Startling the bewilder'd hind. Who sees thee wave without a wind. “Farewell, Fountain! now not long Shalt thou murmur to my song, While thy crystal bubbles glancing, Keep the time in mystic dancing, Rise and swell, are burst and lost, Like mortal schemes by fortune crost. “The knot of fate at length is tied, The Churl is Lord, the Maid is bride. Vainly did my magic sleight Send the lover from her sight; Wither bush, and perish well, Fall'n is lofty Avenel!”

The vision seemed to weep while she sung; and the words impressed on Edward a melancholy belief, that the alliance of Mary with his brother might be fatal to them both.

Here terminates the First Part of the Benedictine's Manuscript. I have in vain endeavoured to ascertain the precise period of the story, as the dates cannot be exactly reconciled with those of the most accredited histories. But it is astonishing how careless the writers of Utopia are upon these important subjects. I observe that the learned Mr. Laurence Templeton, in his late publication entitled IVANHOE, has not only blessed the bed of Edward the Confessor with an offspring unknown to history, with sundry other solecisms of the same kind, but has