The Abbot, Walter Scott [best novels to read for beginners txt] 📗
- Author: Walter Scott
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“He hath my order for such interference,” said the Regent—“Has any one been hurt?”
“George of Seyton himself, by black Ralph Leslie—the devil take the rapier that ran not through from side to side! Ralph has a bloody coxcomb, by a blow from a messan-page whom nobody knew—Dick Seyton of Windygowl is run through the arm, and two gallants of the Leslies have suffered phlebotomy. This is all the gentle blood which has been spilled in the revel; but a yeoman or two on both sides have had bones broken and ears chopped. The ostlere-wives, who are like to be the only losers by their miscarriage, have dragged the knaves off the street, and are crying a drunken coronach over them.”
“You take it lightly, Douglas,” said the Regent; “these broils and feuds would shame the capital of the great Turk, let alone that of a Christian and reformed state. But, if I live, this gear shall be amended; and men shall say, when they read my story, that if it were my cruel hap to rise to power by the dethronement of a sister, I employed it, when gained, for the benefit of the commonweal.”
“And of your friends,” replied Morton; “wherefore I trust for your instant order annulling the election of this lurdane Abbot, Edward Glendinning.”
“You shall be presently satisfied.” said the Regent; and stepping forward, he began to call, “So ho, Hyndman!” when suddenly his eye lighted on Roland Graeme—“By my faith, Douglas,” said he, turning to his friend, “here have been three at counsel!”
“Ay, but only two can keep counsel,” said Morton; “the galliard must be disposed of.”
“For shame, Morton—an orphan boy!—Hearken thee, my child—Thou hast told me some of thy accomplishments—canst thou speak truth?” “Ay, my lord, when it serves my turn,” replied Graeme.
“It shall serve thy turn now,” said the Regent; “and falsehood shall be thy destruction. How much hast thou heard or understood of what we two have spoken together?”
“But little, my lord,” replied Roland Graeme boldly, “which met my apprehension, saving that it seemed to me as if in something you doubted the faith of the Knight of Avenel, under whose roof I was nurtured.”
“And what hast thou to say on that point, young man?” continued the Regent, bending his eyes upon him with a keen and strong expression of observation.
“That,” said the page, “depends on the quality of those who speak against his honour whose bread I have long eaten. If they be my inferiors, I say they lie, and will maintain what I say with my baton; if my equals, still I say they lie, and will do battle in the quarrel, if they list, with my sword; if my superiors”—he paused.
“Proceed boldly,” said the Regent—“What if thy superiors said aught that nearly touched your master's honour?”
“I would say,” replied Graeme, “that he did ill to slander the absent, and that my master was a man who could render an account of his actions to any one who should manfully demand it of him to his face.”
“And it were manfully said,” replied the Regent—“what thinkest thou, my Lord of Morton?”
“I think,” replied Morton, “that if the young galliard resemble a certain ancient friend of ours, as much in the craft of his disposition as he does in eye and in brow, there may be a wide difference betwixt what he means and what he speaks.”
“And whom meanest thou that he resembles so closely?” said Murray.
“Even the true and trusty Julian Avenel,” replied Morton.
“But this youth belongs to the Debateable Land,” said Murray.
“It may be so; but Julian was an outlaying striker of venison, and made many a far cast when he had a fair doe in chase.”
“Pshaw!” said the Regent, “this is but idle talk—Here, thou Hyndman—thou curiosity,” calling to the usher, who now entered,—“conduct this youth to his companion—You will both,” he said to Graeme, “keep yourselves in readiness to travel on short notice.”—And then motioning to him courteously to withdraw, he broke up the interview.
Chapter the Nineteenth. It is and is not—'tis the thing I sought for, Have kneel'd for, pray'd for, risk'd my fame and life for, And yet it is not—no more than the shadow Upon the hard, cold, flat, and polished mirror, Is the warm, graceful, rounded, living substance Which it presents in form and lineament. OLD PLAY.
The usher, with gravity which ill concealed a jealous scowl, conducted Roland Graeme to a lower apartment, where he found his comrade the falconer. The man of office then briefly acquainted them that this would be their residence till his Grace's farther orders; that they were to go to the pantry, to the buttery, to the cellar, and to the kitchen, at the usual hours, to receive the allowances becoming their station,—instructions which Adam Woodcock's old familiarity with the court made him perfectly understand—“For your beds,” he said, “you must go to the hostelry of Saint Michael's, in respect the palace is now full of the domestics of the greater nobles.”
No sooner was the usher's back turned than Adam exclaimed with all the glee of eager curiosity, “And now, Master Roland, the news—the news—come unbutton thy pouch, and give us thy tidings—What says the Regent? asks he for Adam Woodcock?—and is all soldered up, or must the Abbot of Unreason strap for it?”
“All is well in that quarter,” said the page; “and for the rest—But, hey-day, what! have you taken the chain and medal off from my bonnet?”
“And meet time it was, when yon usher, vinegar-faced rogue that he is, began to inquire what Popish trangam you were wearing.—By the mass, the metal would have been confiscated for conscience-sake, like your other rattle-trap yonder at Avenel, which Mistress Lilias bears about on her shoes in the guise of a pair of shoe-buckles—This comes of carrying Popish nicknackets about you.”
“The jade!” exclaimed Roland Graeme, “has she melted down my rosary into buckles for her clumsy hoofs, which will set off such a garnish nearly as well as a cow's might?—But, hang her, let her keep them—many a dog's trick have I played old Lilias, for want of having something better to do, and the buckles will serve for a remembrance. Do you remember the verjuice I put into the comfits, when old Wingate and she were to breakfast together on Easter morning?”
“In troth do I, Master Roland—the major-domo's mouth was as crooked as a hawk's beak for the whole morning afterwards, and any other page in your room would have tasted the discipline of the porter's lodge for it. But my Lady's favour stood between your skin and many a jerking—Lord send you may be the better for her protection in such matters!”
“I am least grateful for it, Adam! and I am glad you put me in mind of
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