The Abbot by Walter Scott (classic fiction .TXT) 📗

that I know. Shall my mignóne Catherine sing to her one of those touching airs, which draw the very souls out of me and Roland Graeme?—Alas! Dame Margaret Douglas would rather hear a Huguenot psalm of Clement Marrot, sung to the tune of Reveillez vous, belle endormie.—Cousins and liege counsellors, what is to be done, for our wits are really astray in this matter?—Must our man-at-arms and the champion of our body, Roland Graeme, manfully assault the old lady, and take the keys from her par voie du fait?”

“Nay! with your Grace's permission.” said Roland, “I do not doubt being able to manage the matter with more discretion; for though, in your Grace's service, I do not fear—”

“A host of old women,” interrupted Catherine, “each armed with rock and spindle, yet he has no fancy for pikes and partisans, which might rise at the cry of Help! a Douglas, a Douglas!”

“They that do not fear fair ladies' tongues,” continued the page, “need dread nothing else.—But, gracious Liege, I am well-nigh satisfied that I could pass the exchange of these keys on the Lady Lochleven; but I dread the sentinel who is now planted nightly in the garden, which, by necessity, we must traverse.”

“Our last advices from our friends on the shore have promised us assistance in that matter,” replied the Queen.

“And is your Grace well assured of the fidelity and watchfulness of those without?”

“For their fidelity, I will answer with my life, and for their vigilance, I will answer with my life—I will give thee instant proof, my faithful Roland, that they are ingenuous and trusty as thyself. Come hither—Nay, Catherine, attend us; we carry not so deft a page into our private chamber alone. Make fast the door of the parlour, Fleming, and warn us if you hear the least step—or stay, go thou to the door, Catherine,” (in a whisper, “thy ears and thy wits are both sharper.)—Good Fleming, attend us thyself”—(and again she whispered, “her reverend presence will be as safe a watch on Roland as thine can—so be not jealous, mignone.”)

Thus speaking, they were lighted by the Lady Fleming into the Queen's bedroom, a small apartment enlightened by a projecting window.

“Look from that window, Roland,” she said; “see you amongst the several lights which begin to kindle, and to glimmer palely through the gray of the evening from the village of Kinross-seest thou, I say, one solitary spark apart from the others, and nearer it seems to the verge of the water?—It is no brighter at this distance than the torch of the poor glowworm, and yet, my good youth, that light is more dear to Mary Stuart, than every star that twinkles in the blue vault of heaven. By that signal, I know that more than one true heart is plotting my deliverance; and without that consciousness, and the hope of freedom it gives me, I had long since stooped to my fate, and died of a broken heart. Plan after plan has been formed and abandoned, but still the light glimmers; and while it glimmers, my hope lives.—Oh! how many evenings have I sat musing in despair over our ruined schemes, and scarce hoping that I should again see that blessed signal; when it has suddenly kindled, and, like the lights of Saint Elmo in a tempest, brought hope and consolation, where there, was only dejection and despair!”

“If I mistake not,” answered Roland, “the candle shines from the house of Blinkhoolie, the mail-gardener.”

“Thou hast a good eye,” said the Queen; “it is there where my trusty lieges—God and the saints pour blessings on them!—hold consultation for my deliverance. The voice of a wretched captive would die on these blue waters, long ere it could mingle in their councils; and yet I can hold communication—I will confide the whole to thee—I am about to ask those faithful friends if the moment for the great attempt is nigh.—Place the lamp in the window, Fleming.”

She obeyed, and immediately withdrew it. No sooner had she done so, than the light in the cottage of the gardener disappeared.

“Now count,” said Queen Mary, “for my heart beats so thick that I cannot count myself.”

The Lady Fleming began deliberately to count one, two, three, and when she had arrived at ten, the light on the shore showed its pale twinkle.

“Now, our Lady be praised!” said the Queen; “it was but two nights since, that the absence of the light remained while I could tell thirty. The hour of deliverance approaches. May God bless those who labour in it with such truth to me!—alas! with such hazard to themselves—and bless you, too, my children!—Come, we must to the audience-chamber again. Our absence might excite suspicion, should they serve supper.”

They returned to the presence-chamber, and the evening concluded as usual.

The next morning, at dinner-time, an unusual incident occurred. While Lady Douglas of Lochleven performed her daily duty of assistant and taster at the Queen's table, she was told a man-at-arms had arrived, recommended by her son, but without any letter or other token than what he brought by word of mouth.

“Hath he given you that token?” demanded the Lady.

“He reserved it, as I think, for your Ladyship's ear,” replied Randal.

“He doth well,” said the Lady; “tell him to wait in the hall—But no—with your permission, madam,” (to the Queen) “let him attend me here.”

“Since you are pleased to receive your domestics in my presence,” said the Queen, “I cannot choose—”

“My infirmities must plead my excuse, madam,” replied the Lady; “the life I must lead here ill suits with the years which have passed over my head, and compels me to waive ceremonial.”

“Oh, my good Lady,” replied the Queen, “I would there were nought in this your castle more strongly compulsive than the cobweb chains of ceremony; but bolts and bars are harder matters to contend with.”

As she spoke, the person announced by Randal entered the room, and Roland Graeme at once recognized in him the Abbot Ambrosius.

“What is your name, good fellow?” said the Lady.

“Edward Glendinning,” answered the Abbot, with a suitable reverence.

“Art thou of the blood of the Knight of Avenel?” said the Lady of Lochleven.

“Ay, madam, and that nearly,” replied the pretended soldier.

“It is likely enough,” said the Lady, “for the Knight is the son of his own good works, and has risen from obscure lineage to his present high rank in the Estate—But he is of sure truth and approved worth, and his kinsman is welcome to us. You hold, unquestionably, the true faith?”

“Do not doubt of it, madam,” said the disguised churchman.

“Hast thou a token to me from Sir William Douglas?” said the Lady.

“I have, madam,” replied he; “but it must be said in private.”

“Thou art right,” said the Lady, moving towards the recess of a window; “say in what does it consist?”

“In the words of an old bard,” replied the Abbot.