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

loose and dishevelled, her fair arm slenderly veiled by her mantle, returned by motion and sign the exulting shouts of the warriors, which echoed for many a furlong around. When the first burst of ecstatic joy was over, she recollected how lightly she was dressed, and, putting her hands to her face, which was covered with blushes at the recollection, withdrew abruptly from the window. The cause of her retreat was easily conjectured, and increased the general enthusiasm for a Princess, who had forgotten her rank in her haste to acknowledge the services of her subjects. The unadorned beauties of the lovely woman, too, moved the military spectators more than the highest display of her regal state might; and what might have seemed too free in her mode of appearing before them, was more than atoned for by the enthusiasm of the moment and by the delicacy evinced in her hasty retreat. Often as the shouts died away, as often were they renewed, till wood and hill rung again; and many a deep path was made that morning on the cross of the sword, that the hand should not part with the weapon, till Mary Stewart was restored to her rights. But what are promises, what the hopes of mortals? In ten days, these gallant and devoted votaries were slain, were captives, or had fled.

Mary flung herself into the nearest seat, and still blushing, yet half smiling, exclaimed, “Ma mignone, what will they think of me?—to show myself to them with my bare feet hastily thrust into the slippers—only this loose mantle about me—my hair loose on my shoulders—my arms and neck so bare—Oh, the best they can suppose is, that her abode in yonder dungeon has turned their Queen's brain! But my rebel subjects saw me exposed when I was in the depth of affliction, why should I hold colder ceremony with these faithful and loyal men?—Call Fleming, however—I trust she has not forgotten the little mail with my apparel—We must be as brave as we can, mignóne.”

“Nay, madam, our good Lady Fleming was in no case to remember any thing.”

“You jest, Catherine,” said the Queen, somewhat offended; “it is not in her nature surely, to forget her duty so far as to leave us without a change of apparel?”

“Roland Graeme, madam, took care of that,” answered Catherine; “for he threw the mail, with your highness's clothes and jewels, into the boat, ere he ran back to lock the gate—I never saw so awkward a page as that youth—the packet well-nigh fell on my head.”

“He shall make thy heart amends, my girl,” said Queen Mary, laughing, “for that and all other offences given. But call Fleming, and let us put ourselves into apparel to meet our faithful lords.”

Such had been the preparations, and such was the skill of Lady Fleming, that the Queen appeared before her assembled nobles in such attire as became, though it could not enhance, her natural dignity. With the most winning courtesy, she expressed to each individual her grateful thanks, and dignified not only every noble, but many of the lesser barons by her particular attention.

“And whither now, my lords?” she said; “what way do your counsels determine for us?”

“To Draphane Castle,” replied Lord Arbroath, “if your Majesty is so pleased; and thence to Dunbarton, to place your Grace's person in safety, after which we long to prove if these traitors will abide us in the field.”

“And when do we journey?”

“We propose,” said Lord Seyton, “if your Grace's fatigue will permit, to take horse after the morning's meal.”

“Your pleasure, my Lords, is mine,” replied the Queen; “we will rule our journey by your wisdom now, and hope hereafter to have the advantage of governing by it our kingdom.—You will permit my ladies and me, my good lords, to break our fasts along with you—We must be half soldiers ourselves, and set state apart.”

Low bowed many a helmeted head at this gracious proffer, when the Queen, glancing her eyes through the assembled leaders, missed both Douglas and Roland Graeme, and inquired for them in a whisper to Catherine Seyton.

“They are in yonder oratory, madam, sad enough,” replied Catherine; and the Queen observed that her favourite's eyes were red with weeping.

“This must not be,” said the Queen. “Keep the company amused—I will seek them, and introduce them myself.”

She went into the oratory, where the first she met was George Douglas, standing, or rather reclining, in the recess of a window, his back rested against the wall, and his arms folded on his breast. At the sight of the Queen he started, and his countenance showed, for an instant, an expression of intense delight, which was instantly exchanged for his usual deep melancholy.

“What means this?” she said; “Douglas, why does the first deviser and bold executor of the happy scheme for our freedom, shun the company of his fellow-nobles, and of the Sovereign whom he has obliged?”

“Madam,” replied Douglas, “those whom you grace with your presence bring followers to aid your cause, wealth to support your state,—can offer you halls in which to feast, and impregnable castles for your defence. I am a houseless and landless man—disinherited by my mother, and laid under her malediction—disowned by my name and kindred—who bring nothing to your standard but a single sword, and the poor life of its owner.”

“Do you mean to upbraid me, Douglas,” replied the Queen, “by showing what you have lost for my sake?”

“God forbid, madam!” interrupted the young man, eagerly; “were it to do again, and had I ten times as much rank and wealth, and twenty times as many friends to lose, my losses would be overpaid by the first step you made, as a free princess, upon the soil of your native kingdom.”

“And what then ails you, that you will not rejoice with those who rejoice upon the same joyful occasion?” said the Queen.

“Madam,” replied the youth,” though exheridated and disowned, I am yet a Douglas: with most of yonder nobles my family have been in feud for ages—a cold reception amongst them, were an insult, and a kind one yet more humiliating.”

“For shame, Douglas,” replied the Queen, “shake off this unmanly gloom!—I can make thee match for the best of them in title and fortune, and, believe me, I will.—Go then amongst them, I command you.”

“That word,” said Douglas, “is enough—I go. This only let me say, that not for wealth or title would I have done that which I have done—Mary Stewart will not, and the Queen cannot, reward me.”

So saying, he left the oratory, mingled with the nobles, and placed himself at the bottom of the table. The Queen looked after him, and put her kerchief to her eyes.

“Now, Our Lady pity me,” she said, “for no sooner are my prison cares ended, than those which beset me as a woman and a Queen again thicken around me.—Happy Elizabeth! to whom political interest is every thing, and whose heart never betrays thy head.—And now must I seek this other boy, if I would prevent daggers-drawing betwixt him and the young Seyton.”

Roland Graeme was in the same oratory, but at such a distance from Douglas, that he could not overhear