Quentin Durward by Walter Scott (popular ebook readers .txt) 📗

bachelors cannot succeed in a disguise and an escape, the world is changed from what I am told it wont to be.”

A part of this speech again called the colour into the Countess's pale cheeks, which was not lessened by Quentin's sudden appearance. He entered completely attired as a Flemish boor of the better class, in the holyday suit of Peter, who expressed his interest in the young Scot by the readiness with which he parted with it for his use, and swore, at the same time, that, were he to be curried and tugged worse than ever was bullock's hide, they should make nothing out of him, to the betraying of the young folks. Two stout horses had been provided by the activity of Mother Mabel, who really desired the Countess and her attendant no harm, so that she could make her own house and family clear of the dangers which might attend upon harbouring them. She beheld them mount and go off with great satisfaction, after telling them that they would find their way to the east gate by keeping their eye on Peter, who was to walk in that direction as their guide, but without holding any visible communication with them. The instant her guests had departed, Mother Mabel took the opportunity to read a long practical lecture to Trudchen upon the folly of reading romances, whereby the flaunting ladies of the Court were grown so bold and venturous, that, instead of applying to learn some honest housewifery, they must ride, forsooth, a-damsel erranting through the country, with no better attendant than some idle squire, debauched page, or rake belly archer from foreign parts, to the great danger of their health, the impoverishing of their substance, and the irreparable prejudice of their reputation. All this Gertrude heard in silence, and without reply, but, considering her character, it might be doubted whether she derived from it the practical inference which it was her mother's purpose to enforce. Meantime, the travellers had gained the eastern gate of the city, traversing crowds of people, who were fortunately too much busied in the political events and rumours of the hour to give any attention to a couple who had so little to render their appearance remarkable. They passed the guards in virtue of a permission obtained for them by Pavillon, but in the name of his colleague Rouslaer, and they took leave of Peter Geislaer with a friendly though brief exchange of good wishes on either side.

Immediately afterwards, they were joined by a stout young man, riding a good gray horse, who presently made himself known as Hans Glover, the bachelor of Trudchen Pavillon. He was a young fellow with a good Flemish countenance—not, indeed, of the most intellectual cast, but arguing more hilarity and good humour than wit, and, as the Countess could not help thinking, scarce worthy to be bachelor to the generous Trudchen. He seemed, however, fully desirous to second the views which she had formed in their favour, for, saluting them respectfully, he asked of the Countess, in Flemish, on which road she desired to be conducted.

“Guide me,” said she, “towards the nearest town on the frontiers of Brabant.”

“You have then settled the end and object of your journey,” said Quentin, approaching his horse to that of Isabelle, and speaking French, which their guide did not understand.

“Surely,” replied the young lady, “for, situated as I now am, it must be of no small detriment to me if I were to prolong a journey in my present circumstances, even though the termination should be a rigorous prison.”

“A prison,” said Quentin.

“Yes, my friend, a prison, but I will take care that you shall not share it.”

“Do not talk—do not think of me,” said Quentin. “Saw I you but safe, my own concerns are little worth minding.”

“Do not speak so loud,” said the Lady Isabelle, “you will surprise our guide—you see he has already rode on before us,”—for, in truth, the good natured Fleming, doing as he desired to be done by, had removed from them the constraint of a third person, upon Quentin's first motion towards the lady.

“Yes,” she continued, when she noticed they were free from observation, “to you, my friend, my protector—why should I be ashamed to call you what Heaven has made you to me?—to you it is my duty to say that my resolution is taken to return to my native country, and to throw myself on the mercy of the Duke of Burgundy. It was mistaken, though well meant advice, which induced me ever to withdraw from his protection, and place myself under that of the crafty and false Louis of France.”

“And you resolve to become the bride, then, of the Count of Campobasso, the unworthy favourite of Charles?”

Thus spoke Quentin, with a voice in which internal agony struggled with his desire to assume an indifferent tone, like that of the poor condemned criminal, when, affecting a firmness which he is far from feeling, he asks if the death warrant be arrived.

“No, Durward, no,” said the Lady Isabelle, sitting up erect in her saddle, “to that hated condition all Burgundy's power shall not sink a daughter of the House of Croye. Burgundy may seize on my lands and fiefs, he may imprison my person in a convent, but that is the worst I have to expect, and worse than that I will endure ere I give my hand to Campobasso.”

“The worst?” said Quentin, “and what worse can there be than plunder and imprisonment?—Oh, think, while you have God's free air around you, and one by your side who will hazard life to conduct you to England, to Germany, even to Scotland, in all of which you shall find generous protectors.—Oh, while this is the case, do not resolve so rashly to abandon the means of liberty, the best gift that Heaven gives!—Oh, well sang a poet of my own land—

“Ah, freedom is a noble thing— Freedom makes men to have liking— Freedom the zest to pleasure gives— He lives at ease who freely lives. Grief, sickness, poortith [poverty], want, are all Summ'd up within the name of thrall.” [from Barbour's Bruce]

She listened with a melancholy smile to her guide's tirade in praise of liberty, and then answered, after a moment's pause. “Freedom is for man alone—woman must ever seek a protector, since nature made her incapable to defend herself. And where am I to find one?—In that voluptuary Edward of England—in the inebriated Wenceslaus of Germany—in Scotland?—Ah, Durward, were I your sister, and could you promise me shelter in some of those mountain glens which you love to describe where, for charity, or for the few jewels I have preserved, I might lead an unharrassed life, and forget the lot I was born to—could you promise me the protection of some honoured matron of the land—of some baron whose heart was as true as his sword—that were indeed a prospect, for which it were worth the risk of farther censure to wander farther and wider.”

There was a faltering tenderness of voice with which the Countess Isabelle made this admission that at once filled Quentin with a sensation of joy, and cut him to the very heart. He hesitated a moment ere he made an answer, hastily reviewing in his mind the possibility there might be that he could procure her shelter in Scotland, but the melancholy truth rushed on him that it would be alike base and cruel to point out to her a course which he had not the most distant power or means to render safe.

“Lady,” he said at last, “I should act foully against my honour and oath of chivalry, did I suffer you to ground any plan upon the thoughts that I have the power in Scotland to afford you other protection than that of the poor arm which is now by your side. I scarce know that my blood flows in the veins of an individual who now lives in my native land. The Knight of Innerquharity stormed our Castle at midnight, and cut off all that belonged to my name. Were I again in Scotland, our feudal enemies are numerous and powerful, I single and weak, and even had the King a desire to do me justice, he dared not, for the sake of redressing the wrongs of a poor individual, provoke a chief who rides with five hundred horse.”

“Alas!” said the Countess, “there is then no corner of the world safe from oppression, since it rages as unrestrained amongst those wild hills which afford so few objects to covet as in our rich and abundant lowlands!”

“It is a sad truth, and I dare not deny it,” said the Scot, “that for little more than the pleasure of revenge, and the lust of bloodshed, our hostile clans do the work of executioners on each other, and Ogilvies and the like act the same scenes in Scotland as De la Marck and his robbers do in this country.”

“No more of Scotland, then,” said Isabelle, with a tone of indifference, either real or affected—“no more of Scotland,—which indeed I mentioned but in jest, to see if you really dared to recommend to me, as a place of rest, the most distracted kingdom in Europe. It was but a trial of your sincerity, which I rejoice to see may be relied on, even when your partialities are most strongly excited. So, once more, I will think of no other protection than can be afforded by the first honourable baron holding of Duke Charles, to whom I am determined to render myself.”

“And why not rather betake yourself to your own estates, and to your own strong castle, as you designed when at Tours?” said Quentin. “Why not call around you the vassals of your father, and make treaty with Burgundy, rather than surrender yourself to him? Surely there must be many a bold heart that would fight in your cause, and I know at least of one who would willingly lay down his life to give example.”

“Alas,” said the Countess, “that scheme, the suggestion of the crafty Louis, and, like all which he ever suggested, designed more for his advantage than for mine, has become practicable, since it was betrayed to Burgundy by the double traitor Zamet Hayraddin. My kinsman was then imprisoned, and my houses garrisoned. Any attempt of mine would but expose my dependents to the vengeance of Duke Charles, and why should I occasion more bloodshed than has already taken place on so worthless an account? No. I will submit myself to my Sovereign as a dutiful vassal, in all which shall leave my personal freedom of choice uninfringed, the rather that I trust my kinswoman, the Countess Hameline, who first counselled, and indeed urged my flight, has already taken this wise and honourable step.”

“Your kinswoman!” repeated Quentin, awakened to recollections to which the young Countess was a stranger, and which the rapid succession of perilous and stirring events had, as matters of nearer concern, in fact banished from his memory.

“Ay—my aunt—the Countess Hameline of Croye—know you aught of her?” said the Countess Isabelle. “I trust she is now under the protection of the Burgundian banner. You are silent. Know you aught of her?”

The last question, urged in a tone of the most anxious inquiry, obliged Quentin to give some account of what he knew of the Countess's fate. He mentioned that he had been summoned to attend her in a flight from Liege, which he had no doubt the Lady Isabelle would be partaker in—he mentioned the discovery that had been made after they had gained the forest—and finally, he told his own return to the castle, and the circumstances in which he found it. But he said nothing of the views with which it was plain the Lady Hameline had left the Castle of Schonwaldt, and as little about the floating report of her having fallen into the hands of William de la Marck. Delicacy prevented his even hinting at the one, and regard for the feelings of his companion at a moment when strength and exertion were most demanded of her, prevented him from alluding to the latter, which had, besides, only reached him as a mere rumour.

This tale, though abridged of those important particulars, made a strong impression on the Countess Isabelle, who, after riding some time in silence, said at last, with a tone of cold displeasure, “And so you abandoned my unfortunate relative in a wild forest, at the mercy of a vile Bohemian and a traitorous waiting woman?—Poor kinswoman, thou wert wont to praise this youth's good faith!”

“Had I not done so, madam.” said Quentin, not unreasonably offended at the turn thus given to his gallantry, “what had been the fate of one to whose service I was far more devotedly bound?