advancing a step nearer to the captain. ‘Tell me, as you would wish your soul to thrive. Is he well? Is he safe?’
‘He is sped on a long journey, lady, and you may not expect to meet him again for a season.’
‘Sped on a long journey! Not see him again for a season! What does this answer mean? Captain, on that youth’s well-being hang the safety, the nobility, and the honour of your house. Say but to me he is well, and not exposed to any danger in the message on which he is gone.’
‘Of his well-being I have no doubt; and the message on which he is gone is a safe one. He is under protection from all danger, commotion, or strife.’
‘It is well you can say so, else wo would have fallen to your lot, to mine, and to that of our nation.’
‘I know he was a page of court, and in the confidence of my sovereign and adored Lady Margaret. But how could any misfortune attending a page prove of such overwhelming import?’
‘Was a page of court, my lord? What do you infer by that was? Pray what is he now? I entreat of you to be more explicit.’
‘The plain truth of the matter is shortly this: The boy fell into the hands of our enemies that night of the late fierce engagement.’
At this the lady uttered a scream; and Douglas, dreading she would fall into hysterics, stretched out his arms to support her. ‘I pity you, gentle maiden,’ said he, ‘for I perceive you two have been lovers.’
She withdrew herself, shunning his profered support, and, looking him wildly in the face, said in a passionate voice, ‘In the hands of the English? O Douglas, haste to redeem him! Give up all the prisoners you have for that page’s ransom; and if these will not suffice, give up all the lands of Douglas and Mar; and if all these are still judged inadequate, give up yourself. But, by your fealty, your honour, your nobility, I charge you, and, in the name of the Blessed Virgin, I conjure you to lose no time in redeeming that youth.’
Douglas could scarcely contain his gravity at this rhapsody, weening it the frantic remonstrance of a love-sick maid; but she, perceiving the bent and tenor of his disposition, held up her hand as a check to his ill-timed levity. ‘Unhappy chief!’ exclaimed she, ‘Little art thou aware what a gulf of misery and despair thou art suspended over, and that by a single thread within reach of the flame, and liable every moment to snap, and hurl thee into inevitable ruin. Know, and to thyself alone be it known, that that page was no other than the princess of Scotland herself; who, impelled by romantic affection, came in that disguise to attend thee in all thy perils, undertaken for her sake. It was she herself who seized her rival, and placed her in your hands, thus giving you an advantage which force could not bestow. And from time to time has she laid such injunctions on you, written and delivered by her own hand, as she judged conducive to your honour or advantage. If you suffer that inestimable lady to lye in durance, or one hair of her head to fall to the ground, after so many marks of affection and concern for you, you are unworthy of lady’s esteem, of the titles you bear, or the honour of knighthood.’
When the lady first came out with the fatal secret, and mentioned the princess’s name, Douglas strode hastily across the floor of the pavilion, as if he would have run out at the door, or rather fallen against it; but the motion was involuntary; he stopped short, and again turned round to the speaker, gazing on her as if only half comprehending what she said. The truth of the assertion opened to him by degrees; and, it may well be supposed, the intelligence acted upon his mind and frame like a shock of electricity. He would fain have disbelieved it, had he been able to lay hold of a plausible pretext to doubt it; but every recollected circumstance coincided in the establishment of the unwelcome fact. All that he could say to the lady, as he stood like a statue gazing her in the face, was, ‘Who art thou?’
‘I am Mary Kirkmichael of Balmedie,’ said she, ‘and I came with the princess, disguised as her attendant. I am her friend and confidant, and we held communication every day, till of late that my dear mistress discontinued her visits. O captain, tell me if it is in your power to save her!’
Douglas flung himself on a form in the corner of the tent, and hid his face with his hand, and at the same time groaned as if every throb would have burst his heart’s casement. He had seen his royal, his affectionate, and adored mistress swung from the enemy’s battlements, without one effort to save her, and without a tear wetting his cheek; and his agony of mind became so extreme that he paid no more regard to the lady, who was still standing over him, adding the bitterest censure to lamentation. Yet he told her not of her mistress’s melancholy fate – he could not tell her; but the ejaculatory words that he uttered from time to time too plainly informed Mary Kirkmichael that the life of her royal mistress was either in jeopardy or irretrievably lost.
The Douglas saw the lady no more, nor regarded her. He rushed from the tent, and gave such orders as quite confounded his warriors, one part being quite incompatible with another; and, in the confusion, Mary glided quietly away from the scene without farther notice. All the motions of Douglas, for two days subsequent to this piece of information, were like those of a drunken man; he was enraged without cause, and acted without consistency; but the only point towards which all these jarring and discordant passions constantly turned was revenge on the English – deadly and insatiable revenge. When he looked towards the ramparts of the castle, his dark eye would change its colour, and sink deeper under his brow, while his brown cheeks would appear as if furrowed across, and his teeth ground and jarred against one another. His counsels, however, were not, at this time, of a nature suited to accomplish any thing material against his rivals. He meditated the most deadly retaliation, but was prevented before he could put it in practice.
On the following evening, when the disturbance of his mind had somewhat subsided, and appeared to be settling into a sullen depression of spirit, or rather a softened melancholy, he was accosted by a monk, who had craved and obtained admittance – for a deference to all that these people said or did was a leading feature of that age. Douglas scarcely regarded him on his first entrance, and to his address only deigned to answer by a slight motion of his head; for the monk’s whole appearance augured little beyond contempt. He was of a diminutive stature, had a slight, starved make, and a weak treble voice. His conversation, nevertheless, proved of that sort that soon drew the attention of the chief.
‘May the blessed Virgin, the mother of God, bless and shield you, captain!’
‘Humph!’ returned the Douglas, nodding his head.
‘May Saint Withold be your helmet and buckler in the day of battle––’
‘Amen!’ said the Douglas, interrupting him, and taking a searching look of the tiny being that spoke, as if there were something in the tones of his voice that struck him with emotion.
–– ‘And withhold your weapon from the blood of the good,’ added the monk, ‘from the breast of the professor of our holy religion, and dispose your heart to peace and amity, that the land may have rest, and the humble servants of the Cross protection. Why don’t you say “Amen” to this, knight? Is your profession of Christianity a mere form? and are the blessed tenets which it enjoins, strangers to thy turbulent bosom?’
‘Humph!’ said Douglas: ‘With reverence be it spoken, monk, but you holy brethren have got a way of chattering about things that you do not understand. Adhere to your books and your beads. I am a soldier, and must stick by my profession, bearing arms for my king and country.’
‘I am a soldier too,’ rejoined the monk, ‘and bear arms and suffer in a better cause. But enough of this. I have a strange message for you, captain. You must know that, a few weeks ago, a beautiful youth came to our monastery seeking supply of writing materials, which he could not otherwise procure. He was
