the fourth century, and he has since that time been honoured as the patron saint of that country. He is also the patron saint of the Burgundian Order, the Golden Fleece.]
Quentin Durward – though, like the Scottish youth of the period, he had been early taught to look upon arms and war – thought he had never seen a more martial looking, or more completely equipped and accomplished man at arms than now saluted him in the person of his mother’s brother, called Ludovic with the Scar, or Le Balafre; yet he could not but shrink a little from the grim expression of his countenance, while, with its rough moustaches, he brushed first the one and then the other cheek of his kinsman, welcomed his nephew to France, and, in the same breath, asked what news from Scotland.
“Little good tidings, dear uncle,” replied young Durward; “but I am glad that you know me so readily.”
“I would have known thee, boy, in the landes of Bourdeaux, had I met thee marching there like a crane on a pair of stilts [the crutches or stilts which in Scotland are used to pass rivers. They are employed by the peasantry of the country near Bordeaux to traverse those deserts of loose sand called Landes. S]. But sit thee down – sit thee down – if there is sorrow to hear of, we will have wine to make us bear it. – Ho! old Pinch Measure, our good host, bring us of thy best, and that in an instant.”
The well known sound of the Scottish French was as familiar in the taverns near Plessis as that of the Swiss French in the modern guinguettes [common inns] of Paris; and promptly – ay, with the promptitude of fear and precipitation, was it heard and obeyed. A flagon of champagne stood before them, of which the elder took a draught, while the nephew helped himself only to a moderate sip to acknowledge his uncle’s courtesy, saying, in excuse, that he had already drunk wine that morning.
“That had been a rare good apology in the mouth of thy sister, fair nephew,” said Le Balafre; “you must fear the wine pot less, if you would wear beard on your face, and write yourself soldier. But, come – come – unbuckle your Scottish mail bag – give us the news of Glen Houlakin – How doth my sister?”
“Dead, fair uncle,” answered Quentin, sorrowfully.
“Dead!” echoed his uncle, with a tone rather marked by wonder than sympathy, – “why, she was five years younger than I, and I was never better in my life. Dead! the thing is impossible. I have never had so much as a headache, unless after revelling out of my two or three days’ furlough with the brethren of the joyous science – and my poor sister is dead – And your father, fair nephew, hath he married again?”
And, ere the youth could reply, he read the answer in his surprise at the question, and said, “What! no – I would have sworn that Allan Durward was no man to live without a wife. He loved to have his house in order – loved to look on a pretty woman too; and was somewhat strict in life withal – matrimony did all this for him. Now, I care little about these comforts, and I can look on a pretty woman without thinking on the sacrament of wedlock – I am scarce holy enough for that.”
“Alas! dear uncle, my mother was left a widow a year since, when Glen Houlakin was harried by the Ogilvies. My father, and my two uncles, and my two elder brothers, and seven of my kinsmen, and the harper, and the tasker, and some six more of our people, were killed in defending the castle, and there is not a burning hearth or a standing stone in all Glen Houlakin.”
“Cross of Saint Andrew!” said Le Balafre; “that is what I call an onslaught! Ay, these Ogilvies were ever but sorry neighbours to Glen Houlakin – an evil chance it was; but fate of war – fate of war. – When did this mishap befall, fair nephew?” With that he took a deep draught of wine, and shook his head with much solemnity, when his kinsman replied that his family had been destroyed upon the festival of Saint Jude [October 28] last bypast.
“Look ye there,” said the soldier; “I said it was all chance – on that very day I and twenty of my comrades carried the Castle of Roche Noir by storm, from Amaury Bras de fer, a captain of free lances, whom you must have heard of. I killed him on his own threshold, and gained as much gold as made this fair chain, which was once twice as long as it now is – and that minds me to send part of it on an holy errand. – Here, Andrew – Andrew!”
Andrew, his yeoman, entered, dressed like the Archer himself in the general equipment, but without the armour for the limbs – that of the body more coarsely manufactured – his cap without a plume, and his cassock made of serge, or ordinary cloth, instead of rich velvet. Untwining his gold chain from his neck, Balafre twisted off, with his firm and strong set teeth, about four inches from the one end of it, and said to his attendant, “Here, Andrew, carry this to my gossip, jolly Father Boniface, the monk of St. Martin’s; greet him well from me, by the same token that he could not say God save ye when we last parted at midnight. – Tell my gossip that my brother and sister, and some others of my house, are all dead and gone, and I pray him to say masses for their souls as far as the value of these links will carry him, and to do on trust what else may be necessary to free them from Purgatory. And hark ye, as they were just living people, and free from all heresy, it may be that they are well nigh out of limbo already, so that a little matter may have them free of the fetlocks; and in that case, look ye, ye will say I desire to take out the balance of the gold in curses upon a generation called the Ogilvies of Angus Shire, in what way soever the church may best come at them. You understand all this, Andrew?”
The coutelier nodded.
“Then look that none of the links find their way to the wine house ere the monk touches them; for if it so chance, thou shalt taste of saddle girth and stirrup leather till thou art as raw as Saint Bartholomew [he was flayed alive. In Michael Angelo’s Last Judgment he is represented as holding his skin in his hand] – Yet hold, I see thy eye has fixed on the wine measure, and thou shalt not go without tasting.”
So saying, he filled him a brimful cup, which the coutelier drank off, and retired to do his patron’s commission.
“And now, fair nephew, let us hear what was your own fortune in this unhappy matter.”
“I fought it out among those who were older and stouter than I was, till we were all brought down,” said Durward, “and I received a cruel wound.”
“Not a worse slash than I received ten years since myself,” said Le Balafre. “Look at this, now, my fair nephew,” tracing the dark crimson gash which was imprinted on his face. – “An Ogilvy’s sword never ploughed so deep a furrow.”
“They ploughed deep enough,” answered Quentin, sadly, “but they were tired at last, and my mother’s entreaties procured mercy for me, when I was found to retain some spark of life; but although a learned monk of Aberbrothik, who chanced to be our guest at the fatal time, and narrowly escaped being killed in the fray, was permitted to bind my wounds, and finally to remove me to a place of safety, it was only on promise, given both by my mother and him, that I should become a monk.”
“A monk!” exclaimed the uncle. “Holy Saint Andrew! that is what never befell me. No one, from my childhood upwards, ever so much as dreamed of making me a monk. And yet I wonder when I think of it; for you will allow that, bating the reading and writing, which I could never learn, and the psalmody, which I could never endure, and the dress, which is that of a mad beggar – Our Lady forgive me! [here he crossed himself] and their fasts, which do not suit my appetite, I would have made every whit as good a monk as my little gossip at St. Martin’s yonder. But I know not why, none ever proposed the station to me. – Oh, so, fair nephew, you were to be a monk, then – and wherefore, I pray you?”
“That my father’s house might be ended, either in the cloister or in the tomb,” answered Quentin, with deep feeling.
“I see,” answered his uncle – “I comprehend. Cunning rogues – very cunning! They might have been
