a half-pike in her hand, like a sentinel on duty.
“How is this, daughter?” said the monk; “how came you here, and thus armed? and where is the sentinel,—the lazy Flemish hound, that should have kept the post?”
“May he not be a lazy hound, yet not a Flemish one, father?” said Rose, who was ever awakened by anything which seemed a reflection upon her country; “methinks I have heard of such curs of English breed.”
“Go to, Rose, you are too malapert for a young maiden,” said her father. “Once more, where is Peterkin Vorst, who should have kept this post?”
“Let him not be blamed for my fault,” said Eveline, pointing to a place where the Flemish sentinel lay in the shade of the battlement fast asleep—”He was overcome with toil—had fought hard through the day, and when I saw him asleep as I came hither, like a wandering spirit that cannot take slumber or repose, I would not disturb the rest which I envied. As he had fought for me, I might, I thought, watch an hour for him; so I took his weapon with the purpose of remaining here till some one should come to relieve him.”
“I will relieve the schelm, with a vengeance!” said Wilkin Flammock, and saluted the slumbering and prostrate warder with two kicks, which made his corslet clatter. The man started to his feet in no small alarm, which he would have communicated to the next sentinels and to the whole garrison, by crying out that the Welsh were upon the walls, had not the monk covered his broad mouth with his hand just as the roar was issuing forth.—”Peace, and get thee down to the under bayley,” said he;—”thou deservest death, by all the policies of war—but, look ye, varlet, and see who has saved your worthless neck, by watching while you were dreaming of swine’s flesh and beer-pots.”
The Fleming, although as yet but half awake, was sufficiently conscious of his situation, to sneak off without reply, after two or three awkward congees, as well to Eveline as to those by whom his repose had been so unceremoniously interrupted.
“He deserves to be tied neck and heel, the houndsfoot,” said Wilkin. “But what would you have, lady? My countrymen cannot live without rest or sleep.” So saying, he gave a yawn so wide, as if he had proposed to swallow one of the turrets at an angle of the platform on which he stood, as if it had only garnished a Christmas pasty.
“True, good Wilkin,” said Eveline; “and do you therefore take some rest, and trust to my watchfulness, at least till the guards are relieved. I cannot sleep if I would, and I would not if I could.”
“Thanks, lady,” said Flammock; “and in truth, as this is a centrical place, and the rounds must pass in an hour at farthest, I will e’en close my eyes for such a space, for the lids feel as heavy as floodgates.”
“Oh, father, father!” exclaimed Rose, alive to her sire’s unceremonious neglect of decorum—”think where you are, and in whose presence!”
“Ay, ay, good Flammock,” said the monk, “remember the presence of a noble Norman maiden is no place for folding of cloaks and donning of nightcaps.”
“Let him alone, father,” said Eveline, who in another moment might have smiled at the readiness with which Wilkin Flammock folded himself in his huge cloak, extended his substantial form on the stone bench, and gave the most decided tokens of profound repose, long ere the monk had done speaking.—”Forms and fashions of respect,” she continued, “are for times of ease and nicety;—when in danger, the soldier’s bedchamber is wherever he can find leisure for an hour’s sleep—his eating-hall, wherever he can obtain food. Sit thou down by Rose and me, good father, and tell us of some holy lesson which may pass away these hours of weariness and calamity.”
The father obeyed; but however willing to afford consolation, his ingenuity and theological skill suggested nothing better than a recitation of the penitentiary psalms, in which task he continued until fatigue became too powerful for him also, when he committed the same breach of decorum for which he had upbraided Wilkin Flammock, and fell fast asleep in the midst of his devotions.
Chapter IX
“Oh, night of wo,” she said, and wept,
“Oh, night foreboding sorrow!
“Oh, night of wo,” she said and wept,
“But more I dread the morrow!”
SIR GILBERT ELLIOT.
The fatigue which had exhausted Flammock and the monk, was unfelt by the two anxious maidens, who remained with their eyes bent, now upon the dim landscape, now on the stars by which it was lighted, as if they could have read there the events which the morrow was to bring forth. It was a placid and melancholy scene. Tree and field, and hill and plain, lay before them in doubtful light, while at greater distance, their eye could with difficulty trace one or two places where the river, hidden in general by banks and trees, spread its more expanded bosom to the stars, and the pale crescent. All was still, excepting the solemn rush of the waters, and now and then the shrill tinkle of a harp, which, heard from more than a mile’s distance through the midnight silence, announced that some of the Welshmen still protracted their most beloved amusement. The wild notes, partially heard, seemed like the voice of some passing spirit; and, connected as they were with ideas of fierce and unrelenting hostility, thrilled on Eveline’s ear, as if prophetic of war and wo, captivity and death. The only other sounds which disturbed the extreme stillness of the night, were the occasional step of a sentinel upon his post, or the hooting of the owls, which seemed to wail the approaching downfall of the moonlight turrets, in which they had established their ancient habitations.
The calmness of all around seemed to press like a weight on the bosom of the unhappy Eveline, and brought to her mind a deeper sense of present grief, and keener apprehension of future horrors, than had reigned there during the bustle, blood, and confusion of the preceding day. She rose up—she sat down—she moved to and fro on the platform—she remained fixed like a statue to a single spot, as if she were trying by variety of posture to divert her internal sense of fear and sorrow.
At length, looking at the monk and the Fleming as they slept soundly under the shade of the battlement, she could no longer forbear breaking silence. “Men are happy,” she said, “my beloved Rose; their anxious thoughts are either diverted by toilsome exertion, or drowned in the insensibility which follows it. They may encounter wounds and death, but it is we who feel in the spirit a more keen anguish than the body knows, and in the gnawing sense of present ill and fear of future misery, suffer a living death, more cruel than that which ends our woes at once.”
“Do not be thus downcast, my noble lady,” said Rose; “be rather what you were yesterday, caring for the wounded, for the aged, for every one but yourself—exposing even your dear life among the showers of the Welsh arrows, when doing so could give courage to others; while I—shame on me—could but tremble, sob, and weep, and needed all the little wit I have to prevent my shouting with the wild cries of the Welsh, or screaming and groaning with those of our friends who fell around me.”
“Alas! Rose,” answered her mistress, “you may at pleasure indulge your fears to the verge of distraction itself—you have a father to fight and watch for you. Mine—my kind, noble, and honoured parent, lies dead on yonder field, and all which remains for me is to act as may best become his memory. But this moment is at least mine, to think upon and to mourn for him.”
So saying, and overpowered by the long-repressed burst of filial sorrow, she
