The Abbot by Walter Scott (mobi reader .txt) 📕

“Before you, or any Hamilton in Scotland,” said the Seyton, “having the Queen's command—Follow me, gentlemen, my vassals and kinsmen—Saint Bennet, and set on!”

“And follow me,” said Arbroath, “my noble kinsmen, and brave men-tenants, we will see which will first reach the post of danger. For God and Queen Mary!”

“Ill-omened haste, and most unhappy strife,” said the Abbot, who saw them and their followers rush hastily and emulously to ascend the height without waiting till their men were placed in order.—“And you, gentlemen,” he continued, addressing Roland and Seyton, who were each about to follow those who hastened thus disorderly to the conflict, “will you leave the Queen's person unguarded?”

“Oh, leave me not, gentlemen!” said the Queen—“Roland and Seyton, do not leave me—there are enough of arms to strike in this fell combat—withdraw not those to whom I trust for my safety.”

“We may not leave her Grace,” said Roland, looking at Seyton, and turning his horse.

“I ever looked when thou wouldst find out that,” rejoined the fiery youth.

Roland made no answer, but bit his lip till the blood came, and spurring his horse up to the side of Catherine Seyton's palfrey, he whispered in a low voice, “I never thought to have done aught to deserve you; but this day I have heard myself upbraided with cowardice, and my sword remained still sheathed, and all for the love of you.”

“There is madness among us all,” said the damsel; “my father, my brother, and you, are all alike bereft of reason. Ye should think only of this poor Queen, and you are all inspired by your own absurd jealousies—The monk is the only soldier and man of sense amongst you all.—My lord Abbot,” she cried aloud, “were it not better we should draw to the westward, and wait the event that God shall send us, instead of remaining here in the highway, endangering the Queen's person, and cumbering the troops in their advance?”

“You say well, my daughter,” replied the Abbot; “had we but one to guide us where the Queen's person may be in safety—Our nobles hurry to the conflict, without casting a thought on the very cause of the war.”

“Follow me,” said a knight, or man-at-arms, well mounted, and attired completely in black armour, but having the visor of his helmet closed, and bearing no crest on his helmet, or device upon his shield.

“We will follow no stranger,” said the Abbot, “without some warrant of his truth.”

“I am a stranger and in your hands,” said the horseman; “if you wish to know more of me, the Queen herself will be your warrant.”

The Queen had remained fixed to the spot, as if disabled by fear, yet mechanically smiling, bowing, and waving her hand, as banners were lowered and spears depressed before her, while, emulating the strife betwixt Seyton and Arbroath, band on band pressed forward their march towards the enemy. Scarce, however, had the black rider whispered something in her ear, than she assented to what he said; and when he spoke aloud, and with an air of command, “Gentlemen, it is the Queen's pleasure that you should follow me,” Mary uttered, with something like eagerness, the word “Yes.”

All were in motion in an instant; for the black horseman, throwing off a sort of apathy of manner, which his first appearance indicated, spurred his horse to and fro, making him take such active bounds and short turns, as showed the rider master of the animal; and getting the Queen's little retinue in some order for marching, he led them to the left, directing his course towards a castle, which, crowning a gentle yet commanding eminence, presented an extensive view over the country beneath, and in particular, commanded a view of those heights which both armies hastened to occupy, and which it was now apparent must almost instantly be the scene of struggle and dispute.

“Yonder towers,” said the Abbot, questioning the sable horseman, “to whom do they belong?—and are they in the hands of friends?”

“They are untenanted,” replied the stranger, “or, at least, they have no hostile inmates.—But urge these youths. Sir Abbot, to make more haste—this is but an evil time to satisfy their idle curiosity, by peering out upon the battle in which they are to take no share.”

“The worse luck mine,” said Henry Seyton, who overheard him—“I would rather be under my father's banner at this moment than be made Chamberlain of Holyrood, for this my present duty of peaceful ward well and patiently discharged.”

“Your place under your father's banner will shortly be right dangerous,” said Roland Avenel, who, pressing his horse towards the westward, had still his look reverted to the armies; “for I see yonder body of cavalry, which presses from the eastward, will reach the village ere Lord Seyton can gain it.”

“They are but cavalry,” said Seyton, looking attentively; “they cannot hold the village without shot of harquebuss.”

“Look more closely,” said Roland; “you will see that each of these horseman who advance so rapidly from Glasgow, carries a footman behind him.”

“Now, by Heaven, he speaks well!” said the black cavalier; “one of you two must go carry the news to Lord Seyton and Lord Arbroath, that they hasten not their horsemen on before the foot, but advance more regularly.”

“Be that my errand,” said Roland, “for I first marked the stratagem of the enemy.”

“But, by your leave,” said Seyton, “yonder is my father's banner engaged, and it best becomes me to go to the rescue.”

“I will stand by the Queen's decision,” said Roland Avenel.

“What new appeal?—what new quarrel?” said Queen Mary—“Are there not in yonder dark host enemies enough to Mary Stewart, but must her very friends turn enemies to each other?”

“Nay, madam,” said Roland, “the young master of Seyton and I did but dispute who should leave your person to do a most needful message to the host. He thought his rank entitled him, and I deemed that the person of least consequence, being myself, were better perilled—”

“Not so,” said the Queen; “if one must leave me, be it Seyton.”

Henry Seyton bowed till the white plumes on his helmet mixed with the flowing mane of his gallant war-horse, then placed himself firm in the saddle, shook his lance aloft with an air of triumph and determination, and striking his horse with the spurs, made towards his father's banner, which was still advancing up the hill, and dashed his steed over every obstacle that occurred in his headlong path.

“My brother! my father!” exclaimed Catherine, with an expression of agonized apprehension—“they are in the midst of peril, and I in safety!”

“Would to God,” said Roland, “that I were with them, and could ransom every drop of their blood by two of mine!”

“Do I not know thou dost wish it?” said Catherine—“Can a woman say to a man what I have well-nigh said to thee, and yet think that he could