Quentin Durward by Walter Scott (romantic love story reading TXT) 📕

as far as might be required, with the religion of any country in which they happened to sojourn, but they did not practise it more than was demanded of them.... S.]

“No,” was the indifferent and concise answer of the guide, who neither seemed offended nor surprised at the young man's violence of manner.

“Are you a Pagan, then, or what are you?”

“I have no religion,” answered the Bohemian.

Durward started back, for though he had heard of Saracens and Idolaters, it had never entered into his ideas or belief that any body of men could exist who practised no mode of worship whatever. He recovered from his astonishment to ask his guide where he usually dwelt.

“Wherever I chance to be for the time,” replied the Bohemian. “I have no home.”

“How do you guard your property?”

“Excepting the clothes which I wear, and the horse I ride on, I have no property.”

“Yet you dress gaily, and ride gallantly,” said Durward. “What are your means of subsistence?”

“I eat when I am hungry, drink when I am thirsty, and have no other means of subsistence than chance throws in my Way,” replied the vagabond.

“Under whose laws do you live?”

“I acknowledge obedience to none, but an it suits my pleasure or my necessities,” said the Bohemian.

“Who is your leader, and commands you?”

“The father of our tribe—if I choose to obey him,” said the guide, “otherwise I have no commander.”

“You are, then,” said the wondering querist, “destitute of all that other men are combined by—you have no law, no leader, no settled means of subsistence, no house or home. You have, may Heaven compassionate you, no country—and, may Heaven enlighten and forgive you, you have no God! What is it that remains to you, deprived of government, domestic happiness, and religion?”

“I have liberty,” said the Bohemian “I crouch to no one, obey no one—respect no one—I go where I will—live as I can—and die when my day comes.”

“But you are subject to instant execution, at the pleasure of the Judge?”

“Be it so,” returned the Bohemian, “I can but die so much the sooner.”

“And to imprisonment also,” said the Scot, “and where, then, is your boasted freedom?”

“In my thoughts,” said the Bohemian, “which no chains can bind, while yours, even when your limbs are free, remain fettered by your laws and your superstitions, your dreams of local attachment, and your fantastic visions of civil policy. Such as I are free in spirit when our limbs are chained.—You are imprisoned in mind even when your limbs are most at freedom.”

“Yet the freedom of your thoughts,” said the Scot, “relieves not the pressure of the gyves on your limbs.”

“For a brief time that may be endured,” answered the vagrant, “and if within that period I cannot extricate myself, and fail of relief from my comrades, I can always die, and death is the most perfect freedom of all.”

There was a deep pause of some duration, which Quentin at length broke by resuming his queries.

“Yours is a wandering race, unknown to the nations of Europe.—Whence do they derive their origin?”

“I may not tell you,” answered the Bohemian.

“When will they relieve this kingdom from their presence, and return to the land from whence they came?” said the Scot.

“When the day of their pilgrimage shall be accomplished,” replied his vagrant guide.

“Are you not sprung from those tribes of Israel which were carried into captivity beyond the great river Euphrates?” said Quentin, who had not forgotten the lore which had been taught him at Aberbrothick.

“Had we been so,” answered the Bohemian, “we had followed their faith and practised their rites.”

“What is thine own name?” said Durward.

“My proper name is only known to my brethren. The men beyond our tents call me Hayraddin Maugrabin—that is, Hayraddin the African Moor.”

“Thou speakest too well for one who hath lived always in thy filthy horde,” said the Scot.

“I have learned some of the knowledge of this land,” said Hayraddin. “When I was a little boy, our tribe was chased by the hunters after human flesh. An arrow went through my mother's head, and she died. I was entangled in the blanket on her shoulders, and was taken by the pursuers. A priest begged me from the Provost's archers, and trained me up in Frankish learning for two or three years.”

“How came you to part with him?” demanded Durward.

“I stole money from him—even the God which he worshipped,” answered Hayraddin, with perfect composure, “he detected me, and beat me—I stabbed him with my knife, fled to the woods, and was again united to my people.”

“Wretch!” said Durward, “did you murder your benefactor?”

“What had he to do to burden me with his benefits?—The Zingaro boy was no house bred cur, to dog the heels of his master, and crouch beneath his blows, for scraps of food:—He was the imprisoned wolf whelp, which at the first opportunity broke his chain, rended his master, and returned to his wilderness.”

There was another pause, when the young Scot, with a view of still farther investigating the character and purpose of this suspicious guide, asked Hayraddin whether it was not true that his people, amid their ignorance, pretended to a knowledge of futurity which was not given to the sages, philosophers, and divines of more polished society.

“We pretend to it,” said Hayraddin, “and it is with justice.”

“How can it be that so high a gift is bestowed on so abject a race?” said Quentin.

“Can I tell you?” answered Hayraddin.—“Yes, I may indeed, but it is when you shall explain to me why the dog can trace the footsteps of a man, while man, the nobler animal, hath not power to trace those of the dog. These powers, which seem to you so wonderful, are instinctive in our race. From the lines on the face and on the hand, we can tell the future fate of those who consult us, even as surely as you know from the blossom of the tree in spring what fruit it will bear in the harvest.”

“I doubt of your knowledge, and defy you to the proof.”

“Defy me not, Sir Squire,” said Hayraddin Maugrabin. “I can tell you that, say what you will of your religion, the Goddess whom you worship rides in this company.”

“Peace!” said Quentin, in astonishment, “on thy life, not a word farther, but in answer to what I ask thee.—Canst thou be faithful?”

“I can—all men can,” said the Bohemian.

“But wilt thou be faithful?”

“Wouldst thou believe me the more should I swear it?” answered Maugrabin, with a sneer.

“Thy life is in my hand,” said the young Scot.

“Strike, and see whether I fear to die,” answered the Bohemian.

“Will money render thee a trusty guide?” demanded Durward.

“If I be not such without it, no,” replied the heathen.

“Then what will bind thee?” asked the Scot.

“Kindness,” replied the Bohemian.

“Shall I swear to show thee such, if thou art true guide to us on this pilgrimage?”

“No,” replied Hayraddin, “it were extravagant waste of a commodity so rare. To thee I am bound already.”

“How?” exclaimed Durward, more surprised than ever.

“Remember the chestnut trees on the banks of the Cher! The victim whose body thou didst cut down was my brother, Zamet the Maugrabin.”

“And yet,” said Quentin, “I find you in correspondence with those very officers by whom your brother was done to death, for it was one of them who directed me where to meet with you—the same, doubtless, who procured yonder ladies your services as a guide.”

“What can we do?” answered Hayraddin, gloomily. “These men deal with us as the sheepdogs do with the flock, they protect us for a while, drive us hither and thither at their pleasure, and always end by guiding us to the shambles.”

Quentin had afterwards occasion to learn that the Bohemian spoke truth in this particular, and that the Provost guard, employed to suppress the vagabond bands by which the kingdom was infested, entertained correspondence among them, and forbore, for a certain time, the exercise of their duty, which always at last ended in conducting their allies to the gallows. This is a sort of political relation between thief and officer, for the profitable exercise of their mutual professions, which has subsisted in all countries, and is by no means unknown to our own.

Durward, parting from the guide, fell back to the rest of the retinue, very little satisfied with the character of Hayraddin, and entertaining little confidence in the professions of gratitude which he had personally made to him. He proceeded to sound the other two men who had been assigned him for attendants, and he was concerned to find them stupid and as unfit to assist him with counsel, as in the rencounter they had shown themselves reluctant to use their weapons.

“It is all the better,” said Quentin to himself, his spirit rising with the apprehended difficulties of his situation, “that lovely young lady shall owe all to me. What one hand—ay, and one head can do—methinks I can boldly count upon. I have seen my father's house on fire, and he and my brothers lying dead amongst the flames—I gave not an inch back, but fought it out to the last. Now I am two years older, and have the best and fairest cause to bear me well that ever kindled mettle within a brave man's bosom.”

Acting upon this resolution, the attention and activity which Quentin bestowed during the journey had in it something that gave him the appearance of ubiquity. His principal and most favourite post was of course by the side of the ladies, who, sensible of his extreme attention to their safety, began to converse with him in almost the tone of familiar friendship, and appeared to take great pleasure in the naivete, yet shrewdness, of his conversation. Yet Quentin did not suffer the fascination of this intercourse to interfere with the vigilant discharge of his duty.

If he was often by the side of the Countesses, labouring to describe to the natives of a level country the Grampian mountains, and, above all, the beauties of Glen Houlakin, he was as often riding with Hayraddin in the front of the cavalcade, questioning him about the road and the resting places, and recording his answers in his mind, to ascertain whether upon cross examination he could discover anything like meditated treachery. As often again he was in the rear, endeavouring to secure the attachment of the two horsemen by kind words, gifts, and promises of additional recompense, when their task should be accomplished.

In this way they travelled for more than a week, through bypaths and unfrequented districts, and by circuitous routes, in order to avoid large towns. Nothing remarkable occurred, though they now and then met strolling gangs of Bohemians, who respected them, as under the conduct of one of their tribe—straggling soldiers, or perhaps banditti, Who deemed their party too strong to be attacked—or parties of the Marechaussee [mounted police], as they would now be termed, whom Louis, who searched the wounds of the land with steel and cautery, employed to suppress the disorderly bands which infested the interior. These last suffered them to pursue, their way unmolested by virtue of a password with which Quentin had been furnished for that purpose by the King himself.

Their resting places were chiefly the monasteries, most of which were obliged by the rules of their foundation to receive pilgrims, under which character the ladies travelled, with hospitality and without any troublesome inquiries into their rank and character, which most persons of distinction were desirous of concealing while in the discharge of their vows. The pretence of weariness was usually employed by the Countesses of Croye as an excuse for instantly retiring to rest, and Quentin, as their majordomo, arranged all that was necessary betwixt them and their entertainers, with a shrewdness which saved them all trouble, and an alacrity that failed not to excite a corresponding degree of good will on the part of those who were thus sedulously attended to.

One circumstance gave Quentin peculiar trouble, which was the character and nation of his guide, who, as a heathen and an infidel vagabond, addicted besides to occult arts (the badge of all his tribe), was often looked upon as a very improper guest for the holy resting places at which the company usually halted, and was not in consequence admitted within even the outer circuit of their walls, save with extreme reluctance. This was very embarrassing, for, on the one hand, it was necessary to keep in good humour a man who was possessed of the secret of their expedition, and, on the other, Quentin deemed it indispensable to maintain a vigilant though secret watch on Hayraddin's conduct, in order