The Monastery by Walter Scott (snow like ashes series TXT) 📕

tell thee why I conceive myself rather the baffled sport of a spirit of another sort, than the protected favourite of the heavenly powers. But first let me ask this unhappy man a question or two.”

“Do as ye list,” replied the Abbot—“but you shall not convince me that it is fitting you remain in this inferior office in the convent of Saint Mary.”

“I would ask of this poor man,” said Father Eustace, “for what purpose he nourished the thought of putting to death one who never did him evil?”

“Ay! but thou didst menace me with evil,” said the ruffian, “and no one but a fool is menaced twice. Dost thou not remember what you said touching the Primate and Lord James, and the black pool of Jedwood? Didst thou think me fool enough to wait till thou hadst betrayed me to the sack and the fork! There were small wisdom in that, methinks—as little as in coming hither to tell my own misdeeds—I think the devil was in me when I took this road—I might have remembered the proverb, 'Never Friar forgot feud.'”

“And it was solely for that—for that only hasty word of mine, uttered in a moment of impatience, and forgotten ere it was well spoken?” said Father Eustace.

“Ay! for that, and—for the love of thy gold crucifix,” said Christie of the Clinthill.

“Gracious Heaven! and could the yellow metal—the glittering earth—so far overcome every sense of what is thereby represented?—Father Abbot, I pray, as a dear boon, you will deliver this guilty person to my mercy.”

“Nay, brother,” interposed the Sacristan, “to your doom, if you will, not to your mercy—Remember, we are not all equally favoured by our blessed Lady, nor is it likely that every frock in the Convent will serve as a coat of proof when a lance is couched against it.”

“For that very reason,” said the Sub-Prior, “I would not that for my worthless self the community were to fall at feud with Julian of Avenel, this man's master.”

“Our Lady forbid!” said the Sacristan, “he is a second Julian the Apostate.”

“With our reverend father the Abbot's permission, then,” said Father Eustace, “I desire this man be freed from his chains, and suffered to depart uninjured;—and here, friend,” he added, giving him the golden crucifix, “is the image for which thou wert willing to stain thy hands with murder. View it well, and may it inspire thee with other and better thoughts than those which referred to it as a piece of bullion! Part with it, nevertheless, if thy necessities require, and get thee one of such coarse substance that Mammon shall have no share in any of the reflections to which it gives rise. It was the bequest of a dear friend to me; but dearer service can it never do than that of winning a soul to Heaven.”

The Borderer, now freed from his chains, stood gazing alternately on the Sub-Prior, and on the golden crucifix. “By Saint Giles,” said he, “I understand ye not!—An ye give me gold for couching my lance at thee, what would you give me to level it at a heretic?”

“The Church,” said the Sub-Prior, “will try the effect of her spiritual censures to bring these stray sheep into the fold, ere she employ the edge of the sword of Saint Peter.”

“Ay, but,” said the ruffian, “they say the Primate recommends a little strangling and burning in aid of both censure and of sword. But fare ye weel, I owe you a life, and it may be I will not forget my debt.”

The bailie now came bustling in, dressed in his blue coat and bandaliers, and attended by two or three halberdiers. “I have been a thought too late in waiting upon your reverend lordship. I am grown somewhat fatter since the field of Pinkie, and my leathern coat slips not on so soon as it was wont; but the dungeon is ready, and though, as I said, I have been somewhat late—”

Here his intended prisoner walked gravely up to the officer's nose, to his great amazement.

“You have been indeed somewhat late, bailie,” said he, “and I am greatly obligated to your buff-coat, and to the time you took to put it on. If the secular arm had arrived some quarter of an hour sooner, I had been out of the reach of spiritual grace; but as it is, I wish you good even, and a safe riddance out of your garment of durance, in which you have much the air of a hog in armour.”

Wroth was the bailie at this comparison, and exclaimed in ire—“An it were not for the presence of the venerable Lord Abbot, thou knave—”

“Nay, an thou wouldst try conclusions,” said Christie of the Clinthill, “I will meet thee at day-break by Saint Mary's Well.”

“Hardened wretch!” said Father Eustace, “art thou but this instant delivered from death, and dost thou so soon morse thoughts of slaughter?”

“I will meet with thee ere it be long, thou knave,” said the bailie, “and teach thee thine Oremus.”

“I will meet thy cattle in a moonlight night before that day,” said he of the Clinthill.

“I will have thee by the neck one misty morning, thou strong thief,” answered the secular officer of the Church.

“Thou art thyself as strong a thief as ever rode,” retorted Christie; “and if the worms were once feasting on that fat carcass of thine I might well hope to have thine office, by favour of these reverend men.”

“A cast of their office, and a cast of mine,” answered the bailie; “a cord and a confessor, that is all thou wilt have from us.”

“Sirs,” said the Sub-Prior, observing that his brethren began to take more interest than was exactly decorous in this wrangling betwixt justice and iniquity, “I pray you both to depart—Master Bailie, retire with your halberdiers, and trouble not the man whom we have dismissed.—And thou, Christie, or whatever be thy name, take thy departure, and remember thou owest thy life to the Lord Abbot's clemency.”

“Nay, as to that,” answered Christie, “I judge that I owe it to your own; but impute it to whom ye list, I owe a life among ye, and there is an end.” And whistling as he went, he left the apartment, seeming as if he held the life which he had forfeited not worthy further thanks.

“Obstinate even to brutality!” said Father Eustace; “and yet who knows but some better ore may lie under so rude an exterior?”

“Save a thief from the gallows,” said the Sacristan—“you know the rest of the proverb; and admitting, as may Heaven grant, that our lives and limbs are safe from this outrageous knave, who shall insure our meal and our malt, our herds and our flocks?”

“Marry, that will I, my brethren,” said an aged monk. “Ah, brethren, you little know what may be made of a repentant robber. In Abbot Ingilram's days—ay, and I remember them as it were yesterday—the freebooters were the best welcome men that came to Saint Mary's. Ay, they paid tithe of every drove that they brought over from the South, and