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

dead man laid hand on his cloak, and entreated him to stay and assist him to rise. Quentin was about to use rougher methods than struggling to rid himself of this untimely obstruction, when the fallen man continued to exclaim, “I am stifled here, in mine own armour!—I am the Syndic Pavillon of Liege! If you are for us, I will enrich you—if you are for the other side, I will protect you, but do not—do not leave me to die the death of a smothered pig!”

In the midst of this scene of blood and confusion, the presence of mind of Quentin suggested to him that this dignitary might have the means of protecting their retreat. He raised him on his feet, and asked him if he was wounded.

“Not wounded, at least I think not,” answered the burgher, “but much out of wind.”

“Sit down, then, on this stone, and recover your breath,” said Quentin, “I will return instantly.”

“For whom are you?” said the burgher, still detaining him.

“For France—for France,” answered Quentin, studying to get away.

“What! my lively young Archer?” said the worthy Syndic. “Nay, if it has been my fate to find a friend in this fearful night, I will not quit him, I promise you. Go where you will, I follow, and could I get some of the tight lads of our guildry together, I might be able to help you in turn, but they are all squandered abroad like so many pease.—Oh, it is a fearful night!”

During this time, he was dragging himself on after Quentin, who, aware of the importance of securing the countenance of a person of such influence, slackened his pace to assist him, although cursing in his heart the encumbrance that retarded his pace.

At the top of the stair was an anteroom, with boxes and trunks, which bore marks of having been rifled, as some of the contents lay on the floor. A lamp, dying in the chimney, shed a feeble beam on a dead or senseless man who lay across the hearth.

Bounding from Pavillon like a greyhound from his keeper's leash, and with an effort which almost overthrew him, Quentin sprang through a second and a third room, the last of which seemed to be the bedroom of the Ladies of Croye. No living mortal was to be seen in either of them. He called upon the Lady Isabelle's name, at first gently, then more loudly, and then with an accent of despairing emphasis, but no answer was returned. He wrung his hands, tore his hair, and stamped on the earth with desperation. At length a feeble glimmer of light, which shone through a crevice in the wainscoting of a dark nook in the bedroom, announced some recess or concealment behind the arras. Quentin hasted to examine it. He found there was indeed a concealed room, but it resisted his hurried efforts to open it. Heedless of the personal injury he might sustain, he rushed at the door with the whole force and weight of his body, and such was the impetus of an effort made betwixt hope and despair, that it would have burst much stronger fastenings.

He thus forced his way, almost headlong, into a small oratory, where a female figure, which had been kneeling in agonizing supplication before the holy image, now sank at length on the floor, under the new terrors implied in this approaching tumult. He hastily raised her from the ground, and, joy of joys it was she whom he sought to save—the Countess Isabelle. He pressed her to his bosom—he conjured her to awake—entreated her to be of good cheer—for that she was now under time protection of one who had heart and hand enough to defend her against armies.

“Durward!” she said, as she at length collected herself, “is it indeed you?—then there is some hope left. I thought all living and mortal friends had left me to my fate.—Do not again abandon me.”

“Never—never!” said Durward. “Whatever shall happen, whatever danger shall approach, may I forfeit the benefits purchased by yonder blessed sign, if I be not the sharer of your fate until it is again a happy one!”

“Very pathetic and touching, truly,” said a rough, broken, asthmatic voice behind. “A love affair, I see, and, from my soul, I pity the tender creature as if she were my own Trudchen.”

“You must do more than pity,” said Quentin, turning towards the speaker, “you must assist in protecting us, Meinheer Pavillon. Be assured this lady was put under my especial charge by your ally the King of France, and, if you aid me not to shelter her from every species of offence and violence, your city will lose the favour of Louis of Valois. Above all, she must be guarded from the hands of William de la Marck.”

“That will be difficult,” said Pavillon, “for these schelms of lanzknechts are very devils at rummaging out the wenches. But I'll do my best.—We will to the other apartment, and there I will consider.—It is but a narrow stair, and you can keep the door with a pike, while I look from the window, and get together some of my brisk boys of the curriers' guildry of Liege, that are as true as the knives they wear in their girdles.—But first undo me these clasps—for I have not worn this corselet since the battle of Saint Tron [fought by the insurgents of Liege against the Duke of Burgundy, Charles the Bold, when Count of Charalois, in which the people of Liege were defeated with great slaughter. S.] and I am three stone heavier since that time, if there be truth in Dutch beam and scale.”

The undoing of the iron enclosure gave great relief to the honest man, who, in putting it on, had more considered his zeal to the cause of Liege, than his capacity of bearing arms. It afterwards turned out that being, as it were, borne forward involuntarily, and hoisted over the walls by his company as they thronged to the assault, the magistrate had been carried here and there, as the tide of attack and defence flowed or ebbed, without the power, latterly, of even uttering a word until, as the sea casts a log of driftwood ashore in the first creek, he had been ultimately thrown in the entrance to the Ladies of Croye's apartments, where the encumbrance of his own armour, with the superincumbent weight of two men slain in the entrance, and who fell above him, might have fixed him down long enough, had he not been relieved by Durward.

The same warmth of temper which rendered Hermann Pavillon a hot headed and intemperate zealot in politics, had the more desirable consequence of making him, in private, a good tempered, kind hearted man, who, if sometimes a little misled by vanity, was always well meaning and benevolent. He told Quentin to have an especial care of the poor pretty yung frau [young woman], and, after this unnecessary exhortation, began to halloo from the window, “Liege, Liege, for the gallant skinners' guild of curriers!”

One or two of his immediate followers collected at the summons and at the peculiar whistle with which it was accompanied (each of the crafts having such a signal among themselves), and, more joining them, established a guard under the window from which their leader was bawling, and before the postern door.

Matters seemed now settling into some sort of tranquillity. All opposition had ceased, and the leaders of the different classes of assailants were taking measures to prevent indiscriminate plunder. The great bell was tolled, a summons to a military counsel, and its iron tongue communicating to Liege the triumphant possession of Schonwaldt by the insurgents, was answered by all the bells in that city, whose distant and clamorous voices seemed to cry, Hail to the victors! It would have been natural that Meinheer Pavillon should now have sallied from his fastness, but either in reverent care of those whom he had taken under his protection, or perhaps for the better assurance of his own safety, he contented himself with dispatching messenger on messenger, to command his lieutenant, Peterkin Geislaer, to attend him directly.

Peterkin came, at length, to his great relief, as being the person upon whom, on all pressing occasions, whether of war, politics, or commerce, Pavillon was most accustomed to repose confidence. He was a stout, squat figure, with a square face and broad black eyebrows, that announced him to be opinionative and disputatious,—an advice giving countenance, so to speak. He was endued with a buff jerkin, wore a broad belt and cutlass by his side, and carried a halberd in his hand.

“Peterkin, my dear lieutenant,” said the commander, “this has been a glorious day—night I should say—I trust thou art pleased for once.”

“I am well enough pleased that you are so,” said the doughty lieutenant, “though I should not have thought of your celebrating the victory, if you call it one, up in this garret by yourself, when you are wanted in council.”

“But am I wanted there?” said the Syndic.

“Ay, marry are you, to stand up for the rights of Liege, that are in more danger than ever,” answered the lieutenant.

“Pshaw, Peterkin,” answered his principal, “thou art ever such a frampold grumbler—”

“Grumbler? not I,” said Peterkin, “what pleases other people will always please me. Only I wish we have not got King Stork, instead of King Log, like the fabliau [fable] that the Clerk of Saint Lambert's used to read us out of Meister Aesop's book.”

[Refers to Aesop's fable. The commonwealth of frogs, having conceived an aversion for their amiable king Log, asked Jupiter to send them another sovereign. He accordingly bestowed upon them a stork who gradually devoured all his subjects.]

“I cannot guess your meaning,” said the Syndic.

“Why then, I tell you, Master Pavillon, that this Boar or Bear is like to make his own den of Schonwaldt, and is probable to turn out as bad a neighbour to our town as ever was the old Bishop, and worse. Here has he taken the whole conquest in his own hand, and is only doubting whether he should be called Prince or Bishop—and it is a shame to see how they have mishandled the old man among them.”

“I will not permit it, Peterkin,” said Pavillon, hustling up, “I disliked the mitre, but not the head that wore it. We are ten to one in the field, Peterkin, and will not permit these courses.”

“Ay, ten to one in the field, but only man to man in the castle, besides that Nikkel Blok the butcher, and all the rabble of the suburbs, take part with William de la Marck, partly for saus and braus [means here carousing] (for he has broached all the ale tubs and wine casks), and partly for old envy towards us, who are the craftsmen, and have privileges.”

“Peter,” said Pavillon, “we will go presently to the city. I will stay no longer in Schonwaldt.”

“But the bridges of this castle are up, master,” said Geislaer—“the gates locked, and guarded by these lanzknechts, and, if we were to try to force our way, these fellows, whose everyday business is war, might make wild work of us that only fight of a holyday.”

“But why has he secured the gates?” said the alarmed burgher, “or what business hath he to make honest men prisoners?”

“I cannot tell—not I,” said Peter. “Some noise there is about the Ladies of Croye, who have escaped during the storm of the castle. That first put the Man with the Beard beside himself with anger, and now he 's beside himself with drink also.”

The Burgomaster cast a disconsolate look towards Quentin, and seemed at a loss what to resolve upon. Durward, who had not lost a word of the conversation, which alarmed him very much, saw nevertheless that their only safety depended on his preserving his own presence of mind, and sustaining the courage of Pavillon. He struck boldly into the conversation, as one who had a right to have a voice in the deliberation.

“I am ashamed,” he said, “Meinheer Pavillon, to observe you hesitate what to do on this occasion. Go boldly to William de la Marck, and demand free leave to quit the castle, you, your lieutenant, your squire, and your daughter. He can have no pretence for keeping you prisoner.”

“For me and my lieutenant—that is myself and Peter?—Good—but who is my squire?”

“I am for the present,” replied the undaunted Scot.

“You!” said the embarrassed burgess, “but are you not the envoy of King Louis of France?”

“True, but my message is to the magistrates of Liege—and only in Liege will I deliver it.—Were I to acknowledge my quality before William de la Marck, must I not enter into negotiations with him? Ay,