— The sky is clouded, Gaspard,
And the vexed1 ocean sleeps a troubled sleep,
Beneath a lurid2 gleam of parting sunshine.
Such slumber3 hangs o’er discontented lands,
While factions4 doubt, as yet, if they have strength
To front the open battle.
Albion — A poem.
The youthful page paused on the entrance of the court-yard, and implored5 his guide to give him a moment’s breathing space. “Let me but look around me, man,” said he; “you consider not I have never seen such a scene as this before.— And this is Holyrood — the resort of the gallant6 and gay, and the fair, and the wise, and the powerful!”
“Ay, marry, is it!” said Woodcock; “but I wish I could hood7 thee as they do the hawks8, for thou starest as wildly as if you sought another fray10 or another fanfarona. I would I had thee safely housed, for thou lookest wild as a goss-hawk9.”
It was indeed no common sight to Roland, the vestibule of a palace traversed by its various groups,— some radiant with gaiety — some pensive11, and apparently12 weighed down by affairs concerning the state, or concerning themselves. Here the hoary13 statesman, with his cautious yet commanding look, his furred cloak and sable14 pantoufles; there the soldier in buff and steel, his long sword jarring against the pavement, and his whiskered upper lip and frowning brow, looking an habitual15 defiance16 of danger, which perhaps was not always made good; there again passed my lord’s serving-man, high of heart, and bloody18 of hand, humble19 to his master and his master’s equals, insolent20 to all others. To these might be added, the poor suitor, with his anxious look and depressed21 mien22 — the officer, full of his brief authority, elbowing his betters, and possibly his benefactors23, out of the road — the proud priest, who sought a better benefice — the proud baron24, who sought a grant of church lands — the robber chief, who came to solicit25 a pardon for the injuries he had inflicted26 on his neighbors — the plundered27 franklin, who came to seek vengeance28 for that which he had himself received. Besides there was the mustering29 and disposition30 of guards and soldiers — the despatching of messengers, and the receiving them — the trampling31 and neighing of horses without the gate — the flashing of arms, and rustling32 of plumes33, and jingling34 of spurs, within it. In short, it was that gay and splendid confusion, in which the eye of youth sees all that is brave and brilliant, and that of experience much that is doubtful, deceitful, false, and hollow — hopes that will never be gratified — promises which will never be fulfilled — pride in the disguise of humility35 — and insolence36 in that of frank and generous bounty37.
As, tired of the eager and enraptured38 attention which the page gave to a scene so new to him, Adam Woodcock endeavoured to get him to move forward, before his exuberance39 of astonishment40 should attract the observation of the sharp-witted denizens41 of the court, the falconer himself became an object of attention to a gay menial in a dark-green bonnet43 and feather, with a cloak of a corresponding colour, laid down, as the phrase then went, by six broad bars of silver lace, and welted with violet and silver. The words of recognition burst from both at once. “What! Adam Woodcock at court!” and “What! Michael Wing-the-wind — and how runs the hackit greyhound bitch now?”
“The waur for the wear, like ourselves, Adam — eight years this grass — no four legs will carry a dog forever; but we keep her for the breed, and so she ‘scapes Border doom44 — But why stand you gazing there? I promise you my lord has wished for you, and asked for you.”
“My Lord of Murray asked for me, and he Regent of the kingdom too!” said Adam. “I hunger and thirst to pay my duty to my good lord;— but I fancy his good lordship remembers the day’s sport on Carnwath-moor; and my Drummelzier falcon42, that beat the hawks from the Isle45 of Man, and won his lordship a hundred crowns from the Southern baron whom they called Stanley.”
“Nay46, not to flatter thee, Adam,” said his court-friend, “he remembers nought47 of thee, or of thy falcon either. He hath flown many a higher flight since that, and struck his quarry48 too. But come, come hither away; I trust we are to be good comrades on the old score.”
“What!” said Adam, “you would have me crush a pot with you; but I must first dispose of my eyas, where he will neither have girl to chase, nor lad to draw sword upon.”
“Is the youngster such a one?” said Michael.
“Ay, by my hood, he flies at all game,” replied Woodcock.
“Then had he better come with us,” said Michael Wing-the-wind; “for we cannot have a proper carouse49 just now, only I would wet my lips, and so must you. I want to hear the news from Saint Mary’s before you see my lord, and I will let you know how the wind sits up yonder.”
While he thus spoke50, he led the way to a side door which opened into the court; and threading several dark passages with the air of one who knew the most secret recesses52 of the palace, conducted them to a small matted chamber53, where he placed bread and cheese and a foaming54 flagon of ale before the falconer and his young companion, who immediately did justice to the latter in a hearty55 draught56, which nearly emptied the measure. Having drawn57 his breath, and dashed the froth from his whiskers, he observed, that his anxiety for the boy had made him deadly dry.
“Mend your draught,” said his hospitable58 friend, again supplying the flagon from a pitcher59 which stood beside. “I know the way to the butterybar. And now, mind what I say — this morning the Earl of Morton came to my lord in a mighty60 chafe61.”
“What! they keep the old friendship, then?” said Woodcock.
“Ay, ay, man, what else?” said Michael; “one hand must scratch the other. But in a mighty chafe was my Lord of Morton, who, to say truth, looketh on such occasions altogether uncanny, and, as it were, fiendish; and he says to my lord,— for I was in the chamber taking orders about a cast of hawks that are to be fetched from Darnoway — they match your long-winged falcons63, friend Adam.”
“I will believe that when I see them fly as high a pitch,” replied Woodcock, this professional observation forming a sort of parenthesis64.
“However,” said Michael, pursuing his tale, “my Lord of Morton, in a mighty chafe, asked my Lord Regent whether he was well dealt with —‘for my brother,’ said he, ‘should have had a gift to be Commendator of Kennaqubair, and to have all the temporalities erected65 into a lordship of regality for his benefit; and here,’ said he, ‘the false monks66 have had the insolence to choose a new Abbot to put his claim in my brother’s way; and moreover, the rascality68 of the neighbourhood have burnt and plundered all that was left in the Abbey, so that my brother will not have a house to dwell in, when he hath ousted69 the lazy hounds of priests.’ And my lord, seeing him chafed70, said mildly to him, ‘These are shrewd tidings, Douglas, but I trust they be not true; for Halbert Glendinning went southward yesterday, with a band of spears, and assuredly, had either of these chances happened, that the monks had presumed to choose an Abbot, or that the Abbey had been burnt, as you say, he had taken order on the spot for the punishment of such insolence, and had despatched us a messenger.’ And the Earl of Morton replied — now I pray you, Adam, to notice, that I say this out of love to you and your lord, and also for old comradeship, and also because Sir Halbert hath done me good, and may again — and also because I love not the Earl of Morton, as indeed more fear than like him — so then it were a foul71 deed in you to betray me.—‘But,’ said the Earl to the Regent, ‘take heed72, my lord, you trust not this Glendinning too far — he comes of churl73’s blood, which was never true to the nobles’— by Saint Andrew, these were his very words.—‘And besides,’ he said, ‘he hath a brother, a monk67 in Saint Mary’s, and walks all by his guidance, and is making friends on the Border with Buccleuch and with Ferniehirst, 25 and will join hand with them, were there likelihood of a new world.’ And my lord answered, like a free noble lord as he is; ‘Tush! my Lord of Morton, I will be warrant for Glendinning’s faith; and for his brother, he is a dreamer, that thinks of nought but book and breviary — and if such hap17 have chanced as you tell of, I look to receive from Glendinning the cowl of a hanged monk, and the head of a riotous74 churl, by way of sharp and sudden justice.’— And my Lord of Morton left the place, and, as it seemed to me, somewhat malecontent. But since that time, my lord has asked me more than once whether there has arrived no messenger from the Knight75 of Avenel. And all this I have told you, that you may frame your discourse76 to the best purpose, for it seems to me that my lord will not be well-pleased, if aught has happened like what my Lord of Morton said, and if your lord hath not ta’en strict orders with it.”
There was something in this communication which fairly blanked the bold visage of Adam Woodcock, in spite of the reinforcement which his natural hardihood had received from the berry-brown ale of Holyrood.
“What was it he said about a churl’s head, that grim Lord of Morton?” said the discontented falconer to his friend.
“Nay, it was my Lord Regent, who said that he expected, if the Abbey was injured, your Knight would send him the head of the ringleader among the rioters.”
“Nay, but is this done like a good Protestant,” said Adam Woodcock, “or a true Lord of the Congregation? We used to be their white-boys and darlings when we pulled down the convents in Fife and Perthshire.” “Ay, but that,” said Michael, “was when old mother Rome held her own, and our great folks were determined77 she should have no shelter for her head in Scotland. But, now that the priests are fled in all quarters, and their houses and lands are given to our grandees78, they cannot see that we are working the work of reformation in destroying the palaces of zealous79 Protestants.”
“But I tell you Saint Mary’s is not destroyed!” said Woodcock, in increasing agitation80; “some trash of painted windows there were broken — things that no nobleman could have brooked81 in his house — some stone saints were brought on their marrow-bones, like old Widdrington at Chevy-Chase; but as for fire-raising, there was not so much as a lighted lunt amongst us, save the match which the dragon had to light the burning tow withal, which he was to spit against Saint George; nay, I had caution of that.”
“How! Adam Woodcock,” said his comrade, “I trust thou hadst no hand in such a fair work? Look you, Adam, I were loth to terrify you, and you just come from a journey; but I promise you, Earl Morton hath brought you down a Maiden83 from Halifax, you never saw the like of her — and she’ll clasp you round the neck, and your head will remain in her arms.”
“Pshaw!” answered Adam, “I am too old to have my head turned by any maiden of them all. I know my Lord of Morton will go as far for a buxom84 lass as anyone; but what the devil took him to Halifax all the way? and if he has got a gamester there, what hath she to do with my head?”
“Much, much!” answered Michael. “Herod’s daughter, who did such execution with her foot and ankle, danced not men’s heads off more cleanly than this maiden of Morton. 26 ’Tis an axe85, man,— an axe which falls of itself like a sash window, and never gives the headsmen the trouble to wield86 it.”
“By my faith, a shrewd device,” said Woodcock; “heaven keep us free on’t!”
The page, seeing no end to the conversation betwixt these two old comrades, and anxious from what he had heard, concerning the fate of the Abbot, now interrupted their conference.
“Methinks,” he said, “Adam Woodcock, thou hadst better deliver thy master’s letter to the Regent; questionless he hath therein stated what has chanced at Kennaquhair, in the way most advantageous87 for all concerned.”
“The boy is right,” said Michael Wing-the-wind, “my lord will be very impatient.”
“The child hath wit enough to keep himself warm,” said Adam Woodcock, producing from his hawking-bag his lord’s letter, addressed to the Earl of Murray, “and for that matter so have I. So, Master Roland, you will e’en please to present this yourself to the Lord Regent; his presence will be better graced by a young page than by an old falconer.”
“Well said, canny62 Yorkshire!” replied his friend; “and but now you were so earnest to see our good lord!— Why, wouldst thou put the lad into the noose88 that thou mayst slip tether thyself?— or dost thou think the maiden will clasp his fair young neck more willingly than thy old sunburnt weasand?”
“Go to,” answered the falconer; “thy wit towers high an it could strike the quarry. I tell thee, the youth has nought to fear — he had nothing to do with the gambol89 — a rare gambol it was, Michael, as mad-caps ever played; and I had made as rare a ballad90, if we had had the luck to get it sung to an end. But mum for that — tace , as I said before, is Latin for a candle. Carry the youth to the presence, and I will remain here, with bridle91 in hand, ready to strike the spurs up to the rowel-heads, in case the hawk flies my way.— I will soon put Soltraedge, I trow, betwixt the Regent and me, if he means me less than fair play.”
“Come on then, my lad,” said Michael, “since thou must needs take the spring before canny Yorkshire.” So saying, he led the way through winding92 passages, closely followed by Roland Graeme, until they arrived at a large winding stone stair, the steps of which were so long and broad, and at the same time so low, as to render the ascent93 uncommonly94 easy. When they had ascended95 about the height of one story, the guide stepped aside, and pushed open the door of a dark and gloomy antechamber; so dark, indeed, that his youthful companion stumbled, and nearly fell down upon a low step, which was awkwardly placed on the very threshold.
“Take heed,” said Michael Wing-the-wind, in a very low tone of voice, and first glancing cautiously round to see if any one listened —“Take heed, my young friend, for those who fall on these boards seldom rise again — Seest thou that,” he added, in a still lower voice, pointing to some dark crimson96 stains on the floor, on which a ray of light, shot through a small aperture97, and traversing the general gloom of the apartment, fell with mottled radiance —“Seest thou that, youth?— walk warily98, for men have fallen here before you.”
“What mean you?” said the page, his flesh creeping, though he scarce knew why; “Is it blood?”
“Ay, ay,” said the domestic, in the same whispering tone, and dragging the youth on by the arm —“Blood it is,— but this is no time to question, or even to look at it. Blood it is, foully99 and fearfully shed, as foully and fearfully avenged100. The blood,” he added, in a still more cautious tone, “of Seignior David.”
Roland Graeme’s heart throbbed101 when he found himself so unexpectedly in the scene of Rizzio’s slaughter102, a catastrophe103 which had chilled with horror all even in that rude age, which had been the theme of wonder and pity through every cottage and castle in Scotland, and had not escaped that of Avenel. But his guide hurried him forward, permitting no farther question, and with the manner of one who has already tampered104 too much with a dangerous subject. A tap which he made at a low door at one end of the vestibule, was answered by a huissier or usher105, who, opening it cautiously, received Michael’s intimation that a page waited the Regent’s leisure, who brought letters from the Knight of Avenel.
“The Council is breaking up,” said the usher; “but give me the packet; his Grace the Regent will presently see the messenger.”
“The packet,” replied the page, “must be delivered into the Regent’s own hands; such were the orders of my master.”
The usher looked at him from head to foot, as if surprised at his boldness, and then replied, with some asperity106, “Say you so, my young master? Thou crowest loudly to be but a chicken, and from a country barn-yard too.”
“Were it a time or place,” said Roland, “thou shouldst see I can do more than crow; but do your duty, and let the Regent know I wait his pleasure.”
“Thou art but a pert knave107 to tell me of my duty,” said the courtier in office; “but I will find a time to show you you are out of yours; meanwhile, wait there till you are wanted.” So saying, he shut the door in Roland’s face.
Michael Wing-the-wind, who had shrunk from his youthful companion during this altercation108, according to the established maxim109 of courtiers of all ranks, and in all ages, now transgressed110 their prudential line of conduct so far as to come up to him once more. “Thou art a hopeful young springald,” said he, “and I see right well old Yorkshire had reason in his caution. Thou hast been five minutes in the court, and hast employed thy time so well, as to make a powerful and a mortal enemy out of the usher of the council-chamber. Why, man, you might almost as well have offended the deputy butler!”
“I care not what he is,” said Roland Graeme; “I will teach whomever I speak with to speak civilly to me in return. I did not come from Avenel to be browbeaten111 in Holyrood.”
“Bravo, my lad!” said Michael; “it is a fine spirit if you can but hold it — but see, the door opens.”
The usher appeared, and, in a more civil tone of voice and manner, said, that his Grace the Regent would receive the Knight of Avenel’s message; and accordingly marshalled Roland Graeme the way into the apartment, from which the Council had been just dismissed, after finishing their consultations112. There was in the room a long oaken table, surrounded by stools of the same wood, with a large elbow chair, covered with crimson velvet113, at the head. Writing materials and papers were lying there in apparent disorder114; and one or two of the privy115 counsellors who had lingered behind, assuming their cloaks, bonnets116, and swords, and bidding farewell to the Regent, were departing slowly by a large door, on the opposite side to that through which the page entered. Apparently the Earl of Murray had made some jest, for the smiling countenances118 of the statesmen expressed that sort of cordial reception which is paid by courtiers to the condescending119 pleasantries of a prince.
The Regent himself was laughing heartily120 as he said, “Farewell, my lords, and hold me remembered to the Cock of the North.”
He then turned slowly round towards Roland Graeme, and the marks of gaiety, real or assumed, disappeared from his countenance117, as completely as the passing bubbles leave the dark mirror of a still profound lake into which a traveller has cast a stone; in the course of a minute his noble features had assumed their natural expression of deep and even melancholy121 gravity.
This distinguished122 statesman, for as such his worst enemies acknowledged him, possessed123 all the external dignity, as well as almost all the noble qualities, which could grace the power that he enjoyed; and had he succeeded to the throne as his legitimate124 inheritance, it is probable he would have been recorded as one of Scotland’s wisest and greatest kings. But that he held his authority by the deposition125 and imprisonment126 of his sister and benefactress, was a crime which those only can excuse who think ambition an apology for ingratitude127. He was dressed plainly in black velvet, after the Flemish fashion, and wore in his high-crowned hat a jewelled clasp, which looped it up on one side, and formed the only ornament128 of his apparel. He had his poniard by his side, and his sword lay on the council table.
Such was the personage before whom Roland Graeme now presented himself, with a feeling of breathless awe129, very different from the usual boldness and vivacity130 of his temper. In fact, he was, from education and nature, forward, but not impudent131, and was much more easily controlled by the moral superiority, arising from the elevated talents and renown132 of those with whom he conversed133, than by pretensions134 founded only on rank or external show. He might have braved with indifference135 the presence of an earl, merely distinguished by his belt and coronet; but he felt overawed in that of the eminent136 soldier and statesman, the wielder137 of a nation’s power, and the leader of her armies.— The greatest and wisest are flattered by the deference138 of youth — so graceful139 and becoming in itself; and Murray took, with much courtesy, the letter from the hands of the abashed140 and blushing page, and answered with complaisance141 to the imperfect and half-muttered greeting, which he endeavoured to deliver to him on the part of Sir Halbert of Avenel. He even paused a moment ere he broke the silk with which the letter was secured, to ask the page his name — so much he was struck with his very handsome features and form.
“Roland Graeme,” he said, repeating the words after the hesitating page. “What! of the Grahams of the Lennox?”
“No, my lord,” replied Roland; “my parents dwelt in the Debateable Land.”
Murray made no further inquiry142, but proceeded to read his dispatches; during the perusal143 of which his brow began to assume a stern expression of displeasure, as that of one who found something which at once surprised and disturbed him. He sat down on the nearest seat, frowned till his eyebrows144 almost met together, read the letter twice over, and was then silent for several minutes. At length, raising his head, his eye encountered that of the usher, who in vain endeavoured to exchange the look of eager and curious observation with which he had been perusing145 the Regent’s features, for that open and unnoticing expression of countenance, which, in looking at all, seems as if it saw and marked nothing — a cast of look which may be practised with advantage by all those, of whatever degree, who are admitted to witness the familiar and unguarded hours of their superiors. Great men are as jealous of their thoughts as the wife of King Candaules was of her charms, and will as readily punish those who have, however involuntarily, beheld146 them in mental deshabille and exposure.
“Leave the apartment, Hyndman,” said the Regent, sternly, “and carry your observation elsewhere. You are too knowing, sir, for your post, which, by special order, is destined147 for men of blunter capacity. So! now you look more like a fool than you did,”—(for Hyndman, as may easily be supposed, was not a little disconcerted by this rebuke)—“keep that confused stare, and it may keep your office. Begone, sir!”
The usher departed in dismay, not forgetting to register, amongst his other causes of dislike to Roland Graeme, that he had been the witness of this disgraceful chiding148. When he had left the apartment, the Regent again addressed the page.
“Your name, you say, is Armstrong?”
“No,” replied Roland, “my name is Graeme, so please you — Roland Graeme, whose forbears were designated of Heathergill, in the Debateable Land.”
“Ay, I knew it was a name from the Debateable Land. Hast thou any acquaintance in Edinburgh?”
“My lord,” replied Roland, willing rather to evade149 this question than to answer it directly, for the prudence150 of being silent with respect to Lord Seyton’s adventure immediately struck him, “I have been in Edinburgh scarce an hour, and that for the first time in my life.”
“What! and thou Sir Halbert Glendinning’s page?” said the Regent.
“I was brought up as my Lady’s page,” said the youth, “and left Avenel Castle for the first time in my life — at least since my childhood — only three days since.”
“My Lady’s page!” repeated the Earl of Murray, as if speaking to himself; “it was strange to send his Lady’s page on a matter of such deep concernment — Morton will say it is of a piece with the nomination151 of his brother to be Abbot; and yet in some sort an inexperienced youth will best serve the turn.— What hast thou been taught, young man, in thy doughty152 apprenticeship153?”
“To hunt, my lord, and to hawk,” said Roland Graeme.
“To hunt coneys, and to hawk at ouzels!” said the Regent, smiling; “for such are the sports of ladies and their followers154.”
Graeme’s cheek reddened deeply as he replied, not without some emphasis, “To hunt red-deer of the first head, and to strike down herons of the highest soar, my lord, which, in Lothian speech, may be termed, for aught I know, coneys and ouzels;-also I can wield a brand and couch a lance, according to our Border meaning; in inland speech these may be termed water-flags and bulrushes.”
“Thy speech rings like metal,” said the Regent, “and I pardon the sharpness of it for the truth.— Thou knowest, then, what belongs to the duty of a man-at-arms?”
“So far as exercise can teach — it without real service in the field,” answered Roland Graeme; “but our Knight permitted none of his household to make raids, and I never had the good fortune to see a stricken field.”
“The good fortune!” repeated the Regent, smiling somewhat sorrowfully, “take my word, young man, war is the only game from which both parties rise losers.”
“Not always, my lord!” answered the page, with his characteristic audacity155, “if fame speaks truth.”
“How, sir?” said the Regent, colouring in his turn, and perhaps suspecting an indiscreet allusion156 to the height which he himself had attained157 by the hap of civil war.
“Because, my lord,” said Roland Graeme, without change of tone, “he who fights well, must have fame in life, or honour in death; and so war is a game from which no one can rise a loser.”
The Regent smiled and shook his head, when at that moment the door opened, and the Earl of Morton presented himself.
“I come somewhat hastily,” he said, “and I enter unannounced because my news are of weight — It is as I said; Edward Glendinning is named Abbot, and —”
“Hush, my lord!” said the Regent, “I know it, but —”
“And perhaps you knew it before I did, my Lord of Murray,” answered Morton, his dark red brow growing darker and redder as he spoke.
“Morton,” said Murray, “suspect me not — touch not mine honour — I have to suffer enough from the calumnies158 of foes159, let me not have to contend with the unjust suspicions of my friends.— We are not alone,” said he, recollecting160 himself, “or I could tell you more.”
He led Morton into one of the deep embrasures which the windows formed in the massive wall, and which afforded a retiring place for their conversing161 apart. In this recess51, Roland observed them speak together with much earnestness, Murray appearing to be grave and earnest, and Morton having a jealous and offended air, which seemed gradually to give way to the assurances of the Regent.
As their conversation grew more earnest, they became gradually louder in speech, having perhaps forgotten the presence of the page, the more readily as his position in the apartment placed him put of sight, so that he found himself unwillingly162 privy to more of their discourse than he cared to hear. For, page though he was, a mean curiosity after the secrets of others had never been numbered amongst Roland’s failings; and moreover, with all his natural rashness, he could not but doubt the safety of becoming privy to the secret discourse of these powerful and dreaded163 men. Still he could neither stop his ears, nor with propriety164 leave the apartment; and while he thought of some means of signifying his presence, he had already heard so much, that, to have produced himself suddenly would have been as awkward, and perhaps as dangerous, as in quiet to abide165 the end of their conference. What he overheard, however, was but an imperfect part of their communication; and although an expert politician, acquainted with the circumstances of the times, would have had little difficulty in tracing the meaning, yet Roland Graeme could only form very general and vague conjectures166 as to the import of their discourse.
“All is prepared,” said Murray, “and Lindsay is setting forward — She must hesitate no longer — thou seest I act by thy counsel, and harden myself against softer considerations.”
“True, my lord,” replied Morton, “in what is necessary to gain power, you do not hesitate, but go boldly to the mark. But are you as careful to defend and preserve what you have won?— Why this establishment of domestics around her?— has not your sister men and maidens167 enough to tend her, but you must consent to this superfluous168 and dangerous retinue169?”
“For shame, Morton!— a Princess, and my sister, could I do less than allow her due attendance?”
“Ay,” replied Morton, “even thus fly all your shafts170 — smartly enough loosened from the bow, and not unskilfully aimed — but a breath of foolish affection ever crosses in the mid171 volley, and sways the arrow from the mark.”
“Say not so, Morton,” replied Murray, “I have both dared and done —”
“Yes, enough to gain, but not enough to keep — reckon not that she will think and act thus — you have wounded her deeply, both in pride and in power — it signifies nought, that you would tent now the wound with unavailing salves — as matters stand with you, you must forfeit172 the title of an affectionate brother, to hold that of a bold and determined statesman.”
“Morton!” said Murray, with some impatience173, “I brook82 not these taunts175 — what I have done I have done — what I must farther do, I must and will — but I am not made of iron like thee, and I cannot but remember — Enough of this-my purpose holds.”
“And I warrant me,” said Morton, “the choice of these domestic consolations176 will rest with —”
Here he whispered names which escaped Roland Graeme’s ear. Murray replied in a similar tone, but so much raised towards the conclusion, of the sentence, that the page heard these words —“And of him I hold myself secure, by Glendinning’s recommendation.”
“Ay, which may be as much trustworthy as his late conduct at the Abbey of Saint Mary’s — you have heard that his brother’s election has taken place. Your favourite Sir Halbert, my Lord of Murray, has as much fraternal affection as yourself.”
“By heaven, Morton, that taunt174 demanded an unfriendly answer, but I pardon it, for your brother also is concerned; but this election shall be annulled177. I tell you, Earl of Morton, while I hold the sword of state in my royal nephew’s name, neither Lord nor Knight in Scotland shall dispute my authority; and if I bear — with insults from my friends, it is only while I know them to be such, and forgive their follies178 for their faithfulness.”
Morton muttered what seemed to be some excuse, and the Regent answered him in a milder tone, and then subjoined, “Besides, I have another pledge than Glendinning’s recommendation, for this youth’s fidelity179 — his nearest relative has placed herself in my hands as his security, to be dealt withal as his doings shall deserve.”
“That is something,” replied Morton; “but yet in fair love and goodwill180, I must still pray you to keep on your guard. The foes are stirring again, as horse-flies and hornets become busy so soon as the storm-blast is over. George of Seyton was crossing the causeway this morning with a score of men at his back, and had a ruffle181 with my friends of the house of Leslie — they met at the Tron, and were fighting hard, when the provost, with his guard of partisans182, came in thirdsman, and staved them asunder183 with their halberds, as men part dog and bear.”
“He hath my order for such interference,” said the Regent —“Has any one been hurt?”
“George of Seyton himself, by black Ralph Leslie — the devil take the rapier that ran not through from side to side! Ralph has a bloody coxcomb184, by a blow from a messan-page whom nobody knew — Dick Seyton of Windygowl is run through the arm, and two gallants of the Leslies have suffered phlebotomy. This is all the gentle blood which has been spilled in the revel185; but a yeoman or two on both sides have had bones broken and ears chopped. The ostlere-wives, who are like to be the only losers by their miscarriage186, have dragged the knaves187 off the street, and are crying a drunken coronach over them.”
“You take it lightly, Douglas,” said the Regent; “these broils188 and feuds189 would shame the capital of the great Turk, let alone that of a Christian190 and reformed state. But, if I live, this gear shall be amended191; and men shall say, when they read my story, that if it were my cruel hap to rise to power by the dethronement of a sister, I employed it, when gained, for the benefit of the commonweal.”
“And of your friends,” replied Morton; “wherefore I trust for your instant order annulling192 the election of this lurdane Abbot, Edward Glendinning.”
“You shall be presently satisfied.” said the Regent; and stepping forward, he began to call, “So ho, Hyndman!” when suddenly his eye lighted on Roland Graeme —“By my faith, Douglas,” said he, turning to his friend, “here have been three at counsel!”
“Ay, but only two can keep counsel,” said Morton; “the galliard must be disposed of.”
“For shame, Morton — an orphan193 boy!— Hearken thee, my child — Thou hast told me some of thy accomplishments194 — canst thou speak truth?” “Ay, my lord, when it serves my turn,” replied Graeme.
“It shall serve thy turn now,” said the Regent; “and falsehood shall be thy destruction. How much hast thou heard or understood of what we two have spoken together?”
“But little, my lord,” replied Roland Graeme boldly, “which met my apprehension195, saving that it seemed to me as if in something you doubted the faith of the Knight of Avenel, under whose roof I was nurtured196.”
“And what hast thou to say on that point, young man?” continued the Regent, bending his eyes upon him with a keen and strong expression of observation.
“That,” said the page, “depends on the quality of those who speak against his honour whose bread I have long eaten. If they be my inferiors, I say they lie, and will maintain what I say with my baton197; if my equals, still I say they lie, and will do battle in the quarrel, if they list, with my sword; if my superiors”— he paused.
“Proceed boldly,” said the Regent —“What if thy superiors said aught that nearly touched your master’s honour?”
“I would say,” replied Graeme, “that he did ill to slander198 the absent, and that my master was a man who could render an account of his actions to any one who should manfully demand it of him to his face.”
“And it were manfully said,” replied the Regent —“what thinkest thou, my Lord of Morton?”
“I think,” replied Morton, “that if the young galliard resemble a certain ancient friend of ours, as much in the craft of his disposition as he does in eye and in brow, there may be a wide difference betwixt what he means and what he speaks.”
“And whom meanest thou that he resembles so closely?” said Murray.
“Even the true and trusty Julian Avenel,” replied Morton.
“But this youth belongs to the Debateable Land,” said Murray.
“It may be so; but Julian was an outlaying199 striker of venison, and made many a far cast when he had a fair doe in chase.”
“Pshaw!” said the Regent, “this is but idle talk — Here, thou Hyndman — thou curiosity,” calling to the usher, who now entered,—“conduct this youth to his companion — You will both,” he said to Graeme, “keep yourselves in readiness to travel on short notice.”— And then motioning to him courteously200 to withdraw, he broke up the interview.
收听单词发音 |
1
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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hap
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| n.运气；v.偶然发生 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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29
mustering
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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34
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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36
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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38
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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40
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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41
denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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42
falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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43
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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44
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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45
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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46
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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47
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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48
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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49
carouse
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| v.狂欢；痛饮；n.狂饮的宴会 | |
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50
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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51
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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52
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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53
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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54
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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55
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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56
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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57
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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58
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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59
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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60
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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61
chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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62
canny
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| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
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63
falcons
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| n.猎鹰( falcon的名词复数 ) | |
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64
parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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65
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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66
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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67
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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68
rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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69
ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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70
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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71
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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72
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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73
churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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74
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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75
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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76
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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77
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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78
grandees
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| n.贵族，大公，显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
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79
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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80
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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81
brooked
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| 容忍，忍受（brook的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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82
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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83
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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84
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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85
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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86
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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87
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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88
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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89
gambol
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| v.欢呼，雀跃 | |
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90
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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91
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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92
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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93
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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94
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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95
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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97
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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98
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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99
foully
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| ad.卑鄙地 | |
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100
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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101
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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102
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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103
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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104
tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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105
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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106
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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107
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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108
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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109
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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110
transgressed
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| v.超越( transgress的过去式和过去分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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111
browbeaten
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| v.（以言辞或表情）威逼，恫吓( browbeat的过去分词 ) | |
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112
consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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113
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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114
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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115
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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116
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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117
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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118
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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119
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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120
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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121
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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122
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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123
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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124
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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125
deposition
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| n.免职，罢官；作证；沉淀；沉淀物 | |
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126
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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127
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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128
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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129
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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130
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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131
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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132
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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133
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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134
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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135
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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136
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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137
wielder
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| 行使者 | |
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138
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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139
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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140
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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142
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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143
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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144
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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145
perusing
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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146
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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147
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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148
chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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149
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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150
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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151
nomination
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| n.提名，任命，提名权 | |
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152
doughty
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| adj.勇猛的，坚强的 | |
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153
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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154
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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155
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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156
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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157
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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158
calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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159
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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160
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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161
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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162
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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163
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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164
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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165
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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166
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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167
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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168
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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169
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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170
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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171
mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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172
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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173
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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174
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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175
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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176
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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177
annulled
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| v.宣告无效( annul的过去式和过去分词 )；取消；使消失；抹去 | |
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178
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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179
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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180
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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181
ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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182
partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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183
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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184
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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185
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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186
miscarriage
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| n.失败，未达到预期的结果；流产 | |
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187
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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188
broils
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| v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的第三人称单数 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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189
feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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190
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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191
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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192
annulling
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| v.宣告无效( annul的现在分词 )；取消；使消失；抹去 | |
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193
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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194
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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195
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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196
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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197
baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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198
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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199
outlaying
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| v.支出，费用( outlay的现在分词 ) | |
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200
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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