Now have you reft me from my staff, my guide,
Who taught my youth, as men teach untamed falcons2,
To use my strength discreetly3 — I am reft
Of comrade and of counsel.
Old play.
In the gray of the next morning’s dawn, there was a loud knocking at the gate of the hostelrie; and those without, proclaiming that they came in the name of the Regent, were instantly admitted. A moment or two afterwards, Michael Wing-the-wind stood by the bedside of our travellers.
“Up! up!” he said, “there is no slumber4 where Murray hath work ado.”
Both sleepers5 sprung up, and began to dress themselves.
“You, old friend,” said Wing-the-wind to Adam Woodcock, “must to horse instantly, with this packet to the Monks6 of Kennaquhair; and with this,” delivering them as he spoke7, “to the Knight8 of Avenel.”
“As much as commanding the monks to annul9 their election, I’ll warrant me, of an Abbot,” quoth Adam Woodcock, as he put the packets into his bag, “and charging my master to see it done — To hawk10 at one brother with another, is less than fair play, methinks.”
“Fash not thy beard about it, old boy,” said Michael, “but betake thee to the saddle presently; for if these orders are not obeyed, there will be bare walls at the Kirk of Saint Mary’s, and it may be at the Castle of Avenel to boot; for I heard my Lord of Morton loud with the Regent, and we are at a pass that we cannot stand with him anent trifles.”
“But,” said Adam, “touching the Abbot of Unreason — what say they to that outbreak — An they be shrewishly disposed, I were better pitch the packets to Satan, and take the other side of the Border for my bield.”
“Oh, that was passed over as a jest, since there was little harm done.— But, hark thee, Adam,” continued his comrade, “if there was a dozen vacant abbacies in your road, whether of jest or earnest, reason or unreason, draw thou never one of their mitres over thy brows.— The time is not fitting, man!— besides, our Maiden11 longs to clip the neck of a fat churchman.”
“She shall never sheer mine in that capacity,” said the falconer, while he knotted the kerchief in two or three double folds around his sunburnt bull-neck, calling out at the same time, “Master Roland, Master Roland, make haste! we must back to perch12 and mew, and, thank Heaven, more than our own wit, with our bones whole, and without a stab in the stomach.”
“Nay, but,” said Wing-the-wind, “the page goes not back with you; the Regent has other employment for him.”
“Saints and sorrows!” exclaimed the falconer —“Master Roland Graeme to remain here, and I to return to Avenel!— Why, it cannot be — the child cannot manage himself in this wide world without me, and I question if he will stoop to any other whistle than mine own; there are times I myself can hardly bring him to my lure14.”
It was at Roland’s tongue’s end to say something concerning the occasion they had for using mutually each other’s prudence15, but the real anxiety which Adam evinced at parting with him, took away his disposition16 to such ungracious raillery. The falconer did not altogether escape, however, for, in turning his face towards the lattice, his friend Michael caught a glimpse of it, and exclaimed, “I prithee, Adam Woodcock, what hast thou been doing with these eyes of thine? They are swelled17 to the starting from the socket18!”
“Nought in the world,” said he, after casting a deprecating glance at Roland Graeme, “but the effect of sleeping in this d — ned truckle without a pillow.”
“Why, Adam Woodcock, thou must be grown strangely dainty,” said his old companion; “I have known thee sleep all night with no better pillow than a bush of ling, and start up with the sun, as glegg as a falcon1; and now thine eyes resemble ——”
“Tush, man, what signifies how mine eyes look now?” said Adam —“let us but roast a crab19-apple, pour a pottle of ale on it, and bathe our throats withal, thou shalt see a change in me.”
“And thou wilt20 be in heart to sing thy jolly ballad21 about the Pope,” said his comrade.
“Ay, that I will,” replied the falconer, “that is, when we have left this quiet town five miles behind us, if you will take your hobby and ride so far on my way.”
“Nay, that I may not,” said Michael —“I can but stop to partake your morning draught23, and see you fairly to horse — I will see that they saddle them, and toast the crab for thee, without loss of time.”
During his absence the falconer took the page by the hand —“May I never hood24 hawk again,” said the good-natured fellow, “if I am not as sorry to part with you as if you were a child of mine own, craving25 pardon for the freedom — I cannot tell what makes me love you so much, unless it be for the reason that I loved the vicious devil of a brown galloway nag13 whom my master the Knight called Satan, till Master Warden26 changed his name to Seyton; for he said it was over boldness to call a beast after the King of Darkness ——”
“And,” said the page, “it was over boldness in him, I trow, to call a vicious brute27 after a noble family.”
“Well,” proceeded Adam, “Seyton or Satan, I loved that nag over every other horse in the stable —— There was no sleeping on his back — he was for ever fidgeting, bolting, rearing, biting, kicking, and giving you work to do, and maybe the measure of your back on the heather to the boot of it all. And I think I love you better than any lad in the castle, for the self-same qualities.”
“Thanks, thanks, kind Adam. I regard myself bound to you for the good estimation in which you hold me.”
“Nay, interrupt me not,” said the falconer —“Satan was a good nag — But I say I think I shall call the two eyases after you, the one Roland, and the other Graeme; and while Adam Woodcock lives, be sure you have a friend — Here is to thee, my dear son.”
Roland most heartily28 returned the grasp of the hand, and Woodcock, having taken a deep draught, continued his farewell speech.
“There are three things I warn you against, Roland, now that you art to tread this weary world without my experience to assist you. In the first place, never draw dagger29 on slight occasion — every man’s doublet is not so well stuffed as a certain abbot’s that you wot of. Secondly30, fly not at every pretty girl, like a merlin at a thrush — you will not always win a gold chain for your labour — and, by the way, here I return to you your fanfarona — keep it close, it is weighty, and may benefit you at a pinch more ways than one. Thirdly, and to conclude, as our worthy31 preacher says, beware of the pottle-pot — it has drenched32 the judgment33 of wiser men than you. I could bring some instances of it, but I dare say it needeth not; for if you should forget your own mishaps34, you will scarce fail to remember mine — And so farewell, my dear son.”
Roland returned his good wishes, and failed not to send his humble35 duty to his kind Lady, charging the falconer, at the same time, to express his regret that he should have offended her, and his determination so to bear him in the world that she would not be ashamed of the generous protection she had afforded him.
The falconer embraced his young friend, mounted his stout36, round-made, trotting-nag, which the serving-man, who had attended him, held ready at the door, and took the road to the southward. A sullen38 and heavy sound echoed from the horse’s feet, as if indicating the sorrow of the good-natured rider. Every hoof-tread seemed to tap upon Roland’s heart as he heard his comrade withdraw with so little of his usual alert activity, and felt that he was once more alone in the world.
He was roused from his reverie by Michael Wing-the-wind, who reminded him that it was necessary they should instantly return to the palace, as my Lord Regent went to the Sessions early in the morning. They went thither39 accordingly, and Wing-the-wind, a favourite old domestic, who was admitted nearer to the Regent’s person and privacy, than many whose posts were more ostensible40, soon introduced Graeme into a small matted chamber41, where he had an audience of the present head of the troubled State of Scotland. The Earl of Murray was clad in a sad-coloured morning-gown, with a cap and slippers42 of the same cloth, but, even in this easy deshabillé, held his sheathed43 rapier in his hand, a precaution which he adopted when receiving strangers, rather in compliance44 with the earnest remonstrances46 of his friends and partisans47, than from any personal apprehensions49 of his own. He answered with a silent nod the respectful obeisance50 of the page, and took one or two turns through the small apartment in silence, fixing his keen eye on Roland, as if he wished to penetrate51 into his very soul. At length he broke silence.
“Your name is, I think, Julian Graeme?”
“Roland Graeme, my lord, not Julian,” replied the page.
“Right — I was misled by some trick of my memory — Roland Graeme, from the Debateable Land.— Roland, thou knowest the duties which belong to a lady’s service?”
“I should know them, my lord,” replied Roland, “having been bred so near the person of my Lady of Avenel; but I trust never more to practise them, as the Knight hath promised ——”
“Be silent, young man,” said the Regent, “I am to speak, and you to hear and obey. It is necessary that, for some space at least, you shall again enter into the service of a lady, who, in rank, hath no equal in Scotland; and this service accomplished53, I give thee my word as Knight and Prince, that it shall open to you a course of ambition, such as may well gratify the aspiring54 wishes of one whom circumstances entitle to entertain much higher views than thou. I will take thee into my household and near to my person, or, at your own choice, I will give you the command of a foot-company — either is a preferment which the proudest laird in the land might be glad to ensure for a second son.”
“May I presume to ask, my lord,” said Roland, observing the Earl paused for a reply, “to whom my poor services are in the first place destined55?”
“You will be told hereafter,” said the Regent; and then, as if overcoming some internal reluctance56 to speak farther himself, he added, “or why should I not myself tell you, that you are about to enter into the service of a most illustrious — most unhappy lady — into the service of Mary of Scotland.”
“Of the Queen, my lord!” said the page, unable to suppress his surprise.
“Of her who was the Queen!” said Murray, with a singular mixture of displeasure and embarrassment57 in his tone of voice. “You must be aware, young man, that her son reigns58 in her stead.”
He sighed from an emotion, partly natural, perhaps, and partly assumed.
“And am I to attend upon her Grace in her place of imprisonment59, my lord?” again demanded the page, with a straightforward60 and hardy61 simplicity62, which somewhat disconcerted the sage63 and powerful statesman.
“She is not imprisoned64,” answered Murray, angrily; “God forbid she should — she is only sequestered65 from state affairs, and from the business of the public, until the world be so effectually settled, that she may enjoy her natural and uncontrolled freedom, without her royal disposition being exposed to the practices of wicked and designing men. It is for this purpose,” he added, “that while she is to be furnished, as right is, with such attendance as may befit her present secluded66 state, it becomes necessary that those placed around her, are persons on whose prudence I can have reliance. You see, therefore, you are at once called on to discharge an office most honourable67 in itself, and so to discharge it that you may make a friend of the Regent of Scotland. Thou art, I have been told, a singularly apprehensive68 youth; and I perceive by thy look, that thou dost already understand what I would say on this matter. In this schedule your particular points of duty are set down at length — but the sum required of you is fidelity69 — I mean fidelity to myself and to the state. You are, therefore, to watch every attempt which is made, or inclination70 displayed, to open any communication with any of the lords who have become banders in the west — with Hamilton, Seyton, with Fleming, or the like. It is true that my gracious sister, reflecting upon the ill chances that have happened to the state of this poor kingdom, from evil counsellors who have abused her royal nature in time past, hath determined71 to sequestrate herself from state affairs in future. But it is our duty, as acting72 for and in the name of our infant nephew, to guard against the evils which may arise from any mutation73 or vacillation74 in her royal resolutions. Wherefore, it will be thy duty to watch, and report to our lady mother, whose guest our sister is for the present, whatever may infer a disposition to withdraw her person from the place of security in which she is lodged75, or to open communication with those without. If, however, your observation should detect any thing of weight, and which may exceed mere76 suspicion, fail not to send notice by an especial messenger to me directly, and this ring shall be thy warrant to order horse and men on such service.— And now begone. If there be half the wit in thy head that there is apprehension48 in thy look, thou fully77 comprehendest all that I would say — Serve me faithfully, and sure as I am belted earl, thy reward shall be great.”
Roland Graeme made an obeisance, and was about to depart.
The Earl signed to him to remain. “I have trusted thee deeply,” he said, “young man, for thou art the only one of her suite78 who has been sent to her by my own recommendation. Her gentlewomen are of her own nomination79 — it were too hard to have barred her that privilege, though some there were who reckoned it inconsistent with sure policy. Thou art young and handsome. Mingle80 in their follies81, and see they cover not deeper designs under the appearance of female levity82 — if they do mine, do thou countermine. For the rest, bear all decorum and respect to the person of thy mistress — she is a princess, though a most unhappy one, and hath been a queen! though now, alas83! no longer such! Pay, therefore, to her all honour and respect, consistent with thy fidelity to the King and me — and now, farewell.— Yet stay — you travel with Lord Lindesay, a man of the old world, rough and honest, though untaught; see that thou offend him not, for he is not patient of raillery, and thou, I have heard, art a crack-halter.” This he said with a smile, then added, “I could have wished the Lord Lindesay’s mission had been intrusted to some other and more gentle noble.”
“And wherefore should you wish that, my lord?” said Morton, who even then entered the apartment; “the council have decided84 for the best — we have had but too many proofs of this lady’s stubbornness of mind, and the oak that resists the sharp steel axe85, must be riven with the rugged86 iron wedge.— And this is to be her page?— My Lord Regent hath doubtless instructed you, young man, how you shall guide yourself in these matters; I will add but a little hint on my part. You are going to the castle of a Douglas, where treachery never thrives — the first moment of suspicion will be the last of your life. My kinsman87, William Douglas, understands no raillery, and if he once have cause to think you false, you will waver in the wind from the castle battlements ere the sun set upon his anger.— And is the lady to have an almoner withal?”
“Occasionally, Douglas,” said the Regent; “it were hard to deny the spiritual consolation88 which she thinks essential to her salvation89.”
“You are ever too soft hearted, my lord — What! a false priest to communicate her lamentations, not only to our unfriends in Scotland, but to the Guises90, to Rome, to Spain, and I know not where!”
“Fear not,” said the Regent, “we will take such order that no treachery shall happen.”
“Look to it then.” said Morton; “you know my mind respecting the wench you have consented she shall receive as a waiting-woman — one of a family, which, of all others, has ever been devoted91 to her, and inimical to us. Had we not been wary92, she would have been purveyed93 of a page as much to her purpose as her waiting-damsel. I hear a rumour94 that an old mad Romish pilgrimer, who passes for at least half a saint among them, was employed to find a fit subject.”
“We have escaped that danger at least,” said Murray, “and converted it into a point of advantage, by sending this boy of Glendinning’s — and for her waiting-damsel, you cannot grudge95 her one poor maiden instead of her four noble Marys and all their silken train?”
“I care not so much for the waiting-maiden,” said Morton, “but I cannot brook96 the almoner — I think priests of all persuasions97 are much like each other — Here is John Knox, who made such a noble puller-down, is ambitious of becoming a setter-up, and a founder98 of schools and colleges out of the Abbey lands, and bishops’ rents, and other spoils of Rome, which the nobility of Scotland have won with their sword and bow, and with which he would endow new hives to sing the old drone.”
“John is a man of God,” said the Regent, “and his scheme is a devout99 imagination.”
The sedate100 smile with which this was spoken, left it impossible to conjecture101 whether the words were meant in approbation102, or in derision, of the plan of the Scottish Reformer. Turning then to Roland Graeme, as if he thought he had been long enough a witness of this conversation, he bade him get him presently to horse, since my Lord of Lindesay was already mounted. The page made his reverence103, and left the apartment.
Guided by Michael Wing-the-wind, he found his horse ready saddled and prepared for the journey, in front of the palace porch, where hovered104 about a score of men-at-arms, whose leader showed no small symptoms of surly impatience105.
“Is this the jackanape page for whom we have waited thus long?” said he to Wing-the-wind.—“And my Lord Ruthven will reach the castle long before us.”
Michael assented106, and added, that the boy had been detained by the Regent to receive some parting instructions. The leader made an inarticulate sound in his throat, expressive107 of sullen acquiescence108, and calling to one of his domestic attendants, “Edward,” said he, “take the gallant109 into your charge, and let him speak with no one else.”
He then addressed, by the title of Sir Robert, an elderly and respectable-looking gentleman, the only one of the party who seemed above the rank of a retainer or domestic, and observed, that they must get to horse with all speed.
During this discourse110, and while they were riding slowly along the street of the suburb, Roland had time to examine more accurately111 the looks and figure of the Baron112, who was at their head.
Lord Lindesay of the Byres was rather touched than stricken with years. His upright stature113 and strong limbs, still showed him fully equal to all the exertions114 and fatigues115 of war. His thick eyebrows116, now partially117 grizzled, lowered over large eyes full of dark fire, which seemed yet darker from the uncommon118 depth at which they were set in his head. His features, naturally strong and harsh, had their sternness exaggerated by one or two scars received in battle. These features, naturally calculated to express the harsher passions, were shaded by an open steel cap, with a projecting front, but having no visor, over the gorget of which fell the black and grizzled beard of the grim old Baron, and totally hid the lower part of his face. The rest of his dress was a loose buff-coat, which had once been lined with silk and adorned119 with embroidery120, but which seemed much stained with travel, and damaged with cuts, received probably in battle. It covered a corslet, which had once been of polished steel, fairly gilded121, but was now somewhat injured with rust52. A sword of antique make and uncommon size, framed to be wielded122 with both hands, a kind of weapon which was then beginning to go out of use, hung from his neck in a baldrick, and was so disposed as to traverse his whole person, the huge hilt appearing over his left shoulder, and the point reaching well-nigh to the right heel, and jarring against his spur as he walked. This unwieldy weapon could only be unsheathed by pulling the handle over the left shoulder — for no human arm was long enough to draw it in the usual manner. The whole equipment was that of a rude warrior123, negligent124 of his exterior125 even to misanthropical126 sullenness127; and the short, harsh, haughty128 tone, which he used towards his attendants, belonged to the same unpolished character.
The personage who rode with Lord Lindesay, at the head of the party, was an absolute contrast to him, in manner, form, and features. His thin and silky hair was already white, though he seemed not above forty-five or fifty years old. His tone of voice was soft and insinuating129 — his form thin, spare, and bent130 by an habitual131 stoop — his pale cheek was expressive of shrewdness and intelligence — his eye was quick though placid132, and his whole demeanour mild and conciliatory. He rode an ambling133 nag, such as were used by ladies, clergymen, or others of peaceful professions — wore a riding habit of black velvet134, with a cap and feather of the same hue135, fastened up by a golden medal — and for show, and as a mark of rank rather than for use, carried a walking-sword, (as the short light rapiers were called,) without any other arms, offensive or defensive136.
The party had now quitted the town, and proceeded, at a steady trot37, towards the west.— As they prosecuted137 their journey, Roland Graeme would gladly have learned something of its purpose and tendency, but the countenance138 of the personage next to whom he had been placed in the train, discouraged all approach to familiarity. The Baron himself did not look more grim and inaccessible139 than his feudal140 retainer, whose grisly beard fell over his mouth like the portcullis before the gate of a castle, as if for the purpose of preventing the escape of any word, of which absolute necessity did not demand the utterance141. The rest of the train seemed under the same taciturn influence, and journeyed on without a word being exchanged amongst them — more like a troop of Carthusian friars than a party of military retainers. Roland Graeme was surprised at this extremity142 of discipline; for even in the household of the Knight of Avenel, though somewhat distinguished143 for the accuracy with which decorum was enforced, a journey was a period of license144, during which jest and song, and every thing within the limits of becoming mirth and pastime were freely permitted. This unusual silence was, however, so far acceptable, that it gave him time to bring any shadow of judgment which he possessed145 to council on his own situation and prospects146, which would have appeared to any reasonable person in the highest degree dangerous and perplexing.
It was quite evident that he had, through various circumstances not under his own control, formed contradictory147 connexions with both the contending factions148, by whose strife149 the kingdom was distracted, without being properly an adherent150 of either. It seemed also clear, that the same situation in the household of the deposed151 Queen, to which he was now promoted by the influence of the Regent, had been destined to him by his enthusiastic grandmother, Magdalen Graeme; for on this subject, the words which Morton had dropped had been a ray of light; yet it was no less clear that these two persons, the one the declared enemy, the other the enthusiastic votary152, of the Catholic religion,— the one at the head of the King’s new government, the other, who regarded that government as a criminal usurpation153 — must have required and expected very different services from the individual whom they had thus united in recommending. It required very little reflection to foresee that these contradictory claims on his services might speedily place him in a situation where his honour as well as his life might be endangered. But it was not in Roland Graeme’s nature to anticipate evil before it came, or to prepare to combat difficulties before they arrived. “I will see this beautiful and unfortunate Mary Stewart,” said he, “of whom we have heard so much, and then there will be time enough to determine whether I will be kingsman or queensman. None of them can say I have given word or promise to either of their factions; for they have led me up and down like a blind Billy, without giving me any light into what I was to do. But it was lucky that grim Douglas came into the Regent’s closet this morning, otherwise I had never got free of him without plighting154 my troth to do all the Earl would have me, which seemed, after all, but foul155 play to the poor imprisoned lady, to place her page as an espial on her.”
Skipping thus lightly over a matter of such consequence, the thoughts of the hare-brained boy went a wool-gathering after more agreeable topics. Now he admired the Gothic towers of Barnbougle, rising from the seabeaten rock, and overlooking one of the most glorious landscapes in Scotland — and now he began to consider what notable sport for the hounds and the hawks156 must be afforded by the variegated157 ground over which they travelled — and now he compared the steady and dull trot at which they were then prosecuting158 their journey, with the delight of sweeping159 over hill and dale in pursuit of his favourite sports. As, under the influence of these joyous160 recollections, he gave his horse the spur, and made him execute a gambade, he instantly incurred161 the censure162 of his grave neighbour, who hinted to him to keep the pace, and move quietly and in order, unless he wished such notice to be taken of his eccentric movements as was likely to be very displeasing163 to him.
The rebuke164 and the restraint under which the youth now found himself, brought back to his recollection his late good-humoured and accommodating associate and guide, Adam Woodcock; and from that topic his imagination made a short flight to Avenel Castle, to the quiet and unconfined life of its inhabitants, the goodness of his early protectress, not forgetting the denizens165 of its stables, kennels166, and hawk-mews. In a brief space, all these subjects of meditation167 gave way to the resemblance of that riddle168 of womankind, Catherine Seyton, who appeared before the eye of his mind — now in her female form, now in her male attire169 — now in both at once — like some strange dream, which presents to us the same individual under two different characters at the same instant. Her mysterious present also recurred170 to his recollection — the sword which he now wore at his side, and which he was not to draw save by command of his legitimate171 Sovereign! But the key of this mystery he judged he was likely to find in the issue of his present journey.
With such thoughts passing through his mind, Roland Graeme accompanied the party of Lord Lindesay to the Queen’s-Ferry, which they passed in vessels172 that lay in readiness for them. They encountered no adventure whatever in their passage, excepting one horse being lamed173 in getting into the boat, an accident very common on such occasions, until a few years ago, when the ferry was completely regulated. What was more peculiarly characteristic of the olden age, was the discharge of a culverin at the party from the battlements of the old castle of Rosythe, on the north side of the Ferry, the lord of which happened to have some public or private quarrel with the Lord Lindesay, and took this mode of expressing his resentment174. The insult, however, as it was harmless, remained unnoticed and unavenged, nor did any thing else occur worth notice until the band had come where Lochleven spread its magnificent sheet of waters to the beams of a bright summer’s sun.
The ancient castle, which occupies an island nearly in the centre of the lake, recalled to the page that of Avenel, in which he had been nurtured175. But the lake was much larger, and adorned with several islets besides that on which the fortress176 was situated177; and instead of being embosomed in hills like that of Avenel, had upon the southern side only a splendid mountainous screen, being the descent of one of the Lomond hills, and on the other was surrounded by the extensive and fertile plain of Kinross. Roland Graeme looked with some degree of dismay on the water-girdled fortress, which then, as now, consisted only of one large donjon-keep, surrounded with a court-yard, with two round flanking-towers at the angles, which contained within its circuit some other buildings of inferior importance. A few old trees, clustered together near the castle, gave some relief to the air of desolate178 seclusion179; but yet the page, while he gazed upon a building so sequestrated, could not but feel for the situation of a captive Princess doomed180 to dwell there, as well as for his own. “I must have been born,” he thought, “under the star that presides over ladies and lakes of water, for I cannot by any means escape from the service of the one, or from dwelling181 in the other. But if they allow me not the fair freedom of my sport and exercise, they shall find it as hard to confine a wild-drake, as a youth who can swim like one.”
The band had now reached the edge of the water, and one of the party advancing displayed Lord Lindesay’s pennon, waving it repeatedly to and fro, while that Baron himself blew a clamorous182 blast on his bugle183. A banner was presently displayed from the roof of the castle in reply to these signals, and one or two figures were seen busied as if unmooring a boat which lay close to the islet.
“It will be some time ere they can reach us with the boat,” said the companion of Lord Lindesay; “should we not do well to proceed to the town, and array ourselves in some better order, ere we appear before ——”
“You may do as you list, Sir Robert,” replied Lindesay, “I have neither time nor temper to waste on such vanities. She has cost me many a hard ride, and must not now take offence at the threadbare cloak and soiled doublet that I am arrayed in. It is the livery to which she has brought all Scotland.”
“Do not speak so harshly,” said Sir Robert; “if she hath done wrong, she hath dearly abied it; and in losing all real power, one would not deprive her of the little external homage184 due at once to a lady and a princess.”
“I say to you once more, Sir Robert Melville,” replied Lindesay, “do as you will — for me, I am now too old to dink myself as a gallant to grace the bower185 of dames186.”
“The bower of dames, my lord!” said Melville, looking at the rude old tower —“is it yon dark and grated castle, the prison of a captive Queen, to which you give so gay a name?”
“Name it as you list,” replied Lindesay; “had the Regent desired to send an envoy187 capable to speak to a captive Queen, there are many gallants in his court who would have courted the occasion to make speeches out of Amadis of Gaul, or the Mirror of Knighthood. But when he sent blunt old Lindesay, he knew he would speak to a misguided woman, as her former misdoings and her present state render necessary. I sought not this employment — it has been thrust upon me; and I will not cumber188 myself with more form in the discharge of it, than needs must be tacked189 to such an occupation.”
So saying, Lord Lindesay threw himself from horseback, and wrapping his riding-cloak around him, lay down at lazy length upon the sward, to await the arrival of the boat, which was now seen rowing from the castle towards the shore. Sir Robert Melville, who had also dismounted, walked at short turns to and fro upon the bank, his arms crossed on his breast, often looking to the castle, and displaying in his countenance a mixture of sorrow and of anxiety. The rest of the party sate190 like statues on horseback, without moving so much as the points of their lances, which they held upright in the air.
As soon as the boat approached a rude quay191 or landing-place, near to which they had stationed themselves, Lord Lindesay started up from his recumbent posture192, and asked the person who steered193, why he had not brought a larger boat with him to transport his retinue194.
“So please you,” replied the boatman, “because it is the order of our lady, that we bring not to the castle more than four persons.”
“Thy lady is a wise woman,” said Lindesay, “to suspect me of treachery!— Or, had I intended it, what was to hinder us from throwing you and your comrades into the lake, and filling the boat with my own fellows?”
The steersman, on hearing this, made a hasty signal to his men to back their oars195, and hold off from the shore which they were approaching.
“Why, thou ass,” said Lindesay, “thou didst not think that I meant thy fool’s head serious harm? Hark thee, friend — with fewer than three servants I will go no whither — Sir Robert Melville will require at least the attendance of one domestic; and it will be at your peril196 and your lady’s to refuse us admission, come hither as we are, on matters of great national concern.”
The steersman answered with firmness, but with great civility of expression, that his orders were positive to bring no more than four into the island, but he offered to row back to obtain a revisal of his orders.
“Do so, my friend,” said Sir Robert Melville, after he had in vain endeavoured to persuade his stubborn companion to consent to a temporary abatement197 of his train, “row back to the castle, sith it will be no better, and obtain thy lady’s orders to transport the Lord Lindesay, myself, and our retinue hither.”
“And hearken,” said Lord Lindesay, “take with you this page, who comes as an attendant on your lady’s guest.— Dismount, sirrah,” said he, addressing Roland, “and embark198 with them in that boat.”
“And what is to become of my horse?” said Graeme; “I am answerable for him to my master.”
“I will relieve you of the charge,” said Lindesay; “thou wilt have little enough to do with horse, saddle, or bridle199, for ten years to come — Thou mayst take the halter an thou wilt — it may stand thee in a turn.”
“If I thought so,” said Roland — but he was interrupted by Sir Robert Melville, who said to him good-humouredly, “Dispute it not, young friend — resistance can do no good, but may well run thee into danger.”
Roland Graeme felt the justice of what he said, and, though neither delighted with the matter or manner of Lindesay’s address, deemed it best to submit to necessity, and to embark without farther remonstrance45. The men plied22 their oars. The quay, with the party of horse stationed near it, receded200 from the page’s eyes — the castle and the islet seemed to draw near in the same proportion, and in a brief space he landed under the shadow of a huge old tree which overhung the landing place. The steersman and Graeme leaped ashore201; the boatmen remained lying on their oars ready for farther service.
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1
falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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2
falcons
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| n.猎鹰( falcon的名词复数 ) | |
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3
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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4
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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5
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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7
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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8
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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annul
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| v.宣告…无效，取消，废止 | |
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10
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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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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12
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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14
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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15
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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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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17
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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18
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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19
crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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20
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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21
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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22
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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23
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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24
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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25
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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26
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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27
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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28
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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29
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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30
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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31
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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32
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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33
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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34
mishaps
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| n.轻微的事故，小的意外( mishap的名词复数 ) | |
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35
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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37
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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38
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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39
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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40
ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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41
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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42
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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43
sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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44
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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45
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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46
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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47
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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48
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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49
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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50
obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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51
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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52
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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53
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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54
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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55
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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56
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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57
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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58
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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59
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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60
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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61
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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62
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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63
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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64
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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66
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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67
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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68
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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69
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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70
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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71
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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72
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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73
mutation
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| n.变化，变异，转变 | |
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74
vacillation
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| n.动摇；忧柔寡断 | |
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75
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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76
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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77
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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78
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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79
nomination
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| n.提名，任命，提名权 | |
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80
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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81
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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82
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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83
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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84
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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87
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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88
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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89
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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90
guises
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| n.外观，伪装( guise的名词复数 )v.外观，伪装( guise的第三人称单数 ) | |
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91
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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92
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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93
purveyed
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| v.提供，供应( purvey的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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95
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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96
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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97
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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98
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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99
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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100
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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101
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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102
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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103
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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104
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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105
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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106
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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108
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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109
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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110
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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111
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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112
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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113
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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114
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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115
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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116
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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117
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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118
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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119
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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120
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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121
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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122
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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123
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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124
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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125
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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126
misanthropical
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127
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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128
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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129
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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130
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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131
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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132
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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133
ambling
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的现在分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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134
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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135
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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136
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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137
prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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138
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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139
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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140
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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141
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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142
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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143
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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144
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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145
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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146
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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147
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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148
factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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149
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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150
adherent
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| n.信徒，追随者，拥护者 | |
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151
deposed
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| v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 )；（在法庭上）宣誓作证 | |
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152
votary
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| n.崇拜者；爱好者；adj.誓约的，立誓任圣职的 | |
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153
usurpation
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| n.篡位；霸占 | |
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154
plighting
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的现在分词形式） | |
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155
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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156
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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157
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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158
prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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159
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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160
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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161
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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162
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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163
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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164
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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165
denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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166
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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167
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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168
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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169
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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170
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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171
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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172
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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173
lamed
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| 希伯莱语第十二个字母 | |
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174
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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175
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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176
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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177
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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178
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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179
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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180
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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181
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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182
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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183
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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184
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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185
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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186
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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187
envoy
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| n.使节，使者，代表，公使 | |
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188
cumber
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| v.拖累，妨碍；n.妨害；拖累 | |
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189
tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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190
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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191
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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192
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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193
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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194
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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195
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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196
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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197
abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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198
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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199
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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200
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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201
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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