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The Abbot

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"We may not leave her Grace," said Roland, looking at Seyton, and
turning his horse.

"I ever looked when thou wouldst find out that," rejoined the fiery
youth.

Roland made no answer, but bit his lip till the blood came, and
spurring his horse up to the side of Catherine Seyton's palfrey, he
whispered in a low voice, "I never thought to have done aught to
deserve you; but this day I have heard myself upbraided with
cowardice, and my sword remained still sheathed, and all for the love
of you."

"There is madness among us all," said the damsel; "my father, my
brother, and you, are all alike bereft of reason. Ye should think only
of this poor Queen, and you are all inspired by your own absurd
jealousies--The monk is the only soldier and man of sense amongst you
all.--My lord Abbot," she cried aloud, "were it not better we should
draw to the westward, and wait the event that God shall send us,
instead of remaining here in the highway, endangering the Queen's
person, and cumbering the troops in their advance?"

"You say well, my daughter," replied the Abbot; "had we but one to
guide us where the Queen's person may be in safety--Our nobles hurry
to the conflict, without casting a thought on the very cause of the
war."

"Follow me," said a knight, or man-at-arms, well mounted, and attired
completely in black armour, but having the visor of his helmet closed,
and bearing no crest on his helmet, or device upon his shield.

"We will follow no stranger," said the Abbot, "without some warrant
of his truth."

"I am a stranger and in your hands," said the horseman; "if you wish
to know more of me, the Queen herself will be your warrant."

The Queen had remained fixed to the spot, as if disabled by fear, yet
mechanically smiling, bowing, and waving her hand, as banners were
lowered and spears depressed before her, while, emulating the strife
betwixt Seyton and Arbroath, band on band pressed forward their march
towards the enemy. Scarce, however, had the black rider whispered
something in her ear, than she assented to what he said; and when he
spoke aloud, and with an air of command, "Gentlemen, it is the Queen's
pleasure that you should follow me," Mary uttered, with something like
eagerness, the word "Yes."

All were in motion in an instant; for the black horseman, throwing off
a sort of apathy of manner, which his first appearance indicated,
spurred his horse to and fro, making him take such active bounds and
short turns, as showed the rider master of the animal; and getting the
Queen's little retinue in some order for marching, he led them to the
left, directing his course towards a castle, which, crowning a gentle
yet commanding eminence, presented an extensive view over the country
beneath, and in particular, commanded a view of those heights which
both armies hastened to occupy, and which it was now apparent must
almost instantly be the scene of struggle and dispute.

"Yonder towers," said the Abbot, questioning the sable horseman, "to
whom do they belong?--and are they in the hands of friends?"

"They are untenanted," replied the stranger, "or, at least, they have
no hostile inmates.--But urge these youths. Sir Abbot, to make more
haste--this is but an evil time to satisfy their idle curiosity, by
peering out upon the battle in which they are to take no share."

"The worse luck mine," said Henry Seyton, who overheard him--"I would
rather be under my father's banner at this moment than be made
Chamberlain of Holyrood, for this my present duty of peaceful ward
well and patiently discharged."

"Your place under your father's banner will shortly be right
dangerous," said Roland Avenel, who, pressing his horse towards the
westward, had still his look reverted to the armies; "for I see yonder
body of cavalry, which presses from the eastward, will reach the
village ere Lord Seyton can gain it."

"They are but cavalry," said Seyton, looking attentively; "they cannot
hold the village without shot of harquebuss."

"Look more closely," said Roland; "you will see that each of these
horseman who advance so rapidly from Glasgow, carries a footman behind
him."

"Now, by Heaven, he speaks well!" said the black cavalier; "one of you
two must go carry the news to Lord Seyton and Lord Arbroath, that they
hasten not their horsemen on before the foot, but advance more
regularly."

"Be that my errand," said Roland, "for I first marked the stratagem of
the enemy."

"But, by your leave," said Seyton, "yonder is my father's banner
engaged, and it best becomes me to go to the rescue."

"I will stand by the Queen's decision," said Roland Avenel.

"What new appeal?--what new quarrel?" said Queen Mary--"Are
there not in yonder dark host enemies enough to Mary Stewart, but must
her very friends turn enemies to each other?"

"Nay, madam," said Roland, "the young master of Seyton and I did but
dispute who should leave your person to do a most needful message to
the host. He thought his rank entitled him, and I deemed that the
person of least consequence, being myself, were better perilled--"

"Not so," said the Queen; "if one must leave me, be it Seyton."

Henry Seyton bowed till the white plumes on his helmet mixed with the
flowing mane of his gallant war-horse, then placed himself firm in the
saddle, shook his lance aloft with an air of triumph and
determination, and striking his horse with the spurs, made towards his
father's banner, which was still advancing up the hill, and dashed his
steed over every obstacle that occurred in his headlong path.

"My brother! my father!" exclaimed Catherine, with an expression of
agonized apprehension--"they are in the midst of peril, and I in
safety!"

"Would to God," said Roland, "that I were with them, and could
ransom every drop of their blood by two of mine!"

"Do I not know thou dost wish it?" said Catherine--"Can a woman say to
a man what I have well-nigh said to thee, and yet think that he could
harbour fear or faintness of heart?--There is that in yon distant
sound of approaching battle that pleases me even while it affrights
me. I would I were a man, that I might feel that stern delight,
without the mixture of terror!"

"Ride up, ride up, Lady Catherine Seyton," cried the Abbot, as they
still swept on at a rapid pace, and were now close beneath the walls
of the castle--"ride up, and aid Lady Fleming to support the
Queen--she gives way more and more."

They halted and lifted Mary from the saddle, and were about to support
her towards the castle, when she said faintly, "Not there--not
there--these walls will I never enter more!"

"Be a Queen, madam," said the Abbot, "and forget that you are a
woman."

"Oh, I must forget much, much more," answered the unfortunate Mary, in
an under tone, "ere I can look with steady eyes on these well-known
scenes!--I must forget the days which I spent here as the bride of the
lost--the murdered----"

"This is the Castle of Crookstone," said the Lady Fleming, "in which
the Queen held her first court after she was married to Darnley."

"Heaven," said the Abbot, "thy hand is upon us!--Bear yet up, madam
--your foes are the foes of Holy Church, and God will this day decide
whether Scotland shall be Catholic or heretic."

A heavy and continued fire of cannon and musketry, bore a tremendous
burden to his words, and seemed far more than they to recall the
spirits of the Queen.

"To yonder tree," she said, pointing to a yew-tree which grew on a
small mount close to the castle; "I know it well--from thence you may
see a prospect wide as from the peaks of Schehallion."

And freeing herself from her assistants, she walked with a determined,
yet somewhat wild step, up to the stem of the noble yew. The Abbot,
Catherine, and Roland Avenel followed her, while Lady Fleming kept
back the inferior persons of her train. The black horseman also
followed the Queen, waiting on her as closely as the shadow upon the
light, but ever remaining at the distance of two or three yards---he
folded his arms on his bosom, turned his back to the battle, and
seemed solely occupied by gazing on Mary, through the bars of his
closed visor. The Queen regarded him not, but fixed her eyes upon the
spreading yew."

"Ay, fair and stately tree," she said, as if at the sight of it she
had been rapt away from the present scene, and had overcome the horror
which had oppressed her at the first approach to Crookstone, "there
thou standest, gay and goodly as ever, though thou hearest the sounds
of war, instead of the vows of love. All is gone since I last greeted
thee--love and lover--vows and vower--king and kingdom.--How goes the
field, my Lord Abbot?--with us, I trust--yet what but evil can Mary's
eyes witness from this spot?"

Her attendants eagerly bent their eyes on the field of battle, but
could discover nothing more than that it was obstinately contested.
The small enclosures and cottage gardens in the village, of which they
had a full and commanding view, and which shortly before lay, with
their lines of sycamore and ash-trees, so still and quiet in the mild
light of a May sun, were now each converted into a line of fire,
canopied by smoke; and the sustained and constant report of the
musketry and cannon, mingled with the shouts of meeting combatants,
showed that as yet neither party had given ground.

"Many a soul finds its final departure to heaven or hell, in these
awful thunders," said the Abbot; "let those that believe in the Holy
Church, join me in orisons for victory in this dreadful combat."

"Not here--not here," said the unfortunate Queen; "pray not here,
father, or pray in silence--my mind is too much torn between the past
and the present, to dare to approach the heavenly throne--Or, if we
will pray, be it for one whose fondest affections have been her
greatest crimes, and who has ceased to be a queen, only because she
was a deceived and a tender-hearted woman."

"Were it not well," said Roland, "that I rode somewhat nearer the
hosts, and saw the fate of the day?"

"Do so, in the name of God," said the Abbot; "for if our friends are
scattered, our flight must be hasty--but beware thou approach not too
nigh the conflict; there is more than thine own life depends on thy
safe return."

"Oh, go not too nigh," said Catherine; "but fail not to see how the
Seytons fight, and how they bear themselves."

"Fear nothing, I will be on my guard," said Roland Avenel; and without
waiting farther answer, rode towards the scene of conflict, keeping,
as he rode, the higher and unenclosed ground, and ever looking
cautiously around him, for fear of involving himself in some hostile
party. As he approached, the shots rung sharp and more sharply on his
ear, the shouts came wilder and wilder, and he felt that thick beating
of the heart, that mixture of natural apprehension, intense curiosity,
and anxiety for the dubious event, which even the bravest experience
when they approach alone to a scene of interest and of danger.

At length he drew so close, that from a bank, screened by bushes and
underwood, he could distinctly see where the struggle was most keenly
maintained. This was in a hollow way, leading to the village, up which
the Queen's vanguard had marched, with more hasty courage than
well-advised conduct, for the purpose of possessing themselves of that
post of advantage. They found their scheme anticipated, and the hedges
and enclosures already occupied by the enemy, led by the celebrated
Kirkaldy of Grange and the Earl of Morton; and not small was the loss
which they sustained while struggling forward to come to close with
the men-at-arms on the other side. But, as the Queen's followers were
chiefly noblemen and barons, with their kinsmen and followers, they
had pressed onward, contemning obstacles and danger, and had, when
Roland arrived on the ground, met hand to hand at the gorge of the
pass with the Regent's vanguard, and endeavoured to bear them out of
the village at the spear-point; while their foes, equally determined
to keep the advantage which they had attained, struggled with the like
obstinacy to drive back the assailants. Both parties were on foot,
and armed in proof; so that, when the long lances of the front ranks
were fixed in each other's shields, corslets, and breastplates, the
struggle resembled that of two bulls, who fixing their frontlets hard
against each other, remain in that posture for hours, until the
superior strength or obstinacy of the one compels the other to take to
flight, or bears him down to the earth. Thus locked together in the
deadly struggle, which swayed slowly to and fro, as one or other party
gained the advantage, those who fell were trampled on alike by friends
and foes; those whose weapons were broken, retired from the front
rank, and had their place supplied by others; while the rearward
ranks, unable otherwise to share in the combat, fired their pistols,
and hurled their daggers, and the points and truncheons of the broken
weapons, like javelins against the enemy.

"God and the Queen!" resounded from the one party; "God and the King!"
thundered from the other; while, in the name of their sovereign,
fellow-subjects on both sides shed each other's blood, and, in the
name of their Creator, defaced his image. Amid the tumult was often
heard the voices of the captains, shouting their commands; of leaders
and chiefs, crying their gathering words; of groans and shrieks from
the falling and the dying.

The strife had lasted nearly an hour. The strength of both parties
seemed exhausted; but their rage was unabated, and their obstinacy
unsubdued, when Roland, who turned eye and ear to all around him, saw
a column of infantry, headed by a few horsemen, wheel round the base
of the bank where he had stationed himself, and, levelling their long
lances, attack the Queen's vanguard, closely engaged as they were in
conflict on their front. The very first glance showed him that the
leader who directed this movement was the Knight of Avenel, his
ancient master; and the next convinced him, that its effects would be
decisive. The result of the attack of fresh and unbroken forces upon
the flank of those already wearied with a long and obstinate struggle,
was, indeed, instantaneous.

The column of the assailants, which had hitherto shown one dark,
dense, and united line of helmets, surmounted with plumage, was at
once broken and hurled in confusion down the hill, which they had so
long endeavoured to gain. In vain were the leaders heard calling upon
their followers to stand to the combat, and seen personally resisting
when all resistance was evidently vain. They were slain, or felled to
the earth, or hurried backwards by the mingled tide of flight and
pursuit. What were Roland's feelings on beholding the rout, and
feeling that all that remained for him was to turn bridle, and
endeavour to ensure the safety of the Queen's person! Yet, keen as
his grief and shame might be, they were both forgotten, when, almost
close beneath the bank which he occupied, he saw Henry Seyton forced
away from his own party in the tumult, covered with dust and blood,
and defending himself desperately against several of the enemy who had
gathered around him, attracted by his gay armour. Roland paused not a
moment, but pushing his steed down the bank, leaped him amongst the
hostile party, dealt three or four blows amongst them, which struck
down two, and made the rest stand aloof; then reaching Seyton his
hand, he exhorted him to seize fast on his horse's mane.

"We live or die together this day," said he; "keep but fast hold till
we are out of the press, and then my horse is yours."

Seyton heard and exerted his remaining strength, and, by their joint
efforts, Roland brought him out of danger, and behind the spot from
whence he had witnessed the disastrous conclusion of the fight. But no
sooner were they under shelter of the trees, than Seyton let go his
hold, and, in spite of Roland's efforts to support him, fell at length
on the turf. "Trouble yourself no more with me," he said; "this is my
first and my last battle--and I have already seen too much to wish to
see the close. Hasten to save the Queen--and commend me to
Catherine--she will never more be mistaken for me nor I for her--the
last sword-stroke has made an eternal distinction."

"Let me aid you to mount my horse," said Roland, eagerly, "and you
may yet be saved--I can find my own way on foot--turn but my horse's
head westward, and he will carry you fleet and easy as the wind."

"I will never mount steed more," said the youth; "farewell--I love
thee better dying, than ever I thought to have done while in life--I
would that old man's blood were not on my hand!--_Sancte Benedicte,
ora pro me_--Stand not to look on a dying man, but haste to save
the Queen!"

These words were spoken with the last effort of his voice, and scarce
were they uttered ere the speaker was no more. They recalled Roland to
a sense of the duty which he had well-nigh forgotten, but they did not
reach his ears only.

"The Queen--where is the Queen?" said Halbert Glendinning, who,
followed by two or three horsemen, appeared at this instant. Roland
made no answer, but, turning his horse, and confiding in his speed,
gave him at once rein and spur, and rode over height and hollow
towards the Castle of Crookstone. More heavily armed, and mounted upon
a horse of less speed, Sir Halbert Glendinning followed with couched
lance, calling out as he rode, "Sir, with the holly-branch, halt, and
show your right to bear that badge--fly not thus cowardly, nor
dishonour the cognizance thou deservest not to wear!--Halt, sir
coward, or by Heaven, I will strike thee with my lance on the back,
and slay thee like a dastard--I am the Knight of Avenel--I am Halbert
Glendinning."

But Roland, who had no purpose of encountering his old master, and
who, besides, knew the Queen's safety depended on his making the best
speed he could, answered not a word to the defiances and reproaches
which Sir Halbert continued to throw out against him; but making the
best use of his spurs, rode yet harder than before, and had gained
about a hundred yards upon his pursuer, when, coming near to the
yew-tree where he had left the Queen, he saw them already getting to
horse, and cried out as loud as he could, "Foes! foes!--Ride for it,
fair ladies--Brave gentlemen, do your devoir to protect them!"

So saying, he wheeled his horse, and avoiding the shock of Sir Halbert
Glendinning, charged one of that Knight's followers, who was nearly on
a line with him, so rudely with his lance, that he overthrew horse and
man. He then drew his sword and attacked the second, while the black
man-at-arms, throwing himself in the way of Glendinning, they rushed
on each other so fiercely, that both horses were overthrown, and the
riders lay rolling on the plain. Neither was able to arise, for the
black horseman was pierced through with Glendinning's lance, and the
Knight of Avenel, oppressed with the weight of his own horse and
sorely bruised besides, seemed in little better plight than he whom he
had mortally wounded.

"Yield thee, Sir Knight of Avenel, rescue or no rescue," said Roland,
who had put a second antagonist out of condition to combat, and
hastened to prevent Glendinning from renewing the conflict.

"I may not choose but yield," said Sir Halbert, "since I can no longer
fight; but it shames me to speak such a word to a coward like thee!"

"Call me not coward," said Roland, lifting his visor, and helping his
prisoner to rise, "since but for old kindness at thy hands, and yet
more at thy lady's, I had met thee as a brave man should."

"The favourite page of my wife!" said Sir Halbert, astonished; "Ah!
wretched boy, I have heard of thy treason at Lochleven."

"Reproach him not, my brother," said the Abbot, "he was but an agent
in the hands of Heaven."

"To horse, to horse!" said Catherine Seyton; "mount and begone, or we
are all lost. I see our gallant army flying for many a league--To
horse, my Lord Abbot--To horse, Roland--my gracious Liege, to horse!
Ere this, we should have ridden many a mile."

"Look on these features," said Mary, pointing to the dying knight, who
had been unhelmed by some compassionate hand; "look there, and tell me
if she who ruins all who love her, ought to fly a foot farther to save
her wretched life!"

The reader must have long anticipated the discovery which the Queen's
feelings had made before her eyes confirmed it. It was the features of
the unhappy George Douglas, on which death was stamping his mark.

"Look--look at him well," said the Queen, "thus has it been with all
who loved Mary Stewart!--The royalty of Francis, the wit of Chastelar,
the power and gallantry of the gay Gordon, the melody of Rizzio, the
portly form and youthful grace of Darnley, the bold address and
courtly manners of Bothwell--and now the deep-devoted passion of the
noble Douglas--nought could save them!--they looked on the wretched
Mary, and to have loved her was crime enough to deserve early death!
No sooner had the victim formed a kind thought of me, than the
poisoned cup, the axe and block, the dagger, the mine, were ready to
punish them for casting away affection on such a wretch as I
am!--Importune me not--I will fly no farther--I can die but once, and
I will die here."

While she spoke, her tears fell fast on the face of the dying man, who
continued to fix his eyes on her with an eagerness of passion, which
death itself could hardly subdue.--"Mourn not for me," he said
faintly, "but care for your own safety--I die in mine armour as a
Douglas should, and I die pitied by Mary Stewart!"

He expired with these words, and without withdrawing his eyes from her
face; and the Queen, whose heart was of that soft and gentle mould,
which in domestic life, and with a more suitable partner than Darnley,
might have made her happy, remained weeping by the dead man, until
recalled to herself by the Abbot, who found it necessary to use a
style of unusual remonstrance. "We also, madam," he said, "we, your
Grace's devoted followers, have friends and relatives to weep for. I
leave a brother in imminent jeopardy--the husband of the Lady
Fleming--the father and brothers of the Lady Catherine, are all in
yonder bloody field, slain, it is to be feared, or prisoners. We
forget the fate of our nearest and dearest, to wait on our Queen, and
she is too much occupied with her own sorrows to give one thought to
ours."

"I deserve not your reproach, father," said the Queen, checking her
tears; "but I am docile to it--where must we go--what must we do?"

"We must fly, and that instantly," said the Abbot; "whither is not so
easily answered, but we may dispute it upon the road--Lift her to her
saddle, and set forward."

[Footnote: I am informed in the most polite manner, by D. MacVean,
Esq. of Glasgow, that I have been incorrect in my locality, in giving
an account of the battle of Langside. Crookstone Castle, he observes,
lies four miles west from the field of battle, and rather in the rear
of Murray's army. The real place from which Mary saw the rout of her
last army, was Cathcart Castle, which, being a mile and a half east
from Langside, was, situated in the rear of the Queen's own army. I
was led astray in the present case, by the authority of my deceased
friend, James Grahame the excellent and amiable author of the Sabbath,
in his drama on the subject of Queen Mary; and by a traditionary
report of Mary having seen the battle from the Castle of Crookstone,
which seemed so much to increase the interest of the scene, that I
have been unwilling to make, in this particular instance, the fiction
give way to the fact, which last is undoubtedly in favour of Mr.
MacVean's system.

It is singular how tradition, which is sometimes a sure guide to
truth, is, in other cases, prone to mislead us. In the celebrated
field of battle at Killiecrankie, the traveller is struck with one of
those rugged pillars of rough stone, which indicate the scenes of
ancient conflict. A friend of the author, well acquainted with the
circumstances of the battle, was standing near this large stone, and
looking on the scene around, when a highland shepherd hurried down
from the hill to offer his services as cicerone, and proceeded to
inform him, that Dundee was slain at that stone, which was raised to
his memory. "Fie, Donald." answered my friend, "how can you tell such
a story to a stranger? I am sure you know well enough that Dundee was
killed at a considerable distance from this place, near the house of
Fascally, and that this stone was here long before the battle, in
1688."--"Oich! oich!" said Donald, no way abashed, "and your honour's
in the right, and I see you ken a' about it. And he wasna killed on
the spot neither, but lived till the next morning; but a' the Saxon
gentlemen like best to hear he was killed at the great stane." It is
on the same principle of pleasing my readers, that I retain Crookstone
Castle instead of Cathcart.

If, however, the author has taken a liberty in removing the actual
field of battle somewhat to the eastward, he has been tolerably strict
in adhering to the incidents of the engagement, as will appear from it
comparison of events in the novel, with the following account from an
old writer.

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