Quentin Durward. Вальтер Скотт
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unfit for your service.”
“What!” said the senior, “I warrant thou knowest better how to draw the bow, than how to draw a bill of charges – canst handle a broadsword better than a pen – ha!”
“I am, master,” answered the young Scot, “a braeman, and therefore, as we say, a bowman. But besides that, I have been in a convent, where the good fathers taught me to read and write, and even to cipher.”
“Pasques dieu! that is too magnificent,” said the merchant. “By our Lady of Embrun [a town in France containing a cathedral in which was a wooden statue of the Virgin Mary, said to have been sculptured by St. Luke], thou art a prodigy, man!”
“Rest you merry, fair master,” said the youth, who was not much pleased with his new acquaintance’s jocularity, “I must go dry myself, instead of standing dripping here, answering questions.”
The merchant only laughed louder as he spoke, and answered, “Pasques dieu! the proverb never fails – fier comme un Ecossois [proud or haughty as a Scotchman] – but come, youngster, you are of a country I have a regard for, having traded in Scotland in my time – an honest poor set of folks they are; and, if you will come with us to the village, I will bestow on you a cup of burnt sack and a warm breakfast, to atone for your drenching. – But tete bleau! what do you with a hunting glove on your hand? Know you not there is no hawking permitted in a royal chase?”
“I was taught that lesson,” answered the youth, “by a rascally forester of the Duke of Burgundy. I did but fly the falcon I had brought with me from Scotland, and that I reckoned on for bringing me into some note, at a heron near Peronne, and the rascally schelm [rogue, rascal (obsolete or Scotch)] shot my bird with an arrow.”
“What did you do?” said the merchant.
“Beat him,” said the youngster, brandishing his staff, “as near to death as one Christian man should belabour another – I wanted not to have his blood to answer for.”
“Know you,” said the burgess, “that had you fallen into the Duke of Burgundy’s hands, he would have hung you up like a chestnut?”
“Ay, I am told he is as prompt as the King of France for that sort of work. But, as this happened near Peronne, I made a leap over the frontiers, and laughed at him. If he had not been so hasty, I might, perhaps, have taken service with him.”
“He will have a heavy miss of such a paladin as you are, if the truce should break off,” said the merchant, and threw a look at his own companion, who answered him with one of the downcast lowering smiles which gleamed along his countenance, enlivening it as a passing meteor enlivens a winter sky.
The young Scot suddenly stopped, pulled his bonnet over his right eyebrow, as one that would not be ridiculed, and said firmly, “My masters, and especially you, sir, the elder, and who should be the wiser, you will find, I presume, no sound or safe jesting at my expense. I do not altogether like the tone of your conversation. I can take a jest with any man, and a rebuke, too, from my elder, and say thank you, sir, if I know it to be deserved; but I do not like being borne in hand as if I were a child, when, God wot, I find myself man enough to belabour you both, if you provoke me too far.”
The eldest man seemed like to choke with laughter at the lad’s demeanour – his companion’s hand stole to his sword hilt, which the youth observing, dealt him a blow across the wrist, which made him incapable of grasping it, while his companion’s mirth was only increased by the incident.
“Hold, hold,” he cried, “most doughty Scot, even for thine own dear country’s sake, and you, gossip, forbear your menacing look. Pasques-dieu! let us be just traders, and set off the wetting against the knock on the wrist, which was given with so much grace and alacrity. – And hark ye, my young friend,” he said to the young man, with a grave sternness which, in spite of all the youth could do, damped and overawed him, “no more violence. I am no fit object for it, and my gossip, as you may see, has had enough of it. Let me know your name.”
“I can answer a civil question civilly,” said the youth; “and will pay fitting respect to your age, if you do not urge my patience with mockery. Since I have been here in France and Flanders, men have called me, in their fantasy, the Varlet with the Velvet Pouch, because of this hawk purse which I carry by my side; but my true name, when at home, is Quentin Durward.”
“Durward!” said the querist; “is it a gentleman’s name?”
“By fifteen descents in our family,” said the young man; “and that makes me reluctant to follow any other trade than arms.”
“A true Scot! Plenty of blood, plenty of pride, and right great scarcity of ducats, I warrant thee. – Well, gossip,” he said to his companion, “go before us, and tell them to have some breakfast ready yonder at the Mulberry grove; for this youth will do as much honour to it as a starved mouse to a housewife’s cheese. And for the Bohemian – hark in thy ear.”
His comrade answered by a gloomy but intelligent smile, and set forward at a round pace, while the elder man continued, addressing young Durward, “You and I will walk leisurely forward together, and we may take a mass at Saint Hubert’s Chapel in our way through the forest; for it is not good to think of our fleshly before our spiritual wants.”
[This silvan saint… was passionately fond of the chase, and used to neglect attendance on divine worship for this amusement. While he was once engaged in this pastime, a stag appeared before him, having a crucifix bound betwixt his horns, and he heard a voice which menaced him with eternal punishment if he did not repent of his sins. He retired from the world and took orders… Hubert afterwards became Bishop of Maestrecht and Liege. S.]
Durward, as a good Catholic, had nothing to object against this proposal, although he might probably have been desirous, in the first place; to have dried his clothes and refreshed himself. Meanwhile, they soon lost sight of their downward looking companion, but continued to follow the same path which he had taken, until it led them into a wood of tall trees, mixed with thickets and brushwood, traversed by long avenues, through which were seen, as through a vista, the deer trotting in little herds with a degree of security which argued their consciousness of being completely protected.
“You asked me if I were a good bowman,” said the young Scot. “Give me a bow and a brace of shafts, and you shall have a piece of venison in a moment.”
“Pasques dieu! my young friend,” said his companion, “take care of that; my gossip yonder hath a special eye to the deer; they are under his charge, and he is a strict keeper.”
“He hath more the air of a butcher than of a gay forester,” answered Durward. “I cannot think yon hang dog look of his belongs to any one who knows the gentle rules of woodcraft.”
“Ah, my young friend,” answered his companion, “my gossip hath somewhat an ugly favour to look upon at the first; but those who become acquainted with him never are known to complain of him.”
Quentin Durward found something singularly and disagreeably significant in the tone with which this was spoken; and, looking suddenly at the speaker, thought he saw in his countenance, in the slight smile that curled his upper lip, and the accompanying twinkle of his keen dark eye, something to justify his unpleasing surprise. “I have heard of robbers,” he thought to himself, “and of wily cheats and cutthroats – what if yonder fellow be a murderer, and this old rascal his decoy duck! I will be on my guard – they will get little by me but good Scottish knocks.”
While he was thus reflecting, they came to a glade, where the large forest trees were more widely separated from each other, and where the ground beneath, cleared of underwood and bushes, was clothed with a carpet of the softest and most lovely verdure, which, screened from the scorching heat of the sun, was here more beautifully tender than it is usually to be seen in France. The trees in this secluded spot were chiefly beeches and elms of huge magnitude, which rose like great hills of leaves into the air. Amidst these magnificent sons of the earth there peeped out, in the most open spot of the glade, a lowly chapel, near which trickled a small rivulet. Its architecture was of the rudest and most simple kind; and there was a very small lodge beside it, for the accommodation of a hermit or solitary