"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."