Вальтер Скотт
Quentin Durward
I cannot tell why or wherefore it was, but these two excellent persons, notwithstanding the variety of their talents, and the rare occurrence of such among persons of their profession, were both more utterly detested than perhaps any creatures of their kind, whether before or since; and the only doubt of those who knew aught of them was, whether the grave and pathetic Trois Eschelles or the frisky, comic, alert Petit Andre was the object of the greatest fear, or of the deepest execration. It is certain they bore the palm in both particulars over every hangman in France, unless it were perhaps their master Tristan l’Hermite, the renowned Provost Marshal, or his master, Louis XI.
It must not be supposed that these reflections were of Quentin Durward’s making. Life, death, time, and eternity were swimming before his eyes – a stunning and overwhelming prospect, from which human nature recoiled in its weakness, though human pride would fain have borne up. He addressed himself to the God of his fathers; and when he did so, the little rude and unroofed chapel, which now held almost all his race but himself, rushed on his recollection.
“Our feudal enemies gave my kindred graves in our own land,” he thought, “but I must feed the ravens and kites of a foreign land, like an excommunicated felon!”
The tears gushed involuntarily from his eyes. Trois Eschelles, touching one shoulder, gravely congratulated him on his heavenly disposition for death, and pathetically exclaiming, Beati qui in Domino moriuntur [blessed are they who die in the Lord], remarked, the soul was happy that left the body while the tear was in the eye. Petit Andre, slapping the other shoulder, called out, “Courage, my fair son! since you must begin the dance, let the ball open gaily, for all the rebecs are in tune,” twitching the halter at the same time, to give point to his joke. As the youth turned his dismayed looks, first on one and then on the other, they made their meaning plainer by gently urging him forward to the fatal tree, and bidding him be of good courage, for it would be over in a moment.
In this fatal predicament, the youth cast a distracted look around him. “Is there any good Christian who hears me,” he said, “that will tell Ludovic Lesly of the Scottish Guard, called in this country Le Balafre, that his nephew is here basely murdered?” The words were spoken in good time, for an Archer of the Scottish Guard, attracted by the preparations for the execution, was standing by, with one or two other chance passengers, to witness what was passing.
“Take heed what you do,” he said to the executioners, “if this young man be of Scottish birth, I will not permit him to have foul play.”
“Heaven forbid, Sir Cavalier,” said Trois Eschelles; “but we must obey our orders,” drawing Durward forward by one arm. “The shortest play is ever the fairest,” said Petit Andre, pulling him onward by the other.
But Quentin had heard words of comfort, and, exerting his strength, he suddenly shook off both the finishers of the law, and, with his arms still bound, ran to the Scottish Archer. “Stand by me, countryman,” he said, in his own language, “for the love of Scotland and Saint Andrew! I am innocent – I am your own native landsman. Stand by me, as you shall answer at the last day.”
“By Saint Andrew! they shall make at you through me!” said the Archer, and unsheathed his sword.
“Cut my bonds, countryman,” said Quentin, “and I will do something for myself.”
This was done with a touch of the Archer’s weapon, and the liberated captive, springing suddenly on one of the Provost’s guard, wrested from him a halbert with which he was armed. “And now” he said, “come on, if you dare.”
The two officers whispered together.
“Ride thou after the Provost Marshal,” said Trois Eschelles, “and I will detain them here, if I can. Soldiers of the Provost’s guard, stand to your arms.”
Petit Andre mounted his horse, and left the field, and the other Marshals men in attendance drew together so hastily at the command of Trois Eschelles, that they suffered the other two prisoners to make their escape during the confusion. Perhaps they were not very anxious to detain them; for they had of late been sated with the blood of such wretches, and, like other ferocious animals, were, through long slaughter, become tired of carnage. But the pretext was, that they thought themselves immediately called upon to attend to the safety of Trois Eschelles; for there was a jealousy, which occasionally led to open quarrels, betwixt the Scottish Archers and the Marshal guards, who executed the orders of their Provost.
“We are strong enough to beat the proud Scots twice over, if it be your pleasure,” said one of these soldiers to Trois Eschelles.
But that cautious official made a sign to him to remain quiet, and addressed the Scottish Archer with great civility. “Surely, sir, this is a great insult to the Provost Marshal, that you should presume to interfere with the course of the King’s justice, duly and lawfully committed to his charge; and it is no act of justice to me, who am in lawful possession of my criminal. Neither is it a well meant kindness to the youth himself, seeing that fifty opportunities of hanging him may occur, without his being found in so happy a state of preparation as he was before your ill advised interference.”
“If my young countryman,” said the Scot, smiling, “be of opinion I have done him an injury, I will return him to your charge without a word more dispute.”
“No, no! – for the love of Heaven, no!” exclaimed Quentin. “I would rather you swept my head off with your long sword – it would better become my birth, than to die by the hands of such a foul churl.”
“Hear how he revileth,” said the finisher of the law. “Alas! how soon our best resolutions pass away! – he was in a blessed frame for departure but now, and in two minutes he has become a contemner of authorities.”
“Tell me at once,” said the Archer, “what has this young man done.”
“Interfered,” answered Trois Eschelles, with some earnestness, “to take down the dead body of a criminal, when the fleur de lys was marked on the tree where he was hung with my own proper hand.”
“How is this, young man?” said the Archer; “how came you to have committed such an offence?”
“As I desire your protection,” answered Durward, “I will tell you the truth as if I were at confession. I saw a man struggling on the tree, and I went to cut him down out of mere humanity. I thought neither of fleur de lys nor of clove gilliflower, and had no more idea of offending the King of France than our Father the Pope.”
“What a murrain had you to do with the dead body, then?” said the Archer. “You ‘ll see them hanging, in the rear of this gentleman, like grapes on every tree, and you will have enough to do in this country if you go a-gleaning after the hangman. However, I will not quit a countryman’s cause if I can help it. – Hark ye, Master Marshals man, you see this is entirely a mistake. You should have some compassion on so young a traveller. In our country at home he has not been accustomed to see such active proceedings as yours and your master’s.”
“Not for want of need of them, Signior Archer,” said Petit Andre, who returned at this moment. “Stand fast, Trois Eschelles, for here comes the Provost Marshal; we shall presently see how he will relish having his work taken out of his hand before it is finished.”
“And in good time,” said the Archer, “here come some of my comrades.”
Accordingly, as the Provost Tristan rode up with his patrol on one side of the little bill which was the scene of the altercation, four or five Scottish Archers came as hastily up on the other, and at their head the Balafre himself.
Upon this urgency, Lesly showed none of that indifference towards his nephew of which Quentin had in his heart accused him; for he no sooner saw his comrade and Durward standing upon their defence, than he exclaimed, “Cunningham, I thank thee. – Gentlemen – comrades, lend me your aid. – It is a young Scottish gentleman – my nephew – Lindesay – Guthrie – Tyrie, draw, and strike in!”
There was now every prospect of a desperate scuffle between the parties, who were not so disproportioned in numbers but that the better arms of the Scottish cavaliers gave them an equal chance of victory. But the Provost Marshal, either doubting the issue of the conflict, or aware that it would be disagreeable to the King, made a sign to his followers to forbear from violence, while he demanded of Balafre, who now put himself forward as the head of the other party, what he, a cavalier of the King’s Bodyguard, purposed by opposing the execution of a criminal.
“I deny that I do so,” answered the Balafre. “Saint Martin! [patron saint of Tours, Lucca, and of penitent drunkards. He was greatly honoured in the Middle Ages.] there is, I think, some difference between the execution of a criminal and a slaughter of my own nephew!”
“Your nephew may be a criminal as well as another,” said the Provost Marshal; “and every stranger in France is amenable to the laws of France.”
“Yes, but we have privileges, we Scottish Archers,” said Balafre, “have we not, comrades?”
“Yes, yes,” they all exclaimed together. “Privileges – privileges! Long live King Louis – long live the bold Balafre – long live the Scottish Guard – and death to all who would infringe our privileges!”
“Take reason with you, gentlemen cavaliers,” said the Provost Marshal; “consider my commission.”
“We will have no reason at your hand,” said Cunningham; “our own officers shall do us reason. We will be judged by the King’s grace, or by our own Captain, now that the Lord High Constable is not in presence.”
“And we will be hanged by none,” said Lindesay, “but Sandie Wilson, the auld Marshals man of our ain body.”
“It would be a positive cheating of Sandie, who is as honest a man as ever tied noose upon hemp, did we give way to any other proceeding,” said the Balafre. “Were I to be hanged myself, no other should tie tippet about my craig.”
“But hear ye,” said the Provost Marshal, “this young fellow belongs not to you, and cannot share what you call your privileges.”
“What we call our privileges, all shall admit to be such,” said Cunningham.
“We will not hear them questioned!” was the universal cry of the Archers.
“Ye are mad, my masters,” said Tristan l’Hermite. “No one disputes your privileges; but this youth is not one of you.”
“He is my nephew,” said the Balafre, with a triumphant air.
“But no Archer of the Guard, I think,” retorted Tristan l’Hermite.
The Archers looked on each other in some uncertainty.
“Stand to it yet, comrade,” whispered Cunningham to Balafre. “Say he is engaged with us.”
“Saint Martin! you say well, fair countryman,” answered Lesly; and raising his voice, swore that he had that day enrolled his kinsman as one of his own retinue. This declaration was a decisive argument.
“It is well, gentlemen,” said the Provost Tristan, who was aware of the King’s nervous apprehension of disaffection creeping in among his Guards. “You know, as you say, your privileges, and it is not my duty to have brawls with the King’s Guards, if it is to be avoided. But I will report this matter for the King’s own decision; and I would have you to be aware, that, in doing so, I act more mildly than perhaps my duty warrants.”
So saying, he put his troop into motion, while the Archers, remaining on the spot, held a hasty consultation what was next to be done. “We must report the matter to Lord Crawford, our Captain, in the first place, and have the young fellow’s name put on the roll.”
“But, gentlemen, and my worthy friends and preservers,” said Quentin, with some hesitation, “I have not yet determined whether to take service with you or no.”
“Then settle in your own mind,” said his uncle, “whether you choose to do so, or be hanged – for I promise you, that, nephew of mine as you are, I see no other chance of your ‘scaping the gallows.”
This was an unanswerable argument, and reduced Quentin at once to acquiesce in what he might have otherwise considered as no very agreeable proposal; but the recent escape from the halter, which had been actually around his neck, would probably have reconciled him to a worse alternative than was proposed.
“He must go home with us to our caserne,” said Cunningham; “there is no safety for him out of our bounds, whilst these man hunters are prowling.”
“May I not then abide for this night at the hostelry where I breakfasted, fair uncle?” said the youth – thinking, perhaps, like many a new recruit, that even a single night of freedom was something gained.
“Yes, fair nephew,” answered his uncle, ironically, “that we may have the pleasure of fishing you out of some canal or moat, or perhaps out of a loop of the Loire, knit up in a sack for the greater convenience of swimming – for that is like to be the end on’t. The Provost Marshal smiled on us when we parted,” continued he, addressing Cunningham, “and that is a sign his thoughts were dangerous.”
“I care not for his danger,” said Cunningham; “such game as we are beyond his bird bolts. But I would have thee tell the whole to the Devil’s Oliver [Oliver Dain: Oliver’s name, or nickname, was Le Diable, which was bestowed on him by public hatred, in exchange for Le Daim, or Le Dain. He was originally the King’s barber, but afterwards a favourite counsellor. S.], who is always a good friend to the Scottish Guard, and will see Father Louis before the Provost can, for he is to shave him tomorrow.”
“But hark you,” said Balafre, “it is ill going to Oliver empty handed, and I am as bare as the birch in December.”
“So are we all,” said Cunningham. “Oliver must not scruple to take our Scottish words for once. We will make up something handsome among us against the next payday; and if he expects to share, let me tell you, the payday will come about all the sooner.”
“And now for the Chateau,” said Balafre; “and my nephew shall tell us by the way how he brought the Provost Marshal on his shoulders, that we may know how to frame our report both to Crawford and Oliver.”
CHAPTER VII: THE ENROLMENT
Justice of Peace. —
Here, hand me down the statute – read the articles —
Swear, kiss the book – subscribe, and be a hero;
Drawing a portion from the public stock
For deeds of valour to be done hereafter —
Sixpence per day, subsistence and arrears.
THE RECRUITING OFFICER
An attendant upon the Archers having been dismounted, Quentin Durward was accommodated with his horse, and, in company of his martial countrymen, rode at a round pace towards the Castle of Plessis, about to become, although on his own part involuntarily, an inhabitant of that gloomy fortress, the outside of which had, that morning, struck him with so much surprise.
In the meanwhile, in answer to his uncle’s repeated interrogations, he gave him an exact account of the accident which had that morning brought him into so much danger. Although he himself saw nothing in his narrative save what was affecting, he found it was received with much laughter by his escort.
“And yet it is no good jest either,” said his uncle, “for what, in the devil’s name, could lead the senseless boy to meddle with the body of a cursed misbelieving Jewish Moorish pagan?”
“Had he quarrelled with the Marshals men about a pretty wench, as Michael of Moffat did, there had been more sense in it,” said Cunningham.
“But I think it touches our honour that Tristan and his people pretend to confound our Scottish bonnets with these pilfering vagabonds – torques and turbands, as they call them,” said Lindesay. “If they have not eyes to see the difference they must be taught by rule of hand. But it ‘s my belief, Tristan but pretends to mistake, that he may snap up the kindly Scots that come over to see their kinsfolks.”
“May I ask, kinsman,” said Quentin, “what sort of people these are of whom you speak?”
“In troth you may ask,” said his uncle, “but I know not, fair nephew, who is able to answer you. Not I, I am sure, although I know, it may be, as much as other people; but they appeared in this land within a year or two, just as a flight of locusts might do.”
“Ay,” said Lindesay, “and Jacques Bonhomme (that is our name for the peasant, young man – you will learn our way of talk in time) – honest Jacques, I say, cares little what wind either brings them or the locusts, so he but knows any gale that would carry them away again.”
“Do they do so much evil?” asked the young man.
“Evil? why, boy, they are heathens, or Jews, or Mahommedans at the least, and neither worship Our Lady, nor the Saints” (crossing himself) “and steal what they can lay hands on, and sing, and tell fortunes,” added Cunningham.
“And they say there are some goodly wenches amongst these,” said Guthrie; “but Cunningham knows that best.”
“How, brother!” said Cunningham. “I trust ye mean me no reproach?”
“I am sure I said ye none,” answered Guthrie.
“I will be judged by the company,” said Cunningham. “Ye said as much as that I, a Scottish gentleman, and living within pale of holy church, had a fair friend among these off scourings of Heathenesse.”
“Nay, nay,” said Balafre, “he did but jest. We will have no quarrels among comrades.”
“We must have no such jesting then,” said Cunningham, murmuring, as if he had been speaking to his own beard.
“Be there such vagabonds in other lands than France?” said Lindesay.
“Ay, in good sooth, are there – tribes of them have appeared in Germany, and in Spain, and in England,” answered Balafre. “By the blessing of good Saint Andrew, Scotland is free of them yet.”
“Scotland,” said Cunningham, “is too cold, a country for locusts, and too poor a country for thieves.”
“Or perhaps John Highlander will suffer no thieves to thrive there but his own,” said Guthrie.
“I let you all know,” said Balafre, “that I come from the Braes of Angus, and have gentle Highland kin in Glen Isla and I will not have the Highlanders slandered.”
“You will not deny that they are cattle lifters?” said Guthrie.
“To drive a spreagh [to plunder] or so, is no thievery,” said Balafre, “and that I will maintain when and how you dare.”
“For shame, comrade!” said Cunningham, “who quarrels now? The young man should not see such mad misconstruction – Come, here we are at the Chateau. I will bestow a runlet of wine to have a rouse in friendship, and drink to Scotland, Highland and Lowland both, if you will meet me at dinner at my quarters.”
“Agreed – agreed,” said Balafre; “and I will bestow another to wash away unkindness, and to drink a health to my nephew on his first entrance to our corps.”
At their approach, the wicket was opened, and the drawbridge fell. One by one they entered; but when Quentin appeared, the sentinels crossed their pikes, and commanded him to stand, while bows were bent, and harquebusses aimed at him from the walls, a rigour of vigilance used, notwithstanding that the young stranger came in company of a party of the garrison, nay, of the very body which furnished the sentinels who were then upon duty.
Le Balafre, who had remained by his nephew’s side on purpose, gave the necessary explanations, and, after some considerable hesitation and delay, the youth was conveyed under a strong guard to the Lord Crawford’s apartment.
This Scottish nobleman was one of the last relics of the gallant band of Scottish lords and knights who had so long and so truly served Charles VI in those bloody wars which decided the independence of the French crown, and the expulsion of the English. He had fought, when a boy, abreast with Douglas and with Buchan, had ridden beneath the banner of the Maid of Arc, and was perhaps one of the last of those associates of Scottish chivalry who had so willingly drawn their swords for the fleur de lys, against their “auld enemies of England.” Changes which had taken place in the Scottish kingdom, and perhaps his having become habituated to French climate and manners, had induced the old Baron to resign all thoughts of returning to his native country, the rather that the high office which he held in the household of Louis and his own frank and loyal character had gained a considerable ascendancy over the King, who, though in general no ready believer in human virtue or honour, trusted and confided in those of the Lord Crawford, and allowed him the greater influence, because he was never known to interfere excepting in matters which concerned his charge.
[Douglas: fourth earl of Douglas. He was created Duke of Touraine in 1423 by Charles VII of France.]
[Buchan: Regent of Scotland and grandson of Robert II. He entered the service of Charles VII in 1420, and was appointed Constable of France.]
[Maid of Arc (1412-1431): Joan of Arc. She believed that God had called her to liberate France from the curse of the English who were besieging Orleans. In person she led the French troops from victory to victory until she saw the Dauphin crowned as Charles VII at Rheims. She was then betrayed by her people into the hands of the English, who, in 1431, sentenced her to the flames.]
Balafre and Cunningham followed Durward and the guard to the apartment of their officer, by whose dignified appearance, as well as with the respect paid to him by these proud soldiers, who seemed to respect no one else, the young man was much and strongly impressed.
Lord Crawford was tall, and through advanced age had become gaunt and thin; yet retaining in his sinews the strength, at least, if not the elasticity, of youth, he was able to endure the weight of his armour during a march as well as the youngest man who rode in his band. He was hard favoured, with a scarred and weather-beaten countenance, and an eye that had looked upon death as his playfellow in thirty pitched battles, but which nevertheless expressed a calm contempt of danger, rather than the ferocious courage of a mercenary soldier. His tall, erect figure was at present wrapped in a loose chamber gown, secured around him by his buff belt, in which was suspended his richly hilted poniard. He had round his neck the collar and badge of the order of Saint Michael [a patron saint of France. In 1469, a military order was instituted in his honour by Louis XI]. He sat upon a couch covered with deer’s hide, and with spectacles on his nose (then a recent invention) was labouring to read a huge manuscript called the Rosier de la Guerre, a code of military and civil policy which Louis had compiled for the benefit of his son the Dauphin, and upon which he was desirous to have the opinion of the experienced Scottish warrior.
Lord Crawford laid his book somewhat peevishly aside upon the entrance of these unexpected visitors, and demanded, in his broad national dialect, what, in the foul fiend’s name, they lacked now.
Le Balafre, with more respect than perhaps he would have shown to Louis himself, stated at full length the circumstances in which his nephew was placed, and humbly requested his Lordship’s protection. Lord Crawford listened very attentively. He could not but smile at the simplicity with which the youth had interfered in behalf of the hanged criminal, but he shook his head at the account which he received of the ruffle betwixt the Scottish Archers and the Provost Marshal’s guard.
[Such disputes between the Scots Guards and the other constituted authorities of the ordinary military corps often occurred. In 1474, two Scotsmen had been concerned in robbing… a fishmonger of a large sum of money. They were accordingly apprehended by Philip du Four, Provost, with some of his followers. But ere they could lodge one of them… in the prison of the Chastellet, they were attacked by two Archers of the King’s Scottish Guard, who rescued the prisoner… S.]
“How often,” he said, “will you bring me such ill winded pirns to ravel out? How often must I tell you, and especially both you, Ludovic Lesly, and you, Archie Cunningham, that the foreign soldier should bear himself modestly and decorously towards the people of the country if you would not have the whole dogs of the town at your heels? However, if you must have a bargain [a quarrel, videlicet. S.], I would rather it were with that loon of a Provost than any one else; and I blame you less for this onslaught than for other frays that you have made, Ludovic, for it was but natural and kind-like to help your young kinsman. This simple bairn must come to no skaith [same as scathe] neither; so give me the roll of the company yonder down from the shelf, and we will even add his name to the troop, that he may enjoy the privileges.”
“May it please your Lordship” said Durward.
“Is the lad crazed?” exclaimed his uncle. “Would you speak to his Lordship without a question asked?”
“Patience, Ludovic,” said Lord Crawford, “and let us hear what the bairn has to say.”
“Only this, if it may please your Lordship,” replied Quentin, “that I told my uncle formerly I had some doubts about entering this service. I have now to say that they are entirely removed, since I have seen the noble and experienced commander under whom I am to serve; for there is authority in your look.”
“Weel said, my bairn,” said the old Lord, not insensible to the compliment; “we have had some experience, had God sent us grace to improve by it, both in service and in command. There you stand, Quentin, in our honourable corps of Scottish Bodyguards, as esquire to your uncle, and serving under his lance. I trust you will do well, for you should be a right man at arms, if all be good that is upcome [that is, if your courage corresponds with your personal appearance. S.], and you are come of a gentle kindred. – Ludovic, you will see that your kinsman follow his exercise diligently, for we will have spears breaking one of these days.”
“By my hilts, and I am glad of it, my Lord – this peace makes cowards of us all. I myself feel a sort of decay of spirit, closed up in this cursed dungeon of a Castle.”
“Well, a bird whistled in my ear,” continued Lord Crawford, “that the old banner will be soon dancing in the field again.”
“I will drink a cup the deeper this evening to that very tune,” said Balafre.
“Thou wilt drink to any tune,” said Lord Crawford; “and I fear me, Ludovic, you will drink a bitter browst [as much liquor as is brewed at one time] of your own brewing one day.”
Lesly, a little abashed, replied that it had not been his wont for many a day; but that his Lordship knew the use of the company, to have a carouse to the health of a new comrade.
“True,” said the old leader, “I had forgot the occasion. I will send a few stoups of wine to assist your carouse; but let it be over by sunset. And, hark ye – let the soldiers for duty he carefully pricked off; and see that none of them be more or less partakers of your debauch.”
“Your Lordship shall be lawfully obeyed,” said Ludovic, “and your health duly remembered.”
“Perhaps,” said Lord Crawford, “I may look in myself upon your mirth – just to see that all is carried decently.”
“Your Lordship shall be most dearly welcome;” said Ludovic; and the whole party retreated in high spirits to prepare for their military banquet, to which Lesly invited about a score of his comrades, who were pretty much in the habit of making their mess together.
A soldier’s festival is generally a very extempore affair, providing there is enough of meat and drink to be had; but on the present occasion, Ludovic bustled about to procure some better wine than ordinary; observing that the old Lord was the surest gear in their aught, and that, while he preached sobriety to them, he himself, after drinking at the royal table as much wine as he could honestly come by, never omitted any creditable opportunity to fill up the evening over the wine pot.
“So you must prepare, comrades,” he said, “to hear the old histories of the battles of Vernoil and Beauge [in both these battles the Scottish auxiliaries of France, under Stewart, Earl of Buchan, were distinguished… S.].”
The Gothic apartment in which they generally met was, therefore, hastily put into the best order; their grooms were dispatched to collect green rushes to spread upon the floor; and banners, under which the Scottish Guard had marched to battle, or which they had taken from the enemies’ ranks, were displayed, by way of tapestry, over the table and around the walls of the chamber.
The next point was, to invest the young recruit as hastily as possible with the dress and appropriate arms of the Guard, that he might appear in every respect the sharer of its important privileges, in virtue of which, and by the support of his countrymen, he might freely brave the power and the displeasure of the Provost Marshal – although the one was known to be as formidable as the other was unrelenting.
The banquet was joyous in the highest degree; and the guests gave vent to the whole current of their national partiality on receiving into their ranks a recruit from their beloved fatherland. Old Scottish songs were sung, old tales of Scottish heroes told – the achievements of their fathers, and the scenes in which they were wrought, were recalled to mind; and, for a time, the rich plains of Touraine seemed converted into the mountainous and sterile regions of Caledonia.
When their enthusiasm was at high flood, and each was endeavouring to say something to enhance the dear remembrance of Scotland, it received a new impulse from the arrival of Lord Crawford, who, as Le Balafre had well prophesied, sat as it were on thorns at the royal board, until an opportunity occurred of making his escape to the revelry of his own countrymen. A chair of state had been reserved for him at the upper end of the table; for, according to the manners of the age and the constitution of that body, although their leader and commander under the King and High Constable, the members of the corps (as we should now say, the privates) being all ranked as noble by birth, their captain sat with them at the same table without impropriety, and might mingle when he chose in their festivity, without derogation from his dignity as commander.
At present, however, Lord Crawford declined occupying the seat prepared for him, and bidding them “hold themselves merry,” stood looking on the revel with a countenance which seemed greatly to enjoy it.
