Вальтер Скотт
The Abbot
“Cut him to pieces,” said another; “let him pay for this day’s insolence and violence – he is some follower of the Rothes.”
“No, by Saint Mary,” said another; “he is a follower of the arch-fiend and ennobled clown Halbert Glendinning, who takes the style of Avenel – once a church-vassal, now a pillager of the church.”
“It is so,” said a fourth; “I know him by the holly-sprig, which is their cognizance. Secure the door, he must answer for this insolence.”
Two of the gallants, hastily drawing their weapons, passed on to the door by which Roland had entered the hall, and stationed themselves there as if to prevent his escape. The others advanced on Graeme, who had just sense enough to perceive that any attempt at resistance would be alike fruitless and imprudent. At once, and by various voices, none of which sounded amicably, the page was required to say who he was, whence he came, his name, his errand, and who sent him hither. The number of the questions demanded of him at once, afforded a momentary apology for his remaining silent, and ere that brief truce had elapsed, a personage entered the hall, at whose appearance those who had gathered fiercely around Roland, fell back with respect.
This was a tall man, whose dark hair was already grizzled, though his high and haughty features retained all the animation of youth. The upper part of his person was undressed to his Holland shirt, whose ample folds were stained with blood. But he wore a mantle of crimson, lined with rich fur, cast around him, which supplied the deficiency of his dress. On his head he had a crimson velvet bonnet, looped up on one side with a small golden chain of many links, which, going thrice around the hat, was fastened by a medal, agreeable to the fashion amongst the grandees of the time.
“Whom have you here, sons and kinsmen,” said he, “around whom you crowd thus roughly? – Know you not that the shelter of this roof should secure every one fair treatment, who shall come hither either in fair peace, or in open and manly hostility?”
“But here, my lord,” answered one of the youths, “is a knave who comes on treacherous espial!”
“I deny the charge!” said Roland Graeme, boldly, “I came to inquire after my Lord Seyton.”
“A likely tale,” answered his accusers, “in the mouth of a follower of Glendinning.”
“Stay, young men,” said the Lord Seyton, for it was that nobleman himself, “let me look at this youth – By heaven, it is the very same who came so boldly to my side not very many minutes since, when some of my own knaves bore themselves with more respect to their own worshipful safety than to mine! Stand back from him, for he well deserves honour and a friendly welcome at your hands, instead of this rough treatment.”
They fell back on all sides, obedient to Lord Seyton’s commands, who, taking Roland Graeme by the hand, thanked him for his prompt and gallant assistance, adding, that he nothing doubted, “the same interest which he had taken in his cause in the affray, brought him hither to inquire after his hurt.”
Roland bowed low in acquiescence.
“Or is there any thing in which I can serve you, to show my sense of your ready gallantry?”
But the page, thinking it best to abide by the apology for his visit which the Lord Seyton had so aptly himself suggested, replied, “that to be assured of his lordship’s safety, had been the only cause of his intrusion. He judged,” he added, “he had seen him receive some hurt in the affray.”
“A trifle,” said Lord Seyton; “I had but stripped my doublet, that the chirurgeon might put some dressing on the paltry scratch, when these rash boys interrupted us with their clamour.”
Roland Graeme, making a low obeisance, was now about to depart, for, relieved from the danger of being treated as a spy, he began next to fear, that his companion, Adam Woodcock, whom he had so unceremoniously quitted, would either bring him into some farther dilemma, by venturing into the hotel in quest of him, or ride off and leave him behind altogether. But Lord Seyton did not permit him to escape so easily. “Tarry,” he said, “young man, and let me know thy rank and name. The Seyton has of late been more wont to see friends and followers shrink from his side, than to receive aid from strangers-but a new world may come around, in which he may have the chance of rewarding his well-wishers.”
“My name is Roland Graeme, my lord,” answered the youth, “a page, who, for the present, is in the service of Sir Halbert Glendinning.”
“I said so from the first,” said one of the young men; “my life I will wager, that this is a shaft out of the heretic’s quiver-a stratagem from first to last, to injeer into your confidence some espial of his own. They know how to teach both boys and women to play the intelligencers.”
“That is false, if it be spoken of me,” said Roland; “no man in Scotland should teach me such a foul part!”
“I believe thee, boy,” said Lord Seyton, “for thy strokes were too fair to be dealt upon an understanding with those that were to receive them. Credit me, however, I little expected to have help at need from one of your master’s household; and I would know what moved thee in my quarrel, to thine own endangering?”
“So please you, my lord,” said Roland, “I think my master himself would not have stood by, and seen an honourable man borne to earth by odds, if his single arm could help him. Such, at least, is the lesson we were taught in chivalry, at the Castle of Avenel.”
“The good seed hath fallen into good ground, young man,” said Seyton; “but, alas! if thou practise such honourable war in these dishonourable days, when right is every where borne down by mastery, thy life, my poor boy, will be but a short one.”
“Let it be short, so it be honourable,” said Roland Graeme; “and permit me now, my lord, to commend me to your grace, and to take my leave. A comrade waits with my horse in the street.”
“Take this, however, young man,” said Lord Seyton,
[Footnote: George, fifth Lord Seton, was immovably faithful to Queen Mary during all the mutabilities of her fortune. He was grand master of the household, in which capacity he had a picture painted of himself, with his official baton, and the following motto:
In adversitate, patiens;
In prosperitate, benevolus.
Hazard, yet forward.
On various parts of his castle he inscribed, as expressing his religious and political creed, the legend:
Un Dieu, un Foy, un Roy, un Loy.
He declined to be promoted to an earldom, which Queen Mary offered him at the same time when she advanced her natural brother to be Earl of Mar, and afterwards of Murray.
On his refusing this honour, Mary wrote, or caused to be written, the following lines in Latin and French:
Sunt comites, ducesque alii; sunt denique reges;
Sethom dominum sit satis esse mihi.
Il y a des comptes, des roys, des ducs; ainsi
C’est assez pour moy d’estre Seigneur de Seton.
Which may be thus rendered: —
Earl, duke, or king, be thou that list to be:
Seton, thy lordship is enough for me.
This distich reminds us of the “pride which aped humility,” in the motto of the house of Couci:
Je suis ni roy, ni prince aussi;
Je suis le Seigneur de Coucy.
After the battle of Langside, Lord Seton was obliged to retire abroad for safety, and was an exile for two years, during which he was reduced to the necessity of driving a waggon in Flanders for his subsistence. He rose to favour in James VI’s reign, and assuming his paternal property, had himself painted in his waggoner’s dress, and in the act of driving a wain with four horses, on the north end of a stately gallery at Seton Castle]
undoing from his bonnet the golden chain and medal, “and wear it for my sake.”
With no little pride Roland Graeme accepted the gift, which he hastily fastened around his bonnet, as he had seen gallants wear such an ornament, and renewing his obeisance to the Baron, left the hall, traversed the court, and appeared in the street, just as Adam Woodcock, vexed and anxious at his delay, had determined to leave the horses to their fate, and go in quest of his youthful comrade. “Whose barn hast thou broken next?” he exclaimed, greatly relieved by his appearance, although his countenance indicated that he had passed through an agitating scene.
“Ask me no questions,” said Roland, leaping gaily on his horse; “but see how short time it takes to win a chain of gold,” pointing to that which he now wore.
“Now, God forbid that thou hast either stolen it, or reft it by violence,” said the falconer; “for, otherwise, I wot not how the devil thou couldst compass it. I have been often here, ay, for months at an end, and no one gave me either chain or medal.”
“Thou seest I have got one on shorter acquaintance with the city,” answered the page, “but set thine honest heart at rest; that which is fairly won and freely given, is neither reft nor stolen.”
“Marry, hang thee, with thy fanfarona [Footnote: A name given to the gold chains worn by the military men of the period. It is of Spanish origin: for the fashion of wearing these costly ornaments was much followed amongst the conquerors of the New World.] about thy neck!” said the falconer; “I think water will not drown, nor hemp strangle thee. Thou hast been discarded as my lady’s page, to come in again as my lord’s squire; and for following a noble young damsel into some great household, thou gettest a chain and medal, where another would have had the baton across his shoulders, if he missed having the dirk in his body. But here we come in front of the old Abbey. Bear thy good luck with you when you cross these paved stones, and, by our Lady, you may brag Scotland.”
As he spoke, they checked their horses, where the huge old vaulted entrance to the Abbey or Palace of Holyrood crossed the termination of the street down which they had proceeded. The courtyard of the palace opened within this gloomy porch, showing the front of an irregular pile of monastic buildings, one wing of which is still extant, forming a part of the modern palace, erected in the days of Charles I.
At the gate of the porch the falconer and page resigned their horses to the serving-man in attendance; the falconer commanding him with an air of authority, to carry them safely to the stables. “We follow,” he said, “the Knight of Avenel – We must bear ourselves for what we are here,” said he in a whisper to Roland, “for every one here is looked on as they demean themselves; and he that is too modest must to the wall, as the proverb says; therefore cock thy bonnet, man, and let us brook the causeway bravely.”
Assuming, therefore, an air of consequence, corresponding to what he supposed to be his master’s importance and quality, Adam Woodcock led the way into the courtyard of the Palace of Holyrood.
He appears to have been fond of the arts; for there exists a beautiful family-piece of him in the centre of his family. Mr. Pinkerton, in his Scottish Iconographia, published an engraving of this curious portrait. The original is the property of Lord Somerville, nearly connected with the Seton family, and is at present at his lordship’s fishing villa of the Pavilion, near Melrose.
Chapter the Eighteenth
– The sky is clouded, Gaspard,
And the vexed ocean sleeps a troubled sleep,
Beneath a lurid gleam of parting sunshine.
Such slumber hangs o’er discontented lands,
While factions doubt, as yet, if they have strength
To front the open battle.
ALBION – A POEM.
The youthful page paused on the entrance of the court-yard, and implored his guide to give him a moment’s breathing space. “Let me but look around me, man,” said he; “you consider not I have never seen such a scene as this before. – And this is Holyrood – the resort of the gallant and gay, and the fair, and the wise, and the powerful!”
“Ay, marry, is it!” said Woodcock; “but I wish I could hood thee as they do the hawks, for thou starest as wildly as if you sought another fray or another fanfarona. I would I had thee safely housed, for thou lookest wild as a goss-hawk.”
It was indeed no common sight to Roland, the vestibule of a palace traversed by its various groups, – some radiant with gaiety – some pensive, and apparently weighed down by affairs concerning the state, or concerning themselves. Here the hoary statesman, with his cautious yet commanding look, his furred cloak and sable pantoufles; there the soldier in buff and steel, his long sword jarring against the pavement, and his whiskered upper lip and frowning brow, looking an habitual defiance of danger, which perhaps was not always made good; there again passed my lord’s serving-man, high of heart, and bloody of hand, humble to his master and his master’s equals, insolent to all others. To these might be added, the poor suitor, with his anxious look and depressed mien – the officer, full of his brief authority, elbowing his betters, and possibly his benefactors, out of the road – the proud priest, who sought a better benefice – the proud baron, who sought a grant of church lands – the robber chief, who came to solicit a pardon for the injuries he had inflicted on his neighbors – the plundered franklin, who came to seek vengeance for that which he had himself received. Besides there was the mustering and disposition of guards and soldiers – the despatching of messengers, and the receiving them – the trampling and neighing of horses without the gate – the flashing of arms, and rustling of plumes, and jingling of spurs, within it. In short, it was that gay and splendid confusion, in which the eye of youth sees all that is brave and brilliant, and that of experience much that is doubtful, deceitful, false, and hollow – hopes that will never be gratified – promises which will never be fulfilled – pride in the disguise of humility – and insolence in that of frank and generous bounty.
As, tired of the eager and enraptured attention which the page gave to a scene so new to him, Adam Woodcock endeavoured to get him to move forward, before his exuberance of astonishment should attract the observation of the sharp-witted denizens of the court, the falconer himself became an object of attention to a gay menial in a dark-green bonnet and feather, with a cloak of a corresponding colour, laid down, as the phrase then went, by six broad bars of silver lace, and welted with violet and silver. The words of recognition burst from both at once. “What! Adam Woodcock at court!” and “What! Michael Wing-the-wind – and how runs the hackit greyhound bitch now?”
“The waur for the wear, like ourselves, Adam – eight years this grass – no four legs will carry a dog forever; but we keep her for the breed, and so she ‘scapes Border doom – But why stand you gazing there? I promise you my lord has wished for you, and asked for you.”
“My Lord of Murray asked for me, and he Regent of the kingdom too!” said Adam. “I hunger and thirst to pay my duty to my good lord; – but I fancy his good lordship remembers the day’s sport on Carnwath-moor; and my Drummelzier falcon, that beat the hawks from the Isle of Man, and won his lordship a hundred crowns from the Southern baron whom they called Stanley.”
“Nay, not to flatter thee, Adam,” said his court-friend, “he remembers nought of thee, or of thy falcon either. He hath flown many a higher flight since that, and struck his quarry too. But come, come hither away; I trust we are to be good comrades on the old score.”
“What!” said Adam, “you would have me crush a pot with you; but I must first dispose of my eyas, where he will neither have girl to chase, nor lad to draw sword upon.”
“Is the youngster such a one?” said Michael.
“Ay, by my hood, he flies at all game,” replied Woodcock.
“Then had he better come with us,” said Michael Wing-the-wind; “for we cannot have a proper carouse just now, only I would wet my lips, and so must you. I want to hear the news from Saint Mary’s before you see my lord, and I will let you know how the wind sits up yonder.”
While he thus spoke, he led the way to a side door which opened into the court; and threading several dark passages with the air of one who knew the most secret recesses of the palace, conducted them to a small matted chamber, where he placed bread and cheese and a foaming flagon of ale before the falconer and his young companion, who immediately did justice to the latter in a hearty draught, which nearly emptied the measure. Having drawn his breath, and dashed the froth from his whiskers, he observed, that his anxiety for the boy had made him deadly dry.
“Mend your draught,” said his hospitable friend, again supplying the flagon from a pitcher which stood beside. “I know the way to the butterybar. And now, mind what I say – this morning the Earl of Morton came to my lord in a mighty chafe.”
“What! they keep the old friendship, then?” said Woodcock.
“Ay, ay, man, what else?” said Michael; “one hand must scratch the other. But in a mighty chafe was my Lord of Morton, who, to say truth, looketh on such occasions altogether uncanny, and, as it were, fiendish; and he says to my lord, – for I was in the chamber taking orders about a cast of hawks that are to be fetched from Darnoway – they match your long-winged falcons, friend Adam.”
“I will believe that when I see them fly as high a pitch,” replied Woodcock, this professional observation forming a sort of parenthesis.
“However,” said Michael, pursuing his tale, “my Lord of Morton, in a mighty chafe, asked my Lord Regent whether he was well dealt with – ‘for my brother,’ said he, ‘should have had a gift to be Commendator of Kennaqubair, and to have all the temporalities erected into a lordship of regality for his benefit; and here,’ said he, ‘the false monks have had the insolence to choose a new Abbot to put his claim in my brother’s way; and moreover, the rascality of the neighbourhood have burnt and plundered all that was left in the Abbey, so that my brother will not have a house to dwell in, when he hath ousted the lazy hounds of priests.’ And my lord, seeing him chafed, said mildly to him, ‘These are shrewd tidings, Douglas, but I trust they be not true; for Halbert Glendinning went southward yesterday, with a band of spears, and assuredly, had either of these chances happened, that the monks had presumed to choose an Abbot, or that the Abbey had been burnt, as you say, he had taken order on the spot for the punishment of such insolence, and had despatched us a messenger.’ And the Earl of Morton replied – now I pray you, Adam, to notice, that I say this out of love to you and your lord, and also for old comradeship, and also because Sir Halbert hath done me good, and may again – and also because I love not the Earl of Morton, as indeed more fear than like him – so then it were a foul deed in you to betray me. – ‘But,’ said the Earl to the Regent, ‘take heed, my lord, you trust not this Glendinning too far – he comes of churl’s blood, which was never true to the nobles’ – by Saint Andrew, these were his very words. – ‘And besides,’ he said, ‘he hath a brother, a monk in Saint Mary’s, and walks all by his guidance, and is making friends on the Border with Buccleuch and with Ferniehirst, [Footnote: Both these Border Chieftains were great friends of Queen Mary.] and will join hand with them, were there likelihood of a new world.’ And my lord answered, like a free noble lord as he is; ‘Tush! my Lord of Morton, I will be warrant for Glendinning’s faith; and for his brother, he is a dreamer, that thinks of nought but book and breviary – and if such hap have chanced as you tell of, I look to receive from Glendinning the cowl of a hanged monk, and the head of a riotous churl, by way of sharp and sudden justice.’ – And my Lord of Morton left the place, and, as it seemed to me, somewhat malecontent. But since that time, my lord has asked me more than once whether there has arrived no messenger from the Knight of Avenel. And all this I have told you, that you may frame your discourse to the best purpose, for it seems to me that my lord will not be well-pleased, if aught has happened like what my Lord of Morton said, and if your lord hath not ta’en strict orders with it.”
There was something in this communication which fairly blanked the bold visage of Adam Woodcock, in spite of the reinforcement which his natural hardihood had received from the berry-brown ale of Holyrood.
“What was it he said about a churl’s head, that grim Lord of Morton?” said the discontented falconer to his friend.
“Nay, it was my Lord Regent, who said that he expected, if the Abbey was injured, your Knight would send him the head of the ringleader among the rioters.”
“Nay, but is this done like a good Protestant,” said Adam Woodcock, “or a true Lord of the Congregation? We used to be their white-boys and darlings when we pulled down the convents in Fife and Perthshire.” “Ay, but that,” said Michael, “was when old mother Rome held her own, and our great folks were determined she should have no shelter for her head in Scotland. But, now that the priests are fled in all quarters, and their houses and lands are given to our grandees, they cannot see that we are working the work of reformation in destroying the palaces of zealous Protestants.”
“But I tell you Saint Mary’s is not destroyed!” said Woodcock, in increasing agitation; “some trash of painted windows there were broken – things that no nobleman could have brooked in his house – some stone saints were brought on their marrow-bones, like old Widdrington at Chevy-Chase; but as for fire-raising, there was not so much as a lighted lunt amongst us, save the match which the dragon had to light the burning tow withal, which he was to spit against Saint George; nay, I had caution of that.”
“How! Adam Woodcock,” said his comrade, “I trust thou hadst no hand in such a fair work? Look you, Adam, I were loth to terrify you, and you just come from a journey; but I promise you, Earl Morton hath brought you down a Maiden from Halifax, you never saw the like of her – and she’ll clasp you round the neck, and your head will remain in her arms.”
“Pshaw!” answered Adam, “I am too old to have my head turned by any maiden of them all. I know my Lord of Morton will go as far for a buxom lass as anyone; but what the devil took him to Halifax all the way? and if he has got a gamester there, what hath she to do with my head?”
“Much, much!” answered Michael. “Herod’s daughter, who did such execution with her foot and ankle, danced not men’s heads off more cleanly than this maiden of Morton. [Footnote: Maiden of Morton – a species of Guillotine which the Regent Morton brought down from Halifax, certainly at a period considerably later than intimated in the tale. He was himself the first who suffered by the engine.] ‘Tis an axe, man, – an axe which falls of itself like a sash window, and never gives the headsmen the trouble to wield it.”
“By my faith, a shrewd device,” said Woodcock; “heaven keep us free on’t!”
The page, seeing no end to the conversation betwixt these two old comrades, and anxious from what he had heard, concerning the fate of the Abbot, now interrupted their conference.
“Methinks,” he said, “Adam Woodcock, thou hadst better deliver thy master’s letter to the Regent; questionless he hath therein stated what has chanced at Kennaquhair, in the way most advantageous for all concerned.”
“The boy is right,” said Michael Wing-the-wind, “my lord will be very impatient.”
“The child hath wit enough to keep himself warm,” said Adam Woodcock, producing from his hawking-bag his lord’s letter, addressed to the Earl of Murray, “and for that matter so have I. So, Master Roland, you will e’en please to present this yourself to the Lord Regent; his presence will be better graced by a young page than by an old falconer.”
“Well said, canny Yorkshire!” replied his friend; “and but now you were so earnest to see our good lord! – Why, wouldst thou put the lad into the noose that thou mayst slip tether thyself? – or dost thou think the maiden will clasp his fair young neck more willingly than thy old sunburnt weasand?”
“Go to,” answered the falconer; “thy wit towers high an it could strike the quarry. I tell thee, the youth has nought to fear – he had nothing to do with the gambol – a rare gambol it was, Michael, as mad-caps ever played; and I had made as rare a ballad, if we had had the luck to get it sung to an end. But mum for that —tace, as I said before, is Latin for a candle. Carry the youth to the presence, and I will remain here, with bridle in hand, ready to strike the spurs up to the rowel-heads, in case the hawk flies my way. – I will soon put Soltraedge, I trow, betwixt the Regent and me, if he means me less than fair play.”
“Come on then, my lad,” said Michael, “since thou must needs take the spring before canny Yorkshire.” So saying, he led the way through winding passages, closely followed by Roland Graeme, until they arrived at a large winding stone stair, the steps of which were so long and broad, and at the same time so low, as to render the ascent uncommonly easy. When they had ascended about the height of one story, the guide stepped aside, and pushed open the door of a dark and gloomy antechamber; so dark, indeed, that his youthful companion stumbled, and nearly fell down upon a low step, which was awkwardly placed on the very threshold.
“Take heed,” said Michael Wing-the-wind, in a very low tone of voice, and first glancing cautiously round to see if any one listened – “Take heed, my young friend, for those who fall on these boards seldom rise again – Seest thou that,” he added, in a still lower voice, pointing to some dark crimson stains on the floor, on which a ray of light, shot through a small aperture, and traversing the general gloom of the apartment, fell with mottled radiance – “Seest thou that, youth? – walk warily, for men have fallen here before you.”
“What mean you?” said the page, his flesh creeping, though he scarce knew why; “Is it blood?”
“Ay, ay,” said the domestic, in the same whispering tone, and dragging the youth on by the arm – “Blood it is, – but this is no time to question, or even to look at it. Blood it is, foully and fearfully shed, as foully and fearfully avenged. The blood,” he added, in a still more cautious tone, “of Seignior David.”
Roland Graeme’s heart throbbed when he found himself so unexpectedly in the scene of Rizzio’s slaughter, a catastrophe which had chilled with horror all even in that rude age, which had been the theme of wonder and pity through every cottage and castle in Scotland, and had not escaped that of Avenel. But his guide hurried him forward, permitting no farther question, and with the manner of one who has already tampered too much with a dangerous subject. A tap which he made at a low door at one end of the vestibule, was answered by a huissier or usher, who, opening it cautiously, received Michael’s intimation that a page waited the Regent’s leisure, who brought letters from the Knight of Avenel.
“The Council is breaking up,” said the usher; “but give me the packet; his Grace the Regent will presently see the messenger.”
“The packet,” replied the page, “must be delivered into the Regent’s own hands; such were the orders of my master.”
The usher looked at him from head to foot, as if surprised at his boldness, and then replied, with some asperity, “Say you so, my young master? Thou crowest loudly to be but a chicken, and from a country barn-yard too.”
“Were it a time or place,” said Roland, “thou shouldst see I can do more than crow; but do your duty, and let the Regent know I wait his pleasure.”
“Thou art but a pert knave to tell me of my duty,” said the courtier in office; “but I will find a time to show you you are out of yours; meanwhile, wait there till you are wanted.” So saying, he shut the door in Roland’s face.
Michael Wing-the-wind, who had shrunk from his youthful companion during this altercation, according to the established maxim of courtiers of all ranks, and in all ages, now transgressed their prudential line of conduct so far as to come up to him once more. “Thou art a hopeful young springald,” said he, “and I see right well old Yorkshire had reason in his caution. Thou hast been five minutes in the court, and hast employed thy time so well, as to make a powerful and a mortal enemy out of the usher of the council-chamber. Why, man, you might almost as well have offended the deputy butler!”
“I care not what he is,” said Roland Graeme; “I will teach whomever I speak with to speak civilly to me in return. I did not come from Avenel to be browbeaten in Holyrood.”
“Bravo, my lad!” said Michael; “it is a fine spirit if you can but hold it – but see, the door opens.”
The usher appeared, and, in a more civil tone of voice and manner, said, that his Grace the Regent would receive the Knight of Avenel’s message; and accordingly marshalled Roland Graeme the way into the apartment, from which the Council had been just dismissed, after finishing their consultations. There was in the room a long oaken table, surrounded by stools of the same wood, with a large elbow chair, covered with crimson velvet, at the head. Writing materials and papers were lying there in apparent disorder; and one or two of the privy counsellors who had lingered behind, assuming their cloaks, bonnets, and swords, and bidding farewell to the Regent, were departing slowly by a large door, on the opposite side to that through which the page entered. Apparently the Earl of Murray had made some jest, for the smiling countenances of the statesmen expressed that sort of cordial reception which is paid by courtiers to the condescending pleasantries of a prince.
The Regent himself was laughing heartily as he said, “Farewell, my lords, and hold me remembered to the Cock of the North.”
He then turned slowly round towards Roland Graeme, and the marks of gaiety, real or assumed, disappeared from his countenance, as completely as the passing bubbles leave the dark mirror of a still profound lake into which a traveller has cast a stone; in the course of a minute his noble features had assumed their natural expression of deep and even melancholy gravity.
