Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon;
Rose-blossoms on her hands together prest.—Keats.
It was, indeed, Madeline, and no illusion or shadowy mockery, that stood before them, smiling, and smiling sweetly; looking her own fair self again, but paler, and, it might be, somewhat sickly in aspect; for the skilful nun of Haddington, by her simples and leechcraft, had really cured her; and barely was she able to be moved in a litter, when the sudden advance of the English, and the destruction of the village, the church, and vicarage of Tranent, compelled the vicar with his charge to seek safety in flight. Failing to reach the capital, which was already crowded by thousands of fugitives from all the southern and eastern towns and villages, on that very evening, after wandering from place to place, by a strange coincidence they had taken shelter in the same cavern to which Florence and her uncle had been driven by the force of events, or by the tide of war. Thus rage on one hand, and grief on the other, gave place to mutual explanations, and the details of dangers escaped and toils endured.
"But tell me, Father John," said Florence, "whence came the sound of that passing bell, which on the fatal evening struck such a horror on my heart?"
"It was a mistake of my sacristan."
"Blessed be Heaven that spared her——"
"To life and you," interrupted the good old priest, pressing his hand.
Claude Hamilton was about to speak, when the vicar resumed hurriedly, while lifting up his withered hands,—
"Alas, sirs! of a verity this hath been a black Saturday for Scotland!"
"And our monks, with their grey frocks and white banner," added Claude Hamilton bitterly; "what availed its solemn consecration, amid incense and Latin, in the abbey of Dunfermline? By the Black Rood of Scotland! I saw them lying round it as thick as leaves in autumn, in their shaven crowns and black armour; and small mercy those heretics of England gave them!"
"Our church, which my friend in youth, Dunbar the poet likens to a ship—the holy bark of St. Peter—tossing on a tempestuous sea of Lollardy, will yet ride out the storm; and on the next field where we meet these heretical English, foot to foot and hand to hand, God will make Himself manifest, and defend the right."
"I hope so. Heaven taking all the monks to itself, however, seems a sorry commencement. But I begin to put more faith in stout men-at-arms than in miracles, and more faith in a hackbut than a homily."
"Yet thy kinswoman hath been restored to thee hale and sound," said the vicar reproachfully.
"True, Father John; and for that good deed will I hang in your church a lamp of silver, that shall light its altar till the day of doom, in memory of my gratitude and devotion."
"But tell me of the field—this fatal, gory field,—and how it went," said the politic priest; "and meanwhile let us leave the young laird to make some reparation to the young countess for the sore evil his mother wrought her; so come this way with me, and I will show you how the fires of these destroyers redden all the sky to the westward."
At first Claude Hamilton was unwilling to leave his niece, even for a moment, as she hung affectionately on his breast; but the priest gently separated them, and led him within the caverns to a point from whence, through an orifice or fissure in the limestone rocks, they could see all the valley to the westward lighted by a broad and lurid blaze of light, that wavered, reddened, waned, and sank to rise and glare again, upon the impending cliffs which overhung the river; on its waters, which bore a hundred varying hues; and on all the copsewood and thickets that fringed the sylvan glen. This unwonted blaze came from the princely castle of the Sinclairs of Roslin, which some of Somerset's devastators had sacked and set in flames; and now the conflagration shone far over all the valley of the Esk, like the fated light of the legend, that bodes when death or evil menace the "lordly line of high St. Clair." Many wild animals fled before this startling light. The wolf sent up its wild baying cry from the caverns in the glen; the red-deer and the timid hart fled down the stream, as if the hunter's arrow and the shaggy, brown-eyed dogs were on their trail; and the gled and the mountain-eagle were screaming as they whirled and wheeled in mid air, as if in fury at being scared from their eyry.
Claude Hamilton remembered that but lately he had seen the fire rending and the smoke blackening the walls of his own baronial home: he muttered a fierce malediction; and grasping the dagger which had so recently menaced the life of Florence, he continued to gaze upon the flames, and to listen to the shouts of armed stragglers, who, by the frequent sound of horns, cries, and explosion of arquebuses, seemed to be wandering in the valley of the Esk, exchanging signals or slaying those who fell into their hands. These alarming noises became more frequent, and ultimately seemed to approach the place of his concealment.
Meantime, though left thus together, though their tongues and hearts were laden with inquiries, Florence and the young countess were silent, and full of thoughts which could find but little utterance or coherence; for the course of recent events had been so startling and rapid that both were bewildered.
"You are well—restored—recovered, Madeline!" said the lover in a low and earnest whisper, as he pressed her to his breast, closely and convulsively.
"Restored and recovered by God's grace and the skill of sister Christina of Haddington."
"Heaven bless her, Madeline! My mother—what shall I say of my mother!"
"Speak not of her now," said the countess in a low and agitated voice; "I would not pain your heart for worlds."
"She wronged you deeply—cruelly, dearest! But this day—God rest her soul!—she died a horrible death."
"Died—did you say she died?"
"Amid the flames of our tower, which the English attacked and burned, while I was disputing the passage of the Esk at the head of a few horsemen; but she defended her house, by bow, pike, and arquebuse, to the last, and died as she had lived, unflinching, resolute, and unyielding,—died, as roof and rafter, cope and turret, went surging down into the sea of fire below. Oh, it was an awful end! All her animosities, her hate, her mistakes, and her faults, have passed away; so let us think of them no more. But the slaughter of to day, the treason of our peers, and dispersion of the army, have plunged the land in danger and dishonour, the end of which I cannot foresee! A thousand times to-night I have said—would that I were dead!"
"Florence," said the countess softly, taking his hand in hers, "at this miserable time, do not let us exaggerate our sorrows. Let us rather bear up together against our misfortunes. All hope is not dead for us. Something yet remains, for Mary of Lorraine is my friend, and hope whispers to me that we shall both be happy yet."
"Together, Madeline?"
"Together."
"And you my wife?"
She did not reply, but returned gently the pressure of his hand, and then tenderly passed hers over his tearful and bloodshot eyes.
"Bless you, Madeline, for that assurance and the hope it gives me: but your kinsman, Claude——"
"Remember only that I love you, Florence—for I do love you, dearly."
"These words should lighten everything. When you are near me I no longer seem to suffer aught from recollection of the past, or dread of the future. Even this dark, dank cavern becomes bright and beautiful!"
Madeline smiled, for he could see her eyes sparkle, and her teeth glitter like two rows of pearl in the twilight.
"You smile now, dear and merry one, even in this place, and after such a day of woe."
"The joy of being restored to you counterbalances every evil," she whispered in his ear.
"Mine own sweetheart! Then think of the time when I shall be always with you, and when we shall never be parted again."
There was a tender and mute embrace, which was suddenly interrupted by a sound of alarm.
"Hark—what is that?" exclaimed Madeline starting back.
"The explosion of an arquebuse——"
"And voices——"
"Quite near us, too—be still—we are beset!"
"To your sword, Fawside," cried Claude Hamilton, coming hastily forward; "some of these pestilent English stragglers are close by. Remove the countess—Father John, lead her within, and leave the young laird and me to make what service we may, and to keep the mouth of this dark hole while life and blood and steel remain to us."
Madeline was led away, while Florence and the old knight of Preston, with their swords drawn, crept close to the mouth of the cavern, from whence, as the moon was now up, a clear, broad, and yellow one, for the season was harvest, they could distinctly sec the coming danger. Several of the enemy's pillagers had been passing near, and had too evidently heard the sound of voices in these caverns, the echoes of which repeat each other with many reverberations.