Old Mortality & Ivanhoe (Illustrated Edition). Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ render myself as like these men as possible.”

      So saying he unbuckled his baldric with the bugle, took a feather from his cap, and gave them to Wamba; then drew a vizard from his pouch, and, repeating his charges to them to stand fast, went to execute his purposes of reconnoitring.

      “Shall we stand fast, Gurth?” said Wamba; “or shall we e’en give him leg-bail? In my foolish mind, he had all the equipage of a thief too much in readiness, to be himself a true man.”

      “Let him be the devil,” said Gurth, “an he will. We can be no worse of waiting his return. If he belong to that party, he must already have given them the alarm, and it will avail nothing either to fight or fly. Besides, I have late experience, that errant thieves are not the worst men in the world to have to deal with.”

      The yeoman returned in the course of a few minutes.

      “Friend Gurth,” he said, “I have mingled among yon men, and have learnt to whom they belong, and whither they are bound. There is, I think, no chance that they will proceed to any actual violence against their prisoners. For three men to attempt them at this moment, were little else than madness; for they are good men of war, and have, as such, placed sentinels to give the alarm when any one approaches. But I trust soon to gather such a force, as may act in defiance of all their precautions; you are both servants, and, as I think, faithful servants, of Cedric the Saxon, the friend of the rights of Englishmen. He shall not want English hands to help him in this extremity. Come then with me, until I gather more aid.”

      So saying, he walked through the wood at a great pace, followed by the jester and the swineherd. It was not consistent with Wamba’s humour to travel long in silence.

      “I think,” said he, looking at the baldric and bugle which he still carried, “that I saw the arrow shot which won this gay prize, and that not so long since as Christmas.”

      “And I,” said Gurth, “could take it on my halidome, that I have heard the voice of the good yeoman who won it, by night as well as by day, and that the moon is not three days older since I did so.”

      “Mine honest friends,” replied the yeoman, “who, or what I am, is little to the present purpose; should I free your master, you will have reason to think me the best friend you have ever had in your lives. And whether I am known by one name or another — or whether I can draw a bow as well or better than a cow-keeper, or whether it is my pleasure to walk in sunshine or by moonlight, are matters, which, as they do not concern you, so neither need ye busy yourselves respecting them.”

      “Our heads are in the lion’s mouth,” said Wamba, in a whisper to Gurth, “get them out how we can.”

      “Hush — be silent,” said Gurth. “Offend him not by thy folly, and I trust sincerely that all will go well.”

      Chapter 20

      Table of Contents

      When autumn nights were long and drear,

      And forest walks were dark and dim,

      How sweetly on the pilgrim’s ear

      Was wont to steal the hermit’s hymn

      Devotion borrows Music’s tone,

      And Music took Devotion’s wing;

      And, like the bird that hails the sun,

      They soar to heaven, and soaring sing.

      The Hermit of St Clement’s Well

      It was after three hours’ good walking that the servants of Cedric, with their mysterious guide, arrived at a small opening in the forest, in the centre of which grew an oak-tree of enormous magnitude, throwing its twisted branches in every direction. Beneath this tree four or five yeomen lay stretched on the ground, while another, as sentinel, walked to and fro in the moonlight shade.

      Upon hearing the sound of feet approaching, the watch instantly gave the alarm, and the sleepers as suddenly started up and bent their bows. Six arrows placed on the string were pointed towards the quarter from which the travellers approached, when their guide, being recognised, was welcomed with every token of respect and attachment, and all signs and fears of a rough reception at once subsided.

      “Where is the Miller?” was his first question.

      “On the road towards Rotherham.”

      “With how many?” demanded the leader, for such he seemed to be.

      “With six men, and good hope of booty, if it please St Nicholas.”

      “Devoutly spoken,” said Locksley; “and where is Allan-a-Dale?”

      “Walked up towards the Watling-street, to watch for the Prior of Jorvaulx.”

      “That is well thought on also,” replied the Captain; — “and where is the Friar?”

      “In his cell.”

      “Thither will I go,” said Locksley. “Disperse and seek your companions. Collect what force you can, for there’s game afoot that must be hunted hard, and will turn to bay. Meet me here by daybreak. — And stay,” he added, “I have forgotten what is most necessary of the whole — Two of you take the road quickly towards Torquilstone, the Castle of Front-de-Boeuf. A set of gallants, who have been masquerading in such guise as our own, are carrying a band of prisoners thither — Watch them closely, for even if they reach the castle before we collect our force, our honour is concerned to punish them, and we will find means to do so. Keep a close watch on them therefore; and dispatch one of your comrades, the lightest of foot, to bring the news of the yeomen thereabout.”

      They promised implicit obedience, and departed with alacrity on their different errands. In the meanwhile, their leader and his two companions, who now looked upon him with great respect, as well as some fear, pursued their way to the Chapel of Copmanhurst.

      When they had reached the little moonlight glade, having in front the reverend, though ruinous chapel, and the rude hermitage, so well suited to ascetic devotion, Wamba whispered to Gurth, “If this be the habitation of a thief, it makes good the old proverb, The nearer the church the farther from God. — And by my coxcomb,” he added, “I think it be even so — Hearken but to the black sanctus which they are singing in the hermitage!”

      In fact the anchorite and his guest were performing, at the full extent of their very powerful lungs, an old drinking song, of which this was the burden: —

      “Come, trowl the brown bowl to me,

      Bully boy, bully boy,

      Come, trowl the brown bowl to me:

      Ho! jolly Jenkin, I spy a knave in drinking,

      Come, trowl the brown bowl to me.”

      “Now, that is not ill sung,” said Wamba, who had thrown in a few of his own flourishes to help out the chorus. “But who, in the saint’s name, ever expected to have heard such a jolly chant come from out a hermit’s cell at midnight!”

      “Marry, that should I,” said Gurth, “for СКАЧАТЬ