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‘Yea,’ said Kennedy, nothing daunted, ‘and finding him much better mannered than you!’
‘Ay!’ sighed Murdoch, feebly; ‘when I grew up, it was at the Castles of Perth and Doune that we looked for the best manners. Now—’
‘We leave them to the lick-platters that have to live by them,’ said Alexander, rudely.
Kennedy, meanwhile, gave the young scholar in charge to a gray-headed retainer, who seemed one of the few who had any remains of good-breeding; and then offered to say Grace—he being the nearest approach to an ecclesiastic present—as the chaplain was gone to an Easter festivity at his Abbey. Malcolm thus obtained a seat at the second table, and a tolerable share of supper; but he could hardly eat, from intense anxiety, and scarcely knew whether to be glad or sorry that he was out of sight of Lily.
By and by, a moment’s lull of the universal din enabled Malcolm to hear the Regent saying, ‘Verily, there is a look of gentle nurture about the lad. Look you, James, when the tables are drawn, you shall hold a disputation with him. It will be sport to hear how you chop logic at your Universities yonder.’
Malcolm’s spirit sank. Such disputations were perfectly ordinary work at both Oxford and Paris, and, usually, he was quite capable of sustaining his part in them; but his heart was so full, his mind so anxious, his condition so dangerous, that he felt as if he could by no means rally that alertness of argument, and readiness of quotation, that were requisite even in the merest tyro. However, he made a great effort. He secretly invoked the Light of Wisdom; tried to think himself back into the aisles of St. Mary’s Church, and to call up the key-notes of some of the stock arguments; hoping that, if the selection of the subject were left to Kennedy, he would hit on one of those most familiar at Oxford.
The supper was ended, the tables were removed, and the challenge took place. Duke Murdoch, leaning back in his high chair by the peat-fire, while the ladies sat round at their spinning, called for the two young clerks to begin their tourney of words. They stood opposite one another, on the step of the dais; and Kennedy, as host and challenger, assigned to his opponent the choice of a subject, when Malcolm, brightening, proposed one that he had so often heard and practised on, as to have the arguments at his fingers’ ends; namely, that the real consists only in that which is substantial to the senses, and which we see, hear, taste, smell, or touch.
Kennedy’s shrewd gray eye glanced at him in a manner that startled him, as he made reply, ‘Fellow-alumnus, you speak as Oxford scholars speak; but I rede ye well that the real is not that which is grossly tangible to the corporeal sense, but the idea that is conceived within the immortal intelligence.’
The argument was carried on in the vernacular, but there was an unlimited license of quotation from authors of all kinds, classics, Fathers, and schoolmen. It was like a game at chess, in which the first moves were always so much alike, that they might have been made by automatons; and Malcolm was repeating reply and counter-reply, almost by rote, when a citation brought in by Kennedy again startled him.
‘Outward things,’ said James, ‘are the mere mark; for have we not heard how
Was this to prove that he recognized a wandering prince in his opponent? thought Malcolm; but, much on his guard, he made answer, as usual, in his native tongue. ‘That which is not touched and held is but a vain and fleeting shadow—“solvitur in nube.” 7
‘Negatur, it is denied!’ said Kennedy, fixing his eyes full upon him. ‘The Speculum of the Soul, which is immortal, retains the image even while the bodily presence is far away. Wherefore else was it that Ulysses sat as a beggar by his paternal hearth, or that Cadmus wandered to seek his sister?’
This was anything but the regular illustration—the argument was far too directly ad hominem—and Malcolm hesitated for a moment, ere framing his reply. ‘If the image had satisfied the craving of their hearts, they had never wandered, nor endangered themselves.’
‘Nor,’ said Kennedy, ‘endeared themselves to all who love the leal and the brave, and count these indeed as verities for which to live.’
From the manner in which these words were spoken, Malcolm had no further doubt either that Kennedy knew him, or that he meant to assist him; and the discussion thenceforth proceeded without further departures from the regular style, and was sustained with considerable spirit, till the Regent grew weary of it, and bed-time approached, when Kennedy announced his intention of taking his fellow-student to share his chamber; and, as this did not appear at all an unnatural proposal, in the crowded Castle, Malcolm followed him up various winding stairs into a small circular chamber, with a loop-hole window, within one of the flanking towers.
Carefully closing the heavy door, Kennedy held out his hands. ‘Fair cousin,’ he said, ‘this is bravely done of you.’
‘Will it save my sister?’ asked Malcolm, anxiously.
‘It should,’ said his kinsman; ‘but how can it be? Whatever is done, must be ere Walter Stewart returns.’
‘Tell me all! I know nothing—save that she was cruelly lured from St. Abbs.’
‘I know little more,’ said Kennedy. ‘It was on a false report of your death, and Walter had well-nigh obtained a forcible marriage; when her resistance and cries to Heaven daunted the monk who was to have performed the rite, so that he, in a sort, became her protector. When she was brought here, Walter swore he would bend her to his will; shut her up in the old keep, and kept her there, scantily fed, and a close prisoner, while he went forth on one of his forays. The Regent coming here meantime, found the poor maiden in her captivity, and freed her so far that she lives, to all appearance, as becomes his kinswoman; but the Duchess is cruelly strict with her, being resolved, as she says, to take down her pride.’
‘They must know that I live,’ said Malcolm.
‘They do; but Walter is none the less resolved not to be balked. Things came to a wild pass a few weeks syne. The Regent had never dared tell him how far matters had gone for bringing back the King, when one day Walter came in, clad for hawking; and, in his rudest manner, demanded the falcon that was wont to sit on his father’s wrist, and that had never been taken out by any other. The Regent refused to part with the bird, as he had oft done before; whereupon his son, in his fury, snatched her from his wrist, and wrung her head off before all our eyes; then turning fiercely on your poor sister, told her that “yon gled should be a token to her, of how they fared who withheld themselves from him.” Then rose the Duke, trembling within rage; “Ay, Wat,” said he, “ye hae been owermuch for me. We will soon have ane at home that will ken how to guide ye.” Walter looked at him insolently, and muttered, “I’ve heard of this before! They that wad have a master, may live under a master—but I’m not ane of them;” and then, turning upon Lady Lilias, he pointed to the dead hawk, and told her that, unless she yielded to him with a good grace, that bird showed her what she might expect, long ere the King or her brother were across the border.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘In Fife, striving to get a force together to hinder the King’s return. He’ll not do that; men are too weary of misrule to join him against King James; but he is like, any day, to come back with reivers enough to terrify his father, and get your sister into his hands—indeed, his mother is ready to give her up to him whenever he asks. He has sworn to have her now, were it merely to vex the King and you, and show that he is to be daunted neither by man, heaven, nor hell.’
‘And he may come?’
‘Any day or any night,’ said James. ‘Since he went I have striven, in vain, to devise some escape for your sister; but Heaven has surely sent you to hinder so foul a wrong! Yet, if you went to Glenuskie and raised your vassals—’
‘It would be loss of time,’ said Malcolm; ‘and this matter may not be put to the doubtful issue of a fray between my men and his villains. Out of this place must she go at once. But, alas! how win to the speech of her?’
‘That can I do,’ said Kennedy. ‘For a few brief moments, each day, have I spoken to her in the chapel. Nay, I had left this place before now, had she not prayed me to remain as her only friend.’
‘Heaven must requite you, Cousin James,’ said Malcolm, warmly. ‘I deserved not this of you.’
‘All that I desire,’ said Kennedy, ‘is to see this land of ours cease to be full of darkness and cruel habitations. Malcolm, you know the King better than I; may we not trust that he will come as a redresser of wrongs?’
‘Know you not his pledge to himself?—“I will make the key keep the castle, and the bracken bush keep the cow, though I live the life of a dog to bring it about!”’
‘God strengthen his hand,’ said Kennedy, with tears in his eyes; ‘and bring better days to our poor land. Cousin, has not your heart burnt within you, to be doing somewhat to bring these countrymen of ours to better mind?’
‘I have grieved,’ said Malcolm. ‘The sight has been the woe and horror of my whole life; and either it is worse now than when I went away, or I see it clearer.’
‘It is both,’ said Kennedy; ‘and, Malcolm, it is borne in on me that we, who have seen better things, have a heavy charge! The King may punish marauders, and enforce peace; but it will be but the rule of the strong hand, unless men’s hearts be moved! Our clergy—they bear the office of priests—but their fierceness and their ignorance would scarce be believed in France or England; and how should it be otherwise, with no schools at home save the abbeys—and the abbeys almost all fortresses held by fierce noblemen’s sons?’
Malcolm would much rather have discussed the means of rescuing his sister, but James Kennedy’s heart was full of a youth’s ardent plans for the re-awakening of religion in his country, chiefly through the improved education of the clergy, and it was not easy to bring his discourse to a close.
‘You—you were to wed a great Flemish heiress?’ he said. ‘You will do your part, Cousin, in the founding of a University—such as has changed ourselves so greatly.’
Malcolm smiled. ‘My only bride is learning,’ he said; ‘my other betrothal is but in name, for the safety of the lady.’
‘Then,’ cried Kennedy joyfully, ‘you will give yourself. Learning and culture turned to God’s service, for this poor country’s sake, in one of birth like you, may change her indeed.’
Was this the reading of Esclairmonde’s riddle? suddenly thought Malcolm. Was the true search for heavenly Light, then, to consist in holding up to his countrymen the lamp he was kindling for himself? Must true wisdom consist in treasuring knowledge, not for his own honour among learned men, or the delectation of his own mind, but to scatter it among these rude northern souls? Must the vision of learned research and scholarly calm vanish, as cloistral peace, and chivalrous love and glory, had vanished before? and was the lot of a hard-working secular priest that which called him?
CHAPTER XVIII: CLERK DAVIE
For Malcolm to speak with his sister was well-nigh an impossibility. Had he been detected, he would have been immediately treated as a spy, and the suspicion thus excited would have been a dangerous preparation for the King as well as for himself; nor was there any pretext for giving the wandering scholar an interview with her.
But harsh and strict as was the Duchess of Albany—a tall, raw-boned, red-haired woman, daughter of the fierce old Earl of Lennox—and resolved as she was to bend Lilias by persecution to accept her son, she could not debar a young gentleman of the royal kindred, like James Kennedy, from entering the apartment where the ladies of the family sat with their needles; and the Regent, half from pity, half from shame, had refused to permit Lilias Stewart’s being treated as a mere captive.
Thus Malcolm remained in Kennedy’s room in much anxiety, while his cousin went forth to do his best in his cause, and after some hours returned to him with the tidings that he had succeeded in letting Lily know that he was in the Castle. Standing over her while she bent over her embroidery, and thus concealing her trembling agitation, he had found it possible to whisper in her ears the tidings of her brother having come to save her, and of hearing her insist that Malcolm, ‘wee Malcolm, must run no peril, but that she would do and dare everything—nay, would prefer death itself to Walter Stewart.’
‘Have you any device in this matter?’ demanded James Kennedy, when he had thus spoken.
‘Have you your college gown here?’ inquired Malcolm.
‘I have, in yon kist,’ said Kennedy. ‘Would you disguise her therein? You and she are nearly of a height.’
‘Ay,’ said Malcolm. ‘The plot I thought on is this—the worst is that the risk rests with you.’
‘That is naught, less than naught,’ said Kennedy. ‘I had risked myself ten times over had I seen any hope for her in so doing.’
Malcolm then explained his plan, namely, that if Lilias could have Kennedy’s gown conveyed to her, she should array herself therein, and be conducted out of the castle by her cousin by one gate, he himself in secular garb going by another, and joining at some place of meeting, whence, as a pair of brothers, Malcolm and she might gain the English border.
James Kennedy considered, and then added that he could improve on the plan. He had long intended leaving Doune for his brother’s castle, but only tarried in case he could do anything for Lilias. He would at supper publicly announce to the Regent his departure for the next day, and also say that he had detained his fellow-scholar to go within him. Then arranging for Malcolm’s exit in a secular dress among his escort, as one of the many unobserved loungers, Lilias should go with him in very early morning in the bachelor’s gown, which he would place in a corner of a dark passage, where she could find it. Then if Malcolm and she turned aside from his escort, as the pursuit as soon as her evasion was discovered would be immediately directed on himself, they would have the more time for escape.
It was a complicated plan, but there was this recommendation, that Malcolm need not lose sight of his sister. Clerk as he was, young Kennedy could not ride without an escort, and among his followers he could place Malcolm. Accordingly at supper he announced his desire to leave Doune at dawn next morning, and was, as a matter of course, courteously pressed to remain. Malcolm in the meantime eluded observation as much as possible while watching his sister, who, in spite of all her efforts, was pale and red by turns, never durst glance towards him, and trembled whenever any one went near him.
The ladies at length swept out of the hall, and Robert and Alexander called for more wine for a rere-supper to drink to James’s good journey; but Kennedy tore himself from their hospitable violence, and again he and Malcolm were alone, spending a night of anxiety and consultation.
Morning came; Malcolm arrayed himself in a somewhat worn dress of Kennedy’s, with the belt and dirk he had carried under his scholar’s garb now without, and a steel cap that his cousin had procured for him on his head. With a parcel in his arms of Kennedy’s gear, he might pass for a servant sent from home to meet him; and so soon as this disguise was complete, Kennedy opened the door. On the turret stair stood a hooded black figure, that started as the door opened.
Malcolm’s heart might well seem to leap to his lips, but both brother and sister felt the tension of nerve that caution required too much to give way for a moment.
Kennedy whispered, ‘Your license, fair Cousin,’ and passed on with the free step of lordly birth, while a few paces behind the seeming scholar humbly followed, and Malcolm, putting on his soldier’s tread and the careless free-and-easy bearing he had affected before Meaux, brought up the rear with Master Kennedy’s mails.
As they anticipated, the household was not troubling itself to rise to see the priest off. Not that this made the coast clear, for the floor of the hall was cumbered with snoring sleepers in all sorts of attitudes—nay, at the upper table, the flushed, debauched, though young and handsome, faces of Robert and Alexander Stewart might have been detected among those who lay snoring among the relics of their last night’s revel.
The old steward was, however, up and alert, ready to offer the stirrup-cup, and the horses were waiting in the court; but what they had by no means expected or desired was that Duke Murdoch himself, in his long furred gown, came slowly across the hall to bid his young kinsman Kennedy farewell.
‘Speed you well, my lad,’ he said kindly. ‘I ask ye not to tarry in what ye must deem a graceless household;’ and he looked sadly across at his two sons, boys in age, but seniors in excess. ‘I would we had mair lads like you. I fear me a heavy reckoning is coming.’
‘You have ever been good lord to all, Sir,’ said Kennedy, affectionately, for he really loved and pitied the soft-hearted Duke.
‘Too good, maybe,’ said Murdoch. ‘What! the scholar goes with you?’ and he fixed a look on Lily’s face that brought the colour deep into it under her hood.
‘Yes, Sir,’ answered Kennedy, respectfully. ‘Here, you Tam,’ indicating Malcolm, ‘take him behind you on the sumpter-horse.’
‘Fare ye weel, gentle scholar,’ said Murdoch, taking the hand that Lily was far from offering. ‘May ye win to your journey’s end safe and sound; and remember,’ he added, holding the fingers tight, and speaking under the hood, ‘if ye have been hardly served, ’twas to make ye the second lady in Scotland. Take care of her—him, young laddie,’ he added, turning on Malcolm: ‘’tis best so; and mind’ (he spoke in the same wheedling tone of self-excuse), ‘if ye tell the tale down south, nae ill hath been dune till her, and where could she have been mair fitly than beneath her kinsman’s roof? I’d not let her go, but that young blude is hot and ill to guide.’
An answer would have been hard to find; and it was well that he did not look for any. Indeed, Malcolm could not have spoken without being heard by the seneschal, and therefore could only bow, take his seat on the baggage-horse, and then feel his sister mounting behind him in an attitude less unfamiliar on occasion even to the high-born ladies of the fifteenth century than to those of our day. Four years it was since he had felt her touch, four years since she had sat behind him as they followed the King to Coldingham! His heart swelled with thankfulness as he passed under the gateway, and the arms that clung round his waist clasped him fervently; but neither ventured on a word, amid Kennedy’s escort, and they rode on a couple of miles in the same silence. Then Kennedy, pausing, said, ‘There lies your way, Brother. Tam, you may show the scholar the way to the Gray Friars’ Grange, bear them greetings frae me, and halt till ye hear from me. Fare ye well.’
Lilias trusted her voice to say, ‘Blessings on ye, Sir, for all ye have done for me,’ but Malcolm thought it wiser in his character of retainer to respond only by a bow.
Of course they understood that the direction Kennedy gave was the very one they were not to take, but they followed it till a tall bush of gorse hid them from the escort; and then Malcolm, grasping his sister’s hand, plunged down among the rowans, ferns, and hazels, that covered the steep bank of the river, and so soon as a footing was gained under shelter of a tall rock, threw his arms round her, almost sobbing in an under-tone, ‘My Lily, my tittie!—safe at last! Oh, God be thanked! I knew her prayers would be heard! Oh, would that Patrick were here!’ Then, as her face changed and quivered ready to weep, he cried, ‘Eh, what! art still deeming him dead?’
‘How!’ she cried wildly. ‘He fell into the hands of your English, and—’
‘He fell into the hands of your King and mine,’ said Malcolm. ‘Yes, King James dragged him out of the burning house, and wrung his pardon out of King Harry. He came with me to St. Abbs to fetch you, Lily, and only went back because his knighthood would not serve in this quest like my clerkship.’
‘Patrick living, Patrick safe! Oh!’ she fell on her knees among the ferns, hid her face in her hands, and drew a long breath. ‘Malcolm, this is joy overmuch. The desolation of yesterday, the joy to-day!’
Malcolm, seeing her like one stifled by emotion, fell on his knees beside her, and whispered forth a thanksgiving. She rested with her head on his shoulder in content till he started up, saying in a lively manner, ‘Come, Lily, we must be on our way. A very bonnie young clerk you are, with your berry-brown locks cut so short round your face.’
Lilias blushed up to the short dark curls she had left herself. ‘Had I thought he lived, I could scarce have done it.’
‘What, not to get to him, silly maid? Here,’ as he shook out and donned the gown he had brought rolled up, ‘now am I a scholar too. Stay, you must take off this badge of the bachelor; you have only been in a monastery school, you know; you are my young brother—what shall we call you?’
‘Davie,’ softly suggested Lilias.
‘Ay, Davie then, that I’ve come home to fetch to share my Paris lear. You can be very shy and bashful, you know, and leave all the knapping of Latin and logic to me.’
‘If it is such as you did with Jamie Kennedy,’ said Lilias, ‘it will indeed be well. Oh, Malcolm, I sat and marvelled at ye—so gleg ye took him up. How could ye learn it? And ye are a brave warrior too in battles,’ she added, looking him over with a sister’s fond pride.
‘We have had no battle, no pitched field,’ said Malcolm ‘but I have seen war.’
‘So that ugly words can never be flung in your face again!’ cried Lilias. ‘Are you knighted, brother?’
‘No, but they say I have won my spurs. I’ll tell you all, Lily, as we walk. Only let me bestow this iron cap where some mavis may nestle in it. Ay, and the boots too, which scarce befit a clerk. There, your hand, Clerk Davie; we must make westward to-day, lest poor Duke Murdoch be forced to send to chase us. After that, for the Border and Patie.’
So brother and sister set forth on their wandering—and truly it was a happy journey. The weather favoured them, and their hearts were light. Lilias, delivered from terrible, hopeless captivity, her brother beside her, and now not a brother to be pitied and protected, but to protect her and be exulted in, trod the heather with an exquisite sense of joy and freedom that buoyed her up against all hardships; and Malcolm was at peace, as he had seldom been. His happiness was not exactly like his sister’s in her renewed liberty and restoration to love and joy, for he had known a wider range of life, and though really younger than Lily, his more complicated history could not but make him older in thought and mind. Another self-abnegation was beginning to rise upon him, as he travelled slowly southwards by stages suited to his sister’s powers, and by another track than that by which he had gone. On the moor, or by the burn side, there was peace and brightness; but wherever he met with man he found something to sadden him. Did they rest in a monastery, there was often irregularity, seldom devotion, always crass ignorance. The manse was often a scene of such dissolute life that Malcolm shunned to bring his sister into the sight of it; the peel tower was the dwelling of savagery; the farm homestead either rude and lawless or in constant terror; the black spaces on many a brae side showed where dwellings had been burned; more than once they passed skeletons depending from the trees or lying rotting by the way-side. And it was frightful to Malcolm, after his four years’ absence, to find how little Lilias shared his horror, taking quite naturally what to Alice Montagu would have seemed beyond the bounds of possibility, and would have set Esclairmonde’s soul on fire, while Lilias seemed to think it her brother’s amiable peculiarity to be shocked, or to long to set such things straight.
He felt the truth of James Kennedy’s words—that reformation could not be the sole work of the King, but that his hands must be strengthened by all the few who knew that a different state of things was possible, and that, above all, the clergy needed to be awakened into vigour and intelligence. Formerly, the miserable aspect of the country had merely terrified him, and driven him to strive to hide his head in a convent; but the strength and the sense of duty he had acquired had brought his heart to respond to Kennedy’s call to work.
Esclairmonde’s words wrought within him beyond her own ken or purpose in speaking them. He began to understand that to bury himself in an Italian university and dive into Aristotle’s sayings, to heap up his own memory with the stores of thought he loved, or to plunge into the mazes of mathematics, philosophy, and music, while his brethren in his own country were tearing one another to pieces for lack of any good influence to teach or show them better things, would be a storing of treasure for himself on earth, a pursuit of the light of knowledge indeed, but not a wooing of the light of Wisdom, the true Light of the World, as seen in Him who went about doing good. To complete his present course was, he knew, necessary. He had seen enough of really learned scholars to know the depths of his own ignorance, and to be aware that certain books must be read under guidance, and certain studies gone through, before his cultivation would be on a level with the standard of the best working clergy of the English Church—such as Chicheley, Waynflete, or the like. He would therefore remain at Oxford, he thought, long enough to take his Master of Arts degree, and then, though to his own perceptions only the one-eyed among the blind, he would make the real sacrifice of himself in the rude and cruel world of Scotland.
He knew that his king was well satisfied with Patrick, and also that a man of sound heart and prompt, hard hand was far fitter to rule as a secular lord than his own more fine-drawn mature could ever be; but as a priest, with the influence that his birth and the King’s friendship would give him, he already saw chances of raising the tone of the clergy, and thus improving the wild and lawless people.
A deep purpose of self-devotion was growing up in his soul, but without saddening him, only rendering him more energetic and cheerful than his sister had ever known him.
As they walked together over the long stretches of moor, many were Lily’s questions; and Malcolm beguiled the way with many a story of camp and court, told both for his own satisfaction in her sympathy, and with the desire to make the Scottish lassie see what was the life and what the thoughts of ladies of her own degree in other lands, so that the Lady of Glenuskie might be awake to somewhat of the high purpose of virtuous home government to which Alice of Salisbury had been trained.
As to the Flemish heiress, no representation would induce Lilias to love her. Reject Malcolm for a convent’s sake! It was unpardonable; and as to a bedeswoman, working uncloistered in the streets, Lily viewed that as neither the one thing nor the other, neither religious nor secular; and she was persuaded that a little exertion on the part of the brother, whom she viewed as a paladin, would overcome all coyness on the lady’s part.
Malcolm found it vain to try to show his sister his sense of his own deserts, and equally so to declare that if the maiden should so yield, she would indeed be the Demoiselle de Luxemburg to whom he was pledged, but not the Esclairmonde whom his better part adored. So he let the matter pass by, and both enjoyed their masquing in one another’s company as a holiday such as they could never have again.
They had no serious alarms; the pursuit must have been disconcerted, and the two young scholars were not worth the attention of freebooters. Their winsomeness of manner won them kindness wherever they harboured; and thus, after many days, without molestation they came to the walls of Berwick. And now, while Malcolm thought his difficulties at an end, a horror of bashfulness fell upon Lilias. She had been Clerk Davie merrily enough while there was no one to suspect her, but the transmutation into her proper self filled her with shame.
She hung back, and could be hardly dragged forward to the embattled gateway of the bridge by her brother—who, as the guards, jealously cautious even in this time of peace, called out to him to stand, showed his ring bearing the royal arms, and desired to speak within the captain of the garrison, who was commanding in the name of the Earl of Northumberland, Governor of Berwick and Warden of the Marches, and who had entertained him on his way north, and would have been warned by Patrick of his probable return in this guise.
Instead of the stalwart form of the veteran sub-governor, however, a quick step came hurrying to the gateway, and the light figure of a young knight stood before him, with outstretched hands, crying: ‘Welcome to the good town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, dear comrade!’ And he added in a lower tone: ‘So you have succeeded in your quest—if, as I trow, this fairest of clerks be your lady sister. May I—’
‘Hold!’ softly said Malcolm. ‘She is so shamefast that she cannot brook a word;’ and in fact Lilias had pulled her hood over her face, and shrunk behind him, at the first approach of the young gentleman.
‘We will to my mother,’ said Ralf, aloud. ‘She has always a soft corner in her heart for a young clerk or a wanderer.’
And so saying, without even looking at the disguised figure, he gave the pass-word, and holding Malcolm by the arm, led him, followed by Lilias, through the defences and into the court of the castle, then to a side-door, where, bounding up several steps at once of a stone stair, he opened a sort of anteroom door, and bade the two strangers wait there while he fetched his mother.
