University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Marmion.

So wildly had my imagination been excited by
the strange scenes I had beheld, so completely had
I acted under the impulses of sudden feeling, as
opposed to deliberate reflection, that many minutes
passed ere I recovered the full mastery of my
thoughts from the dreamy whirl into which they had
been plunged. A mile, or perhaps two, had already
vanished beneath the fiery speed to which almost
unconsciously I continued to goad my gallant
horse, yet no decided sense of my position had as
yet crossed my mind; I knew not why, or whither,
I was flying at so desperate a pace; I rode on,
like one drunk with wine, satisfied with the present

and careless of the future. The only feeling
which I remember to have entertained, was one of
tenderness for the pale creature in my arms; an
eagerness to protect her from the slightest harm,
to shield her tender frame from the concussions
which the high elastic bounds of the hot war-horse
could not fail to inflict on a being so exquisitely
delicate, and, according to every probability, so
tenderly nurtured. It was, perhaps, well for me,
at the time, that my mind was partially obscured;
it spared me, at least, worlds of anxiety and doubt;
and, by precipitating me headlong, as it were, into
action, caused me to act on the spur of the moment
with a decision, a readiness of heart and
hand, which I have ever found in my own case,
however it may be with others, more promptly
serviceable on sudden, and what might be deemed
startling, emergencies, than after hours of mature
deliberation. When called upon by the imminence
of present peril, I have ever found my thoughts to
suggest themselves with the speed of lightning;
or, rather, my actions have proceeded with a rapidity
that seemed independent of thought,—instinctive,
if you will. The danger has been
averted, and I have sat down, a thousand and a
thousand times, coolly to reflect whether my
utmost ingenuity could have suggested, had the
crisis been foreseen, any mode preferable to that
adopted on the instant; and invariably have I
found that the first impulse was correct. On the
other hand, when, aware of an approaching crisis,
I have matured plan after plan, I have determined
on one course of action, only to determine in the
next moment its utter inefficiency; and, when the
time of trial has arrived, it has found me, if not
absolutely hesitating or unprovided, less prompt at
least, and far less confident of victory. It is a
strange constitution of mind—yet in every minute
circumstance of my life have I been able to trace
its prevalence. When a boy, following the winged
game in my ancestral woods, the bird which sprang
from the brake, unmarshalled save by the whirring
of its own rapid motion, invariably fell before the
momentary precision of my instinctive aim; while
that which fluttered slowly up, from beneath the
nostrils of the sagacious dog that had betrayed its
lair, escaped unharmed from a weapon levelled in
the irresolution of anxiety. So, in after days,
when, in the stormy debates of the Lower House, I
lent my voice to defeat that which I have since
learned to regard as the better cause, I invariably
found, when I had passed days and nights in
study,—when I had arranged my thoughts, marshalled
my very words, and sharpened, as it were,
the sword of my spirit for the keen encounter,—
that the ideas so prepared deserted me, and the
periods, already rounded for the occasion, fell
unimpressively from a faltering tongue. On the
other hand, I have repeatedly arisen from my
seat unprepared, roused by sudden indignation to
confute some calumny, to level some pile of
sophistry to the earth; and never yet have words
been wanting to express the rapid flow of ideas,
which thronged, as it were, with the stormy speed
of a torrent from my excited brain.

I have dwelt, perhaps, too long on these peculiarities
of my own mental constitution; but it
seems to me that those who have thus far followed
the course of my narration, will not be wholly unwilling
to learn something of that character, which,
of course, materially influenced the events that
occurred in the progress of this wild adventure.

It is probable—probable, did I say?—it is certain,
that had I been of the cooler and more reflective
disposition, which is far more common to
men than that which I have endeavoured to portray
as my own, I should immediately have perceived
the difficulty, not to say the impossibility,
of bestowing to any advantage the unfortunate
girl, with whom I had so rashly, as some might
deem it, encumbered myself. Myself a soldier of

fortune, in a foreign land, unknown, nameless, and
fortuneless, travelling on a mission of military service
through a district utterly strange to me, and
in the performance of duties entirely incompatible
with delay, and which must remove me yet farther
from the spot whereon the present occurrences
were proceeding,—what should I, what could I,
what ought I to do with a tender and high-born
female? for such—from those distinctive marks of
natural aristocracy which I was fond to fancy I
could trace in the clear high brow, the silken
tresses, the full blue veins, the grace and symmetry
of her whole form—I at once conjectured her to
be. To protect her from immediate peril would
be, in itself, an arduous task; to bear her with me,
an impossibility; to procure for her a protector in
a district which I knew not, and in which I was
myself unknown, would have defied the ingenuity
of the most wily schemer; and to linger with her
myself, a crime, a breach of duty and of honour,
from which I should have shrunk with a dread
even greater than that of death.

It was, therefore, as I have already hinted, fortunate
both for me and for my hapless protégée,
that I was so completely bewildered by what I
had witnessed, and so completely absorbed in the
business of the moment—in guiding my noble

Bayard, and in supporting my precious burden
clear of the peaked bow of my steel-bound demipique—that
I had no time left for reflection. I
trust, indeed, and confidently believe, that under
no possible combination of circumstances could I
have soiled that character of a cavalier and man
of honour, which it has been the object of a life
to preserve untarnished, by the deliberate desertion,
in a situation so horrible, of an unprotected
female.

A mile, and perhaps two, as I have before mentioned,
had already been passed, without my
experiencing any direct sensation, except that of
immediate anxiety for my lovely charge. The
character of the country was unchanged; the
same wide tracts of stunted woodland overspreading
a barren and level soil, with the road stretching
interminably onwards in dull and solitary
sameness. Not a house—not a sign of man or
beast was to be discovered.

Suddenly I was recalled to myself. At the
descent of a gentle slope a sluggish brook crept
with an almost imperceptible current over a muddy
bottom across the unfrequented road, and, running
parallel to the course of the streamlet, a pathway
from the forest intersected the highway. I had
already checked my horse, and was scrutinizing,

with a practised eye, the nature of the narrow ford
which lay before me,—when; with a loud shout,
several men—some on foot, some mounted, but all
well-armed, and dressed in liveries similar to those
of the slaughtered servant I had observed beside
the carriage—rushed impetuously from the left-hand
pathway. Before I had become well aware
of their intent, the grasp of the foremost was on
my bridle-rein.

“'Tis he! Thank God! Forward, my comrades!”—

“Down with the murderer!”--

“No quarter to the ruffian!”—burst simultaneously
from the throats of my fierce assailants.
Fire-arms were levelled, swords were brandished,
and, for an instant, it seemed as if my advance
were cut off. It was but for an instant; ere a
second ruffian could come to the aid of his fellow,
my trusty pistol was discharged within three
inches of his ear. I felt by the slackening of the
rein, which a moment before had been as tight as
a bowstring, that the bullet had done its bidding.
Without casting a glance on the senseless clay,
which had fallen with a sullen splash into the
water, I hurled the now useless weapon full in the
face of another of the footmen, and, striking my
brave charger with the spur, lifted him hard and

steadily with the heavy curb. He reared almost
erect, plunged forward with a short curvet, dashing
his fore-feet into the muddy margin of the
stream, and, springing from thence with a mighty
effort, cleared the dangerous channel, and darted
away with a speed hardly inferior to that of the
hunted deer. Loud and sharp rang the volleyed
reports of a dozen pieces on our track; the bullets
whistled round us; a rustle as of heavy wings
above me, and my sight was darkened; while, at
the same instant, a swerve from his direct course,
and his quickened gallop, told me that my noble
animal was wounded; the tall plume, with which
the fashion of the day had decked my head, was
severed, and had fallen over my eyes. Hastily I
tore the shattered remnant from my hat; and,
eager to escape beyond the range of musketry,
rose in my stirrups and spurred fiercely onward.
In another moment, the clatter of hoofs behind me
told that I was pursued: for this I little cared; for
well I knew that not a private gentleman, from
Calais to the bright shores of the Mediterranean,
could match, with a chance of success, the pride
of his stables against the horse I backed. With a
grim smile, I turned my head to mark the progress
of the chase. A sharp, quick stroke across my
forehead,—the singing of the leaden missiles, and
a second volley! This time I had not myself escaped
unscathed. Large gouts of blood trickled
down to my beard from a long gash athwart my
brows—you may see the furrow of the scar to
this day—but the hurt was superficial; the third
part of an inch closer, and my career had been
cut short for ever. The object of my glance was
however gained; in the point of time, it was no
more, before the ball had grazed me, I had taken
in, as it were intuitively, all that was passing in
the rear. Three of the horsemen had already
crossed the stream, two mounted on the large and
cumbrous horses of Flanders,—which, since the
complete panoply of the men-at-arms had fallen
into disuse, were now considered fitter for draught
than for the saddle—from these, as they thundered
and already panted along the causeway, it was
evident there was but little to be feared; but the
third, a cavalier of some pretension in his dress,
backed an Andalusian jennet of no mean points or
common speed, and he, to my astonishment, was
hard upon my heels. Struggling through the miry
ford were several other riders, mounted, for the
most part, on the active, wiry horses of Brittany,
which, from experience, I well knew it might be
difficult to throw far behind in a chase, as this
seemed like to prove, of long continuance. I also
perceived, grouped on the other bank, the fellows
from whose musketry I had already suffered, and
from whom I doubted not but I should meet yet
further interruption. Another report! but this
time the direction must have been bad, or the distance—though
I should not have imagined it so—
too great, for not only none of their bullets took
effect, but I did not hear the well-known hurtling
of their passage through the air.

Nothing now remained but to shake off, as soon
as possible, the pursuit of the horsemen, without
running the risk of bringing my own flight to a
speedy conclusion, by blowing my overloaded
charger. Again I turned in my saddle, and gazed
steadily to the rear. The cavalier, who pressed
most closely on my traces, was scarcely three
lances' length from my croup; the others straggled
on, at various distances, spurring, shouting,
and swearing at their jaded brutes, and occasionally,
as they pulled up in despair, discharging
their pistols, more to the peril of their own comrades
than of him for whom their contents were
intended. The leading horseman held his naked
rapier in his hand as he bent over his courser's
neck, in the full confidence, as it seemed, of overtaking
his victims in a few bounds more or less of
his mettled beast. It was, perhaps, fortunate for

us, that he either carried no pistols in his holsters,
or had already discharged them; for, at the
close distance which separated us, had he halted
for a second, he could hardly have failed of disabling
me, or bringing down my horse. Husbanding
his powers, then, with the utmost care
that was consistent with haste holding him at the
same time well in hand—for I was fully conscious
that the slightest stumble must put us at once in
the power of our inveterate enemies—I kept my
brave bay at three-quarters speed. Hill and hollow
vanished before us; stunted woodland and
marshy glade glanced by us, as though they were
in motion; the wind had risen, and, as it blew
keen and cold over the bleak country in advance,
freshened the courage of the gallant creature,
shook abroad his long thin mane, already clogged
with sweat, and scattered the foam-flakes from his
nostrils like the commencement of a snow-storm,
while its chilly breath curdled the blood that had
flowed over my features in black and stiffened
lines. Our race had at this time lasted above an
hour; and, to my infinite annoyance, I began to
feel that my horse's gait, if not actually less fleet,
was far less springy than its wont. It might be
that the double burden which he was bearing had
begun to tell; the rather, as, during my journey
through that wild and steril region, his provender
had not only been deficient in quantity but inferior
in quality; or it might be the blood, which
had flowed abundantly from a deep though
not dangerous wound in his quarters, had impaired
his strength. Though not as yet actually
failing, I began to be aware that a few miles farther
would exhaust his powers of flight. Our pursuers,
though scattered, still held their own. I began to
look anxiously about for some place of refuge, or
at least of temporary concealment; but, as fortune
would have it, even the scanty and imperfect
shelter that might have been afforded by the coppices
through which our route had lain so long,
was now beyond our reach. The forests were
already miles in our rear; the causeway, bordered
on either hand, as I have before described it, by
the eternal poplar, stretched, as straight as the
bird flies, over an arable country, now a vast expanse
of bare and frost-bound soil, limited, indeed,
on the distant horizon by a fringe of wood, but
without glen or dingle, cottage or castle, for miles
and miles, that could yield a chance of shelter.
Before us lay a long bleak ascent, the brow of
which, standing in dim relief against the uncertain
sky, bounded the prospect. At every stroke I felt
my courser's vigour leaving him; at every stroke,
I too well knew, our foes were nearing us. The
clang of their hard gallop, those hateful echoes,
which for the last hour had been lost in the distance,
again reached my ears. I dared not—by
the immortal light of heaven I dared not—look
behind me. On—on—the brow of the hill was
wellnigh gained,—the sound of a convent-bell
came faintly up the wind,—hope, angelic hope,
swept in a flood of tenderness over my soul. I
felt a tear-drop—it might have been the chilly blast
that drew it from its locked recesses—upon my
cheek. My charge, my adored, though yet unconscious
charge, might still be rescued. I
breathed a prayer,—I strained my eyeballs almost
from their sockets, as my head rose above the
summit. The sounds came clearer, swelling on
the breeze, and with them, in the lull of the gale,
I could distinguish the harmony of choral voices,
and the deep diapason of the organ. Another
stride, and the holy habitation lay before me. At
the distance of a short half-league, its gray walls
and slated belfry glinted back the rays of the faint
January sunshine, which slept in duller tints
upon the wide meadows and clustering sycamores
that spread their peaceful shades around the house
of God.

The first glance was rapture—rapture such as

perhaps I never felt before or since—the second
was despair. It was, as I have said, but a short
half-league; the road sloped smoothly down a
gentle hill, fair, broad, and easy as that which
churchmen tell us leads to the abyss of hell; and
scarcely could the horror of the wretched sinner,
trembling on the pinnacle from which he first discovers
the home to which his flowery path conducts
him, exceed the blighting chill which numbed
my very life-blood, when I beheld, at the foot of
that gentle hill—placed there to bar me from my
paradise—a broad and bridgeless river. Dark,
dull, and turbid, it flowed along through deep and
rugged banks; the best carbine mortal workman
ever wrought would have sped no certain death
across those sullen waters. A bridge, it seemed,
had lately spanned it; for to either bank the loosened
joists of the abutments yet partially adhered,
though, as the waters sapped their foundations, I
could see the white spray leap into air, and hear
the heavy roar, as one by one they toppled into
the current that had swept their frailer comrades
before them to the ocean. In despair, I checked
my horse; I stood still, rooted, as it were, to the
ground in horror; east and west I gazed over the
barren country for aid, but aid was none. I set
my teeth, loosened my rapier in its scabbard, and
cocked my remaining pistol. Already I had half-wheeled
my charger round, determined to remain,
dead or alive, the master of the ground on which
I stood; but, at the very moment when I was on
the point of rushing to the fray, my eye fell on the
sweet pale features of her, who lay in my arms
as calmly and as still as though the grave had
already claimed her for its own. Strangely had
her state of insensibility been protracted, although,
in the wild excitement of my spirits, its length had
passed unnoticed. During the whole term of that
long and rapid flight, she had rested, senseless and
motionless, on my arm. Not a quiver of a limb,
not a flutter of her breath, had announced a return
of the suspended animation. Now, whether it
was that the sudden cessation of our fleet motion
had broken the trance, as the quick stopping of a
carriage will oftentimes arouse a sleeper, or whether
it was the result of a more evident interposition
of Providence, I know not; but those deeply-curtained
lids arose, and, ere they closed again,
displayed a pair of eyes which, though their bright
intelligence was partially obscured, spoke volumes,
as I fancied, of languid tenderness. A shudder
ran through her limbs, her lips parted, and unconsciously
she murmured, in tones of the most
silvery music,—

“Oh save me—for the love of God—rescue the
wretched Isabel!”

That which has occupied minutes in the relation,
passed in the space of a single second. “If I
should fall,”—the thought flashed upon me like a
meteor—“what will be the fate of her? and if I
conquer, what will it profit us?” The tension of
my nerves relaxed; the feelings of the gladiator
passed; my triumphant pursuer had already raised
the shout of triumph, when I skirred away, as it
were, from his very clutches, and, scarcely certain
of my own ulterior purpose, dashed at the top of
my horse's speed, somewhat recruited even by
that momentary pause, down the brief descent.

A dozen bounds, as it appeared to my excited
fancy, brought us within a stone's throw of the
brink; and, if the river had seemed from a distance
dark and dangerous, a nearer approach
revealed a thousand terrors, which might well
have appalled a stouter heart than mine, had I not
been buoyed up by the unnatural phrensy—for
such I may almost call it—of the moment. Again
I faltered!—not for myself, but for the angel in my
arms. Hardly knowing whether she were capable
of comprehending my words, I whispered, in the
softest tones my agitation would permit—“Dare

you,” I said, “dare you, sweet lady, at imminent
peril of your life, brave yon swollen stream? 'Tis
but a single chance of safety, a thousand of destruction!
Yet must we brave it, or they have
you. Command me; I am yours—yours to the
death!”

“I dare!” she spoke calmly, and without the
slightest tremour of voice or form; “I dare!—
better a thousand times to die! But you—”

I tarried not to mark her concluding words. I
saw at a glance that the banks of the wintry torrent
were lined by a broad margin of ice, although
the force of the stream had prevented its formation
elsewhere. This we must clear, or perish. I
loosed the buckle of my broad buff belt, passed it
around her slender waist, and secured it firmly to
my own. “Cling to my collar with your hands,”
I cried, in accents far more cheerful than the bodings
of my heart; “but, as you value life, leave
my arms free. God aid us, or we perish!”

Rowel-deep I plunged my spurs into the sides
of the brave beast that never failed his rider, and
nobly did he answer them; brave as a lion, with
extended nostril and unblenching eye, he charged
the river. The bank was sheer and broken, an
abrupt descent of full ten feet,—and well for us it

was so. Without a pause, he leaped! Deep—
deep we plunged into the wheeling waters, that
closed above our heads; but as suddenly did we
rise to the surface, clear of the treacherous ice,
dripping and shivering, but as yet unharmed.

Before taking this fearful step, I had marked,
about a quarter of a mile below, a spot on the opposing
shore, at which the soil was gravelly and
shelving while the rippling of the waters at its
base denoted a hard and shallow bottom. Had I
been alone, my safety was now certain. Confident
of my own powers, and of the qualities of my
horse—whose action in the water was nearly as
familiar to me, if not so often proved, as were his
paces on the good greensward—I should have
cared but little for even a longer swim. It was
not, however, to be denied, that the season was
fearfully against us. Large blocks of floating ice,
which had probably destroyed the bridge, came
crashing down the tide, and it required all the skill
that I could command to steer my course among
them. And then the cold—the cutting, agonizing
cold—I felt my own case-hardened muscles shiver,
and my teeth jar in my head, with the excessive
chill; yet, Heaven is my witness, I thought not of
myself,—unless it were with scorn, that I should
flinch so much as even to feel the elements, which

that heroic girl so nobly battled with, so manfully
overcame. Never, in all my long and turbulent
career, never have I witnessed human intrepidity
that could compare with the serene holy fortitude
with which she made her agony subservient to her
will. Her clear bright eye never wavered; her
cheek paled, indeed, but trembled not; she would
not even permit—so perfect was the mastery of
mind over matter—she would not even permit her
limbs to shiver, lest they should interfere with
my control over the swimming charger. After
running a dozen times, as I thought, upon certain
destruction, and a dozen times almost miraculously
escaping—for, encumbered by his unwonted burden,
and overdone by his previous exertion, Bayard
swam not with his accustomed vigour, but floundered
heavily, so that it needed all the exertions
my benumbed limbs could muster, to hinder him
from turning tail to the current, and floating head
foremost to perdition—we reached the landing-place.
The struggle was severe, but it was successful.
We landed—we were saved! My first
thought was of gratitude to my God, and my eyes
glanced upward to his holy heavens,—my second
was of my love. I looked on her—but she had
fainted. The peril she had endured and conquered!
The revulsion of ecstasy had prevailed. A short
gallop placed us at the convent-gates; my course
of action had been decided ere I reached the portal,
and was followed up on the instant. Deception it
was; but if deception may ever be forgiven,
surely, surely the preservation of an angel, such
as she I had rescued, might palliate, might justify
the offence. I bore a parchment,—a military commission
from the dreaded cardinal who swayed
the destinies of France. It had been darkly
framed, that, in case of its falling into other hands
than those for which it was intended, it might neither
criminate the bearer nor profit the gainers.
Its object being to confer on me the chief command
of a large body of troops, at quarters in a section
of the country almost surrounded by open or secret
enemies, it ran simply thus:—

Signed, “Mazarin.”

What would be the final consequences of my
misapplication of this powerful missive I knew
not, and I recked yet less. But I did know that I
had passed the most disaffected districts, and that
here it would meet implicit obedience. Nor was
I mistaken. Had I been the sovereign himself, I

could not have been greeted with more prompt
and affectionate loyalty. But for this I cared not.
I had learned from the porter, that for many
leagues there was not another bridge across the
turbulent Marne. I was assured by the chirurgeon
that Isabel, though feeble and exhausted, was
in perfect safety; and had a thousand hardships
borne me down—a thousand perils threatened—I
should have been—as I then was—supremely
happy.