 | CHAPTER II. The brothers : |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
His back to earth, his face to heaven,
Fall'n Hassan lies—his unclosed eye
Yet lowering on his enemy,
As if the hour that sealed his fate
Surviving left his quenchless hate;
And o'er him bends that foe, with brow
As dark as his that bled below.”
The Giaour.
The morning lacked a full hour of the time
when the cold sun of January should pour its faint
rays, as if in mockery, over the chilled and cheerless
world, which at that season of the year they
can neither fertilize nor beautify. A thick raw
mist was drawn like a curtain over the universal
face of nature; the skies looked blank and dismal;
there was not a cloud of darker hue, not a speck
of light, however pale, to relieve the solid wall of
dull gray fog, which limited the view to a dozen
feet around me. The air was piercingly cold,
though perfectly breezeless; and it froze so keenly
that the sharp ringing sound of my horse's feet on
while the moisture of the atmosphere hung
in wreaths of hoary rime, not only on my cloak
and charger's mane, but on my eyebrows, and on
the floating locks which, at the period I speak of,
were cultivated with peculiar care as the distinctive
marks of gentle blood. Indeed, so bitter
was the morning, and so dreary the prospect that
lay before me, that I almost blamed myself for
having quitted the cabin in which I had passed the
preceding night, although the motives for my
expedition were in the highest degree pressing and
important. What those motives were,—employed
as I now am in the relation of an event which,
bearing in no single point upon any portion of my
past time, produced effects the most striking on
my after-life,—I am not at present inclined to
relate; nor is it probable that my readers would
find much either of profit or of pleasure in the
perusal of occurrences so intimately connected
with facts, which have already become history, as
to baffle all attempts at unravelling them from the
skein in which their humble thread is blended.
Suffice it to say, I am an Englishman; by birth
noble, and by education, association, or prejudice
if you will, a cavalier. Yes!—with my eyes fully
doctrines, whether of church or state, which had
filled the green homes of my native land with
misery and with blood,—perfectly conscious of the
inability of the king to be a governor of freeborn
men,—I had yet drawn my sword in every skirmish
from the first unfolding of the banners of rebellion
to the final triumph of the commonwealth on the
scaffold of Whitehall. An ardent adorer of freedom
in the abstract, I had lent all the energies of
my mind, all the powers of my arm, to establish
a tyranny which, at a later period of my life, I
should probably with equal zeal have striven to
overthrow. Dazzled by the influences of those
splendid associations, by that almost religious
veneration for ancient institutions, merely because
they are ancient, and by that false glare of nobility,
of accomplishment, and of chivalrous honour, which
served to conceal the injustice of the royal cause
behind a halo no less delusive than it was brilliant,
I had surrendered my mind to the romantic rather
than to the rational. The cry of patriotism was
no less alive in the mouths of one than of the other
party; and if liberty were the magic sound which
swelled the chorus of the victors, there were still
many among the vanquished to whom the shout
well.” Thus was it then with me; I had fared
hardly, fought hardly, and gained small reward
save hard blows. I had not, it is true, served
through the desperate fights of Naseby and Long
Marston without acquiring some reputation, which,
if it were not so bright as that of Capel, Rupert,
or Goring, was at the least sufficient to obtain for
me the appellation of an arch-malignant, and a fair
proportion of the enmity of that singular being
who, assuredly, at some future day, when the
clouds of party prejudice, of envy, and of detraction
shall have been dispersed, will be esteemed
the greatest man that ever raised himself to a
throne. Still, as the party to which I had attached
myself had sunk, as it would seem, for many a
year, it would, perhaps, have been better for
me to possess no character whatever for bravery
or talent, than to be notorious as one of
the most constant, if not of the most distinguished,
adherents of the fallen dynasty. When
all was over, and it was evident to men that the
star of Cromwell was in the ascendant, and that of
the Stuarts obscured, perhaps, for ever,—when my
master had expiated his crooked counsels with his
blood, and his son had preserved himself from a
so situated, that I had but the choice of dying to
no purpose for a lost cause, or of leaving the land
of my ancestors till times should prove more favourable.
To be brief, I made good my escape
to France; and ere long, in default of better occupation,
I found myself again in arms, under the
direction and patronage of no less a man than the
celebrated Mazarin, in whose service I was acting
when I encountered the adventures which it is
now my purpose to recite.
It was in vain that I endeavoured to banish my
recollection of the pinching cold, by indulging in
bright reveries of a glorious and happy future; it
was in vain that I strove to animate my flagging
spirits by anticipating the stirring scenes in which
I expected ere long to be engaged, or by picturing
to myself the manner in which it would become
me to act in this or that emergency; it was
in vain that I whistled or hummed some bacchanal
or martial tune;—the dulness of the time oppressed
me; my mind had assimilated itself, as it
were, to the colouring of surrounding objects, and
I felt as miserable as though I were about to ascend
that scaffold, which had terminated the carrer
of so many of my brave companions. Yet it could
gloom over a spirit naturally buoyant and excitable;—many
a day had I mounted guard in back
and breast-piece, when the frost was so keen that
it would have been scarcely less painful to grasp
the barrel of my musketoon with ungloved hand
than to touch a bar fresh glowing from the furnace;—many
a day had I ridden from dawn to
dusk in soaking rain, and after grooming my jaded
horse, though chill and famished, jested and laughed
as merrily as the most jovial ruffler of a court.
But now it seemed as if there were a vast black
shadow covering, as with a mighty wing, the
whole horizon of my mind. I felt as though I
were abandoned by the world, surrendered to sure
destruction, devoted, doomed,—yet, at the same
time, I had no care, no anxiety, no excitement. I,
who in times of peril have felt the fiery blood
dancing through my veins with the eagerness, the
rapture of the strife,—I, the enthusiastic, reckless
soldier, should have entered the fray, had a cause for
fray occurred, in dogged, sullen, calm desperation.
Thus had I ridden onward for some miles,
when the gradual brightening of the atmosphere,
not in any one quarter of the heavens, but all over
the firmament, gave token, not that the fog was
about to melt away, but that the hours of night
plain, without an ascent to scale, or a valley to
descend, for miles on miles; the highway stretched,
as it were, into interminable distance, bounded on
either side by rows of that to me most dismal and
monotonous of trees—the poplar. The misty state
of the morning cut off all view beyond these limits;
but it was evident that, had the eye been at liberty
to roam over the landscape, there would have been
little either of variety or beauty in the view. I
had already passed through several extensive tracts
of woodland, which bore, however, no resemblance
to the lovely woods of my own England, with their
bosky dells and open glades, their gnarled oaks and
silvery birches, gleaming out from the dark hollies
and waving fern; in these forests of France, all is
monotonous, tame, and regular. A long straight
vista, sweeping right onward through ranks of
trees, undistinguished by their individual magnitude,
and unbroken by dewy lawn or brooklet,—
an occasional carrèfour, or point of union to several
avenues, each as perfect in resemblance to the
other as Will Shakspeare's kings of Banquo, with
a broken cross or defaced guide-post in the centre,
presenting a picture of desolation and dreary sameness,
which I am at a loss for words to describe,
composed the eternal scene. I had ridden thus,
crossed my eyes, not a human dwelling had I
passed,—even the rude huts of the charcoal
burners, which are in general to be met with at
brief intervals in the taillis, which constitute the
greater proportion of the French woodlands, were
wanting. Nay, more, not a deer or rabbit had
hurried athwart my path, not a chirrup had I
heard from bird or insect. It seemed as if I were
passing through a country buried in profound midnight
slumber; the constant clack of my charger's
hoofs on the frozen road, waking the echoes as we
passed along, had grown so wearisome to my ear,
that I should have welcomed a thunder-clap for
its variety.
Suddenly my horse pricked up his ears, and
though I could hear no sound, whinnied repeatedly,
and at length, quickening his pace, gave
vent to his impatience in long shrill neighings.
Once or twice, it is true, I fancied that an answering
neigh was borne to my ears from the remote
distance; but if it were so, the sounds were so faint
that they might have passed for an echo. Nevertheless,
though little confident in the truth of what
I had heard or imagined, I suffered Bayard to continue
the more rapid trot into which he had
struck at the time of his first uneasiness. After
of a shot came down the road, and ere I
could strike my spurs into the horse's side, another
and another, followed, or rather accompanied, by
the most fearful screams I ever remember to have
heard. They were not thee ries of terror, nor
of pain, but of the most wild and horror-stricken
phrensy. Peal upon peal, volume upon volume,
they rang through my brain, till my blood positively
curdled in my veins, and I felt the cold
creeping over my head with a sensation as though
every hair were standing erect, “like quills upon
the fretful porcupine.” The terror which came
upon me—for terror it was—was not of the body,
but of the soul. Not a second, nor the hundredth
part of a second, did I pause;—my rapier loosened
in its scabbard, its hilt brought forward in readiness
for my grasp, a long pistol in my right hand,
and my reins gathered firmly in my left, I dashed
along the causeway at a pace which must in a few
minutes have brought me up to any thing not
winged; for out of hundreds that I have backed,
never did I bestride a beast to match in speed, or
blood, or bottom, with that brave horse.
Notwithstanding the rate, however, at which I
dashed along the forest road, such was the unusual
distance at which the sounds had reached my
atmosphere, no less than to the almost unnatural
silence of the country,—that more minutes had
elapsed, than I had counted upon seconds, before I
reached the scene of the affray.
The spectacle that met my eyes—the mist
having yielded in a considerable degree to the increasing
power of the sunlight—was, perhaps,
even more singular than terrible, although its
horrors were sufficient to have struck a chill to
the heart of one less used than I had been to scenes
of rapine and of bloodshed.
A travelling-carriage, one of the huge and cumbrous
vehicles of the age, lay in the centre of the
carrèfour, evidently overset by the struggles of
the affrighted brutes, one of which was stretched
out motionless,—unless the fitful quivering of his
limbs, fast draining of their life-blood, might be
termed motion,—while the others kicked, flung,
and screamed in all the wild confusion of vice and
terror. A little way in the rear of the carriage
lay the driver, slain by the passage of a bullet,
which had shattered his head almost to atoms with
its ghastly wound. His death must have been instantaneous;
but had it not been so, the ponderous
wheels, both of which had passed over his body from
hip to shoulder severing it almost in sunder, would
giant's trunk. The door of the carriage, forced
from within, stood open, and a dark-coloured fluid
trickling through the aperture, proved that even
more of horror had been wrought than met the
eye. It must not be supposed that all which I
have here endeavoured to portray, met my eyes
in the fearful excitement of that first moment.
My quick glance fell upon two men engaged in
mortal conflict. Many a time, before and since,
have I witnessed the strife of men in every different
aspect; on the tented field, “i' the imminent
deadly breach,” in single duel, or in confused
mêleé; but never—never did I see such deadly
hate glare from the eyes of human beings,—such
desperate contempt of life—such fierce determination
to kill,—as manifested themselves in every
look, in every motion, of those two combatants. I
had leisure enough to mark them well; for my
horse, having almost trampled on the body of the
slaughtered servant, swerved so wildly from the
carcass,—though he had borne me without a start
or stumble over scores, ay, hundreds, in many a
pitched field,—and strove so fiercely against the
spur and rein, as I endeavoured again to bring
him up, that wellnigh a minute had elapsed ere I
could reach the spot. They were both in the
and, even before I could distinguish their features,
I had been powerfully impressed by the striking
similarity of their forms and general appearance.
One seemed perhaps some six years older than
the other; but neither did his activity seem so far
impaired, or his strength increased, by the difference,
as to render him an unequal match for his
antagonist. At a glance I perceived that they
were gentlemen, and that too of no ordinary rank or
station; not by their dresses, indeed, for it seemed
that—whether for purposes of disguise, or for some
other motive—their habits were below, rather than
above, their situation in life; but by the contour
of their heads, the flowing and soft hair that floated
down their necks, the smallness of their hands, and
above all the general grace and dignity of person,
which are as certain tokens of nobility in man as
are the clean limbs, flashing eye, expanded nostril,
and full vein signs of blood in the—I had well-nigh
said—more noble animal which man so frequently
debases to be the minister of his crimes,
the instrument of his passions.
There they stood, hand to hand, and foot to foot,
glaring in each other's faces with an expression of
fiendish malignity,—stamping, lunging, springing
to and fro, their long bright rapiers flashing at
whether he lived or died himself, so he should slay
before he fell. Darting from my horse, I rushed
towards them blade in hand with the intent of
mastering their weapons; but such was the rapidity
and fury of their fencing, that, as I perceived
at once, there was more probability of interference
on my part accelerating than preventing
a fatal result. With two swordsmen nearly
equal, and such it was manifest were these, the
risk is so great of disconcerting the guard of one,
without materially deranging the thrust of the
other, that, after a moment's reflection, I judged it
wiser to attempt no interruption of their deadly
pastime, until weariness or want of breath should
render my object more easily attainable. Nor did
I much doubt but that this would briefly be the
case; for more perfect masters of the fence never
crossed blades than those whom I then, for the
first time, beheld. I stood beside them, with my
rapier ready at a glance's warning to interpose,
adjuring them from time to time to cease, if it
were only to explain the cause of their encounter;
but they heeded me no more than did the leafless
trunks which stood around them in the glittering
garb of winter. Indeed, I doubt whether either of
the two was conscious of my presence. Once I
to learn the meaning of this fearful sight; but, save
the murdered groom and a confused heap within
the vehicle, which scarcely showed the outlines of
a human form, not a creature was in sight. Burning,
as in truth I was, to explore the secrets of that
charnel-carriage, I could not tear myself away
from the wild interest of the strife before me;
the rather that, from a vague and undefinable
likeness in the features of that pair, so desperately
pitted together, I could not but fancy some dread
domestic tragedy to be in process. The younger,
indeed, of the combatants, was blue-eyed and fair
complexioned; while his floating love-locks might
have been easily mistaken for the golden ringlets
of a girl. The elder was swarthy-skinned, black-eyed,
and raven-haired; yet there was a resemblance
in the massive breadth of the foreheads, in
the curl of the lips, in the flash of the eyes, which
at one moment amounted to conviction of their
kindred blood, while at the next instant it seemed
but a vague and foolish fancy. The swords of
both were already dimmed with blood, but not
enough had flowed to impede their motions, or to
check their animosity. Their wounds had been
felt, but, as the spur by the mettled horse, to urge
them to renewed exertion. Their breathings came
frothed with the violence of their struggles—their
thrusts were looser and more wild, their parries
less deliberate. The moment had arrived when I
might hope for success in parting them; my foot
was already between them—my blade had all but
crossed their rapiers,—when the younger, stumbling
in a furious lunge, received the weapon of
the other in the muscles of his shoulder; the point
came out behind his back; but ere his adversary
could disengage it to repeat the blow, he had
grasped it by the net-work of the guard, and running
up it, like a wounded boar, drove his own
sword hilt-deep into the bosom of his foe. Quick
as lightning I sprang back. I perceived it was
too late. I might have given an undue advantage
to the one; I could not rescue either. The dark-browed
combatant fell back without a word or
groan; but the blood flashing from his deep
wound, like water from a pump, as his convulsed
bosom rose and fell, and his eye, still fixed
upon the visage of his slayer in unquenched, unblenching
hatred, showed that the spirit was yet
alive within him. The other, who had staggered
back for an instant, and dropped his weapon in the
struggle, now tore the rapier from his own pierced
breast, and leaping forward, with a yell more like
human being, planted his foot upon the chest of his
foe, and gazed into his eyes as though he would
have perused his very soul.
“What, no remorse!” he cried; “no terror—no
despair! With your own weapon, cursed, murtherous
dog! With your own weapon!”—
The spasmodic action of his throat cut short his
words, but the point glanced downwards towards
the heart of the fallen man. An inch was not between
the weapon and its living sheath, when by a
desperate parry, I struck it up—the maniac rage of
the victor was turned at once on me, but little did I
reck his anger. I was too calm, and he too furious,
even had he been my equal in strength or
vigour. But the blood, which gushed from three
wide gashes, was beginning at length to tell; his
thrusts, though well directed, were feeble; and at
the third pass, binding his blade with mine, I sent
it, by a single motion of my wrist, twinkling like a
meteor through the haze. The shock, which disarmed
him, completed his exhaustion. He made
one effort more to dash his heel into the features
of his foeman, who lay, as he had fallen, with the
frown on his brow, the distorted smile on his lip,
and the deadly glare of his glazed eye fixed for
ever; but, slipping in the effort, he fell beside the
as they lay.
“Dead!” he muttered, “dead—Isabel, where art
thou?—Isabel!—beloved!”
His head sank down upon the gored breast of
him he had destroyed. I thought the life had left
him, but I was in error. With a wild cry he
sprang into the air.
“Brother,” he shrieked, “brother, we shall meet
in hell!”
He fell upon his victim, a dead man ere he struck
the ground. I have seen sights of horror a thousand
and a thousand times,—on the field, on the
scaffold, in fire, and on the sea,—but never did I
know the meaning of the word FEAR till then. I
shook like a weak infant, my sword dropped from
my hand, a humming was in my ears, my eyes
swam, my senses wandered! I stood gazing in
motionless awe upon the kindred corpses. Fearful
self-accusation rose up against me. I had witnessed—I
had permitted—I had, in not prohibiting,
abetted that most hideous and unnatural slaughter.
My brain reeled. I was on the point of falling.
A sudden stir behind me—a quick rustle as of
garments—a step—and the same wild shriek,
which had caught my attention while at a distance,
roused me from my stupor. I turned, and
had already frozen as it flowed from the veins of
that guilty, miserable pair—her long fair tresses
stained with blood, and her white garments dabbled
with the same fatal stains,—there stood the loveliest
female form—the loveliest even in that moment
of heart-rending agony and terror—my eyes
had ever dwelt upon.
“Dead!” she cried; “all dead! Merciful! merciful
Heaven! Spare, spare my senses!”
She started in my face with a vacant gaze for a
moment, shook her head mournfully, and with a
wild sound between laughter and a groan, would
have fallen to the earth, had I not caught her in my
arms. The fearful scenes which she had undergone
had been too much for her delicate intellects;
madness was hovering at the very portals of
her mind, when, by a blessed providence, that
timely swoon preserved her. One glance into
the empty carriage,—it contained the corpse of
a young girl! By her garb I judged her to be
the attendant of the lovely being pillowed insensibly
upon my heart,—killed, as it seemed, by
a random bullet; for who could have wantonly
shed the blood of one so insignificant, so harmless,
and so helpless? One glance towards the slaughtered
brothers, sleeping side by side as peaceably
had ever cast its shadow over them!—and, with
my precious treasure in my arms, I was again
upon the back of my brave Bayard, riding for life,
for life, along the road which late had seemed so
dull and dreary, now converted into the channel
which I felt must guide me to the harbour of my
future happiness, or to the eternal shipwreck of
my hopes.
| CHAPTER II. The brothers : | |