University of Virginia Library

RIZZIO.

The shadows of an early evening, in the ungenial month of
March, were already gathering among the narrow streets and
wynds of the Scottish metropolis. There was a melancholy
air of solitude about the grim and dusky edifices, which towered
to the height of twelve or thirteen stories against the gray
horizon. No lights streamed from the casements, no voices
sounded in loud revelry or chastened merriment from the dwellings
of the gloomy quarter in which the scene of our narrative
is laid. The cheerless aspect of the night, together with the
drizzling rain, which fell in silent copiousness, had banished
every human being from the streets; and, except the smoke
which eddied from the dilapidated chimneys, and was instantly
beat down to earth by the violence of the shower, there was no
sign of any other inhabitants, than the famished dogs which
were snarling over the relics of some thrice-picked bone.
Suddenly the sharp clatter of hoofs, in rapid motion over the
broken pavement, rose above the splashing of the flooded gutters,
betokening the approach of men; and ere a minute had
elapsed two horsemen, gallantly mounted, rode hotly up the
street. The foremost bestriding, with the careless ease of an
accomplished rider, a jennet, whose thin jaws, expanded nostril,
and flashing eye, no less than the deerlike springiness of
its gait, and its unrivalled symmetry, proclaimed it sprung from
the best blood of the desert, was of a figure that could not be

looked upon, however slightly, without awakening a sense of
interest, perhaps of admiration, in all beholders.

His countenance, of an oval form, and of a darker hue than
the blue-eyed sons of northern latitudes are wont to exhibit —
the full and somewhat wild expression of his dark eye, the
melancholy smile which played upon his curling lip, pencilled
mustache, and the peaked beard — contributing to form a face
that Antonio Vandyke would have loved to paint, and after
ages to admire, when invested with the life of his rich coloring.
His dress of russet velvet slashed with satin, his feathered
cap, with its gay fanfarona[1] and enamelled medal, his jeweled
rapier, and the bright spurs in his falling buskins, were well
adapted to the agile limbs and slender, though symmetrical
proportions of the horseman.

The second rider was a boy, whose black and scarlet liveries
— the well-known colors of all servitors of the Scottish crown
— were but imperfectly hidden by the frieze cloak which had
been cast over them, evidently for the purposes of concealment,
rather than of comfort; yet he, too, like the gallant whom
he followed — if any faith was to be placed in the evidence of
raven hair and olive complexion — owed his birth to some
more southern clime.

After winding rapidly through several dim and unfrequented
lanes, the leading horseman, checking his speed, gazed around
him with a doubtful and bewildered eye.

“Madre di Dio,” he exclaimed at length, “what a night is
here; a thousand curses on this learned fool, that he must
dwell in such a den of thieves as this; or rather a thousand
curses on the blind and heretical Scots, that drive a man of
wisdom, beyond their shallow comprehension, to bed with the

very outcasts of society. Pietro, what ho!” and he raised his
voice above the key in which he had pitched his soliloquy,
“knowest thou the dwelling of this sage — this Johan Damietta?
methought that I had noted the spot, yet have these
sordid lanes banished the recollection. Presto, time fails
already.”

Without uttering a syllable in reply, the page sprung from
his horse, and pointed to the doorway of a mansion, dilapidated
even more than those in its vicinity, yet bearing in its site the
marks of having been constructed in former days for the residence
of some proud baron. Nor even now — although all the
appliances of comfort were utterly neglected, although the
casements were void of glass, and the chimneys sent up no
volumes from a cheerful hearth — were the external defences
of the pile forgotten; heavy bars of iron crossed and recrossed
the deep-set embrasure which once had held the windows, and
the oaken gate was clenched with many a massive nail and
plate of rusted iron. The cavalier alighted, cast the rein to
his servitor, and with the single word “Prudence,” ascended
the stone steps, and struck thrice at measured intervals upon
the wicket with his rapier's hilt. The door flew open, but
without the agency, as it appeared, of any living being, and, as
the visiter entered, was closed again behind him with a heavy
crash.

A narrow passage was before him, scarcely rendered visible
by the flickering light of a cresset suspended from the ceiling,
and nourished, as it seemed, with spirit, rather than with the
richer food of oil. Uncertain, however, as was the illumination,
it served to show a second door, even more strongly constructed
than the first, fronting the intruder at the distance of
some ten paces; while the wall, perforated with loops for musketry,
or more probably, if the remote antiquity of the building
were considered, for arrows, proved that the hostile intruder

had effected but little in forcing his way through the outward
entrance. It would be wrong, in the description of this difficult
passage, to omit the mention of certain orifices, or slits,
extending in length from the floor even to the ceiling of the
side-walls, but not exceeding a single inch in width, as they
may tend perhaps to cast some light upon an invention of the
darkest ages of Scottish history, the reality of which has been
considered doubtful by acute antiquarians. From the upper
extremity of these slits protruded on either side the blades of
six enormous swords, which, being placed alternately, and
worked by some concealed machinery, must inevitably hew to
atoms, when once set in motion, any obstacle to their appalling
sway. This was the dreaded swordmill first discovered by
the wizard baron Soulis, and thence invested with superstitious
error, which was needless, at the least, when the actual horrors
of the engine were considered. It is, however, probable, that
these gigantic relics of an earlier age were no longer capable
of being rendered available at the period of which we
write; at all events they hung in rusty blackness, suspended
like the sword of Damocles above the head of the intruder,
rendering his position awful, at least, if not in reality insecure.

Notwithstanding the warlike and turbulent character of
Scotland during the reign of Mary, there was nevertheless
enough of the uncommon in the defences of this dark and dangerous
entrance to have riveted the attention of a man less anxiously
engaged than was the foreign cavalier. Apparently undismayed
by the wild contrivances around him, the gallant strode
forward to repeat his signal on the inner wicket, when a broad
glare of crimson light, produced by some chemical preparation,
considered in that dark age supernatural, was shot into his very
face from an aperture above, clearly displaying to some concealed
observer the form and features of his visiter.

“Ha!” cried a voice so shrill and grating as to produce a

painful impression on the nerves of the hearer. “Thou art
come hither, Sir Italian; enter, then — enter in the name of
Albunazar! — enter, the hour is propitious, and thou art waited
for!”

The door revolved noiselessly on its hinges, and a few steps
brought the Italian to the chamber of the sage. It was a small
and central cell, without the slightest visible communication
with the outward air. Books of strange characters and instruments
of singular device were scattered on the floor, the tables,
and the seats; astrolabes, globes of the terrestrial and celestial
world, crucibles, and vials of rare and potent mixtures, lay beside
discolored bones, reptiles, and loathsome things from tropical
climes, some stuffed, and others carefully preserved in
spirit. A huge furnace glimmered in the corner, covered with
vessels containing, doubtless, alembics of unearthly power; a
large black cat — to which inoffensive animal wild notions of
infernal origin were then attached — and a gigantic owl, perched
on a fleshless skull, completed the ornaments of this receptacle
of superstitious quackery, which was rendered as light as day
by the aid of some composition, burning in a lamp so brilliantly
as to dazzle the firmest eye. In the midst of this confused assemblage
of things, useless and revolting alike to reason and
humanity, the master-spirit of his tribe was seated — a small
old man, whose massive forehead, pencilled with the deep lines
of thought, would have betokened a profound and powerful
mind, had not the quick flash of the small and deeply-seated
eye belied, by its crafty and malignant glances, all symptoms
of a noble nature.

“Hail, Signor David!” he said, but without raising his eyes
from the retort over which he was poring. “Hail! methought
that thou didst hold the wisdom of the sage mere quackery!
Ha! out upon such changeful, feather-pated knaves, who scoff
before men at that which they respect — ay, which they tremble

at in private! — tremble! well mayst thou tremble — for thy
doom is fixed! See,” he cried, in a fearfully unnatural tone,
as he raised the metallic rod with which he had been stirring
the contents of the glass vessel, and exhibited it dripping with
some crimson-colored liquid — “see! it is gore — thy gore, Signor
David! — ha, ha, ha!” and he laughed with fiendish glee at
the evident discomposure of his guest.

“Nay, nay, good father —” he began, when the other cut
him off abruptly —

“`Good father!' — ha, ha, ha! Good devil! Fool, dost think
that thou canst change the destinies that were eternal, before
so vain a thing as thou wast in existence, by thine unmeaning
flatteries? I spit upon such courtesies! `Good father!' listen
to my words, and mark if I be good. Thou hast risen by meanness,
and flattery, and cringing, and vice; thou hast disgraced
thy rise by insolence and folly — weak, drivelling folly; and
thou shalt fall — ha, ha, ha! — fall like a dog! Look to thyself!
— `Good father!' Begone, or thou shalt hear more, and
that which thou wilt like even less than this — begone!”

“I meant not to offend thee,” replied the astonished courtier,
“and I pray thee be not distempered. I have broken in on
thy retirement to witness that unearthly skill of which men
speak, and I would ask of thee in courtesy mine horoscope,
that I may so report thee —”

“Thou! thou report me, David Rizzio! the wire-pinching,
sonned-jingling, base-born scullion, report of Johan Damietta!
Get thee away! I know thee! Begone — nay, if thou wilt
have it, listen: bloody shall be thine end, and base. A bastard
foeman is in thy house of life. Tremble at the name —”

“Rather,” interrupted the Italian, enraged at the language of
the conjurer, “rather let that bastard tremble at the name of
Rizzio; and thou, old man, I leave thee as I came, undaunted
by thy threats, and unconvinced by thy jugglery.”

“To-night! to-night!” hissed the old man, in notes of horrible
malignity — “to-night shalt thou know if Damietta be a
juggler! If thou wouldst live — for I would have thee live,
poor worm — fly from the hatred of the Scottish nobles! —
away!”

“Know'st thou,” asked Rizzio, tauntingly, “a Scottish proverb
— if not, I will instruct thee — framed, if I read it rightly,
to express the character of their own factious brawlers? `The
bark is aye waur than the bite.' Adieu, old man! to-morrow
thou shalt learn if Rizzio fears or thee or thy most doughty
brawlers.”

“Ha, ha, ha! — to-morrow! mark that — to-morrow!” and a
yell of laughter burst from every corner of the chamber; the
mixture in the retort exploded with a stunning crash, the lights
were extinguished, and, without being aware of the manner of
his exit, the royal secretary found himself beyond the outer
gate of the wizard's dwelling, with a throbbing pulse and swimming
brain, but still, to do him justice, undismayed by that
which his naturally incredulous and sneering turn of mind, rather
than any clear conviction of the truth, led him to consider
as a mere imposture.

Without replying a syllable to the inquiries of the terrified
page, who had heard the frightful sounds within, he flung himself
into his saddle, plunged the rowels into the flanks of the
jennet until she reared and plunged with terror, and dashed
homeward at a fearful rate through alleys now as dark as midnight.
Nor did he draw his bridle till he had passed the
guarded portals of the palace, and galloped into the inmost
court of Holyrood: there indeed he checked his courser with
a violence which almost hurled her on her haunches, sprang
from her back, and, without looking round, hurried into the
most private entrance, and disappeared.

Scarcely had he passed through the gateway, and ere yet

the page had left the courtyard with the horses, when the sentinel,
who had permitted the well-known secretary of the queen
to pass unquestioned, brought down his partisan to the charge,
and challenged, as a tall figure, whose clanging step announced
him to be sheathed in armor cap-à-pie, muffled in a dark mantle,
with a hood like that worn by the Romish priesthood drawn
close around his head, approached him.

“Stand, ho! the word —”

“Another word, and thou never speakest more!” replied the
other, in a hoarse, rapid whisper, offering a petronel, cocked,
and his finger on the trigger, at the very throat of the astonished
soldier; “the king requires no password!”

“The king?” replied the sentinel, doubtfully, “the king? —
I know not, nor would I willingly offend; but thou art not, methinks,
his majesty.”

“Take that, thou fool, to settle all thy doubts!” cried the
other, in the same deep whisper as before; while, casting his
weapon into the air, he caught it by the muzzle as it turned
over, and sunk the loaded butt deep into the forehead of the
unwary sentinel. The whole was scarcely the work of an instant;
and ere the heavy body could fall to earth, the ready
hand of the assailant had caught it, and suffered it to drop so
gently as to create no sound. In another moment he was
joined by three or four other persons similarly disguised, and
followed by a powerful guard of spearmen. A heavy watch of
these was posted at the principal gateway, and knots of others
were disposed around the court at every private entrance, with
orders to let none pass on any pretext whatsoever. “Warn
them to stand back twice! the third time kill!” was the muttered
order of the chief actor in the previous tragedy. “So
far, my liege, all's well!” he continued, turning with an air of
some respect to another of the muffled figures, of a port somewhat
less commanding than his own huge proportions; “and

Morton must, ere this, have seized all the remaining avenues.”
While he was yet speaking, a slight bustle was heard at a
distance, and in a second's space they were joined by him of
whom they spoke.

“How goes the business, Morton?” said the first speaker.

“All well! — the gates are ours, and not a soul disturbed;
the villain sentinels laid down their arms at once, and are even
now in ward! Let us be doing: a deed like this permits of
no delay!”

“On, friends! Be silent, and be certain!”

And one by one they filed through the same portal by which
the Italian had, so short a time before, sped to the presence of
his royal mistress.

In the meantime, unconscious of the fearful tragedy that was
even then in preparation the lovely queen, with her most
trusted servants, the devoted David, and the noble countess of
Argyle, had retired from the strict ceremonies of the court circle
to the privacy of her own apartments.

In a small antechamber, scarcely twelve feet in width, communicating
with the solitary chamber of the queen — solitary,
for the notorious profligacy and insolent neglect of Darnley had
left her an almost widowed wife — the board was spread, glittering
with gold and crystal, and covered with the delicacies
of the evening meal.

The beautiful queen, freed from the galling chains of ceremony,
her robes of state thrown by, and attired in the elegant
simplicity of a private lady, sat there — her lovely features
beaming with condescension and with unaffected pleasure, conversing
joyously with those whom she had selected from her
court as worthiest of her especial favor. Bitterly, cruelly had
she been deceived in the character of him whom she had in
truth made a king; for whose gratification she had almost exceeded
the rights of her prerogative, and given deep offence to

her haughty and suspicious nobles; having discovered, when
too late, that, while possessed of all the graces and accomplishments
that constitute an elegant and agreeable admirer, Henry
Darnley was deficient, miserably deficient, in all that can render
a man eligible as a friend and husband. Deserted, neglected,
outraged in a woman's tenderest point, almost before the
first month of her nuptials had elapsed, the flattering dream had
passed away which had promised years of happy, peaceful communion
with one loved and loving partner. Ever preferring
the society of any other fair one to that of the lovely being to
whom he should have been bound by every tie of love and
gratitude, the king had early left his disconsolate bride to pine
in total seclusion, or to seek for recreation in the society of
those whose qualities of mind, if not their rank, might render
them fit companions for her solitude; and she, poor victim of a
brutal husband, and unhappy mistress of a turbulent and warlike
nation, fell blindly but most innocently into the snare of her
unrelenting enemies.

Of all who were around her person, Rizzio alone was such
by habits, education, and accomplishments, as could lend attraction
to the circle of a gay and youthful queen. Accustomed,
from her earliest youth, to the elegant and polished manners
of the French nobility, the rude and illiterate barons — with
whom the highest grade of knowledge was the marshalling of
a host for the battle-field, and the highest merit the fighting in
the front rank when marshalled — could appear to her in no
other light than that of brutal and uneducated savages. What
wonder, then, that a youth well skilled as David Rizzio in all
the arts and elegances most suitable to a noble cavalier, handsome
withal and courteous, attentive even to adoration to her
slightest wish, and ever contrasting his cultivated mind with the
untutored rudeness of the warrior-lords of Scotland, should have
been admitted to a degree of intimacy by his forsaken mistress,

innocent, undoubtedly, and pardonable, even should we be disposed
to admit that it was imprudent?

Two menials in the royal livery waited upon that noble company,
but without the servile reverence which was exacted at
the public festivals of royalty. The fair Argyle, who, in any
other presence than that of her unrivalled mistress, would have
been second to none in loveliness, jested and smiled with Mary
more in the manner of a beloved companion than that of an attendant
to a queen. But on the brow of David there was a
deep and heavy gloom; and when he answered to the persiflage
and polished railleries of the queen or that young countess,
although his words were gay, and at times almost tender, the
tones of his voice were grave almost to sadness.

“What has befallen our worthy secretary?” said Mary, after
many fruitless efforts to inspire him with livelier feelings.
“Thou art no more the gay and gallant Signor David of other
days than thou resemblest the stern and steel-clad —”

Even as she spoke, it seemed as though her words had conjured
up an apparition: for a figure, sheathed in steel from
crest to spur, strode, with a step that faltered even amid its
pride, from out the shadows of her private chamber into the full
glare of the lamps. The vizor was raised, and the pale brow
and haggard eye, the uncombed beard, and the corpse-like hue
of the whole visage, better beseemed the character of some
foul spirit released from its peculiar place, than of a noble baron
in the presence of his queen. A loud shriek from the terrified
Argyle first called the attention of Mary to the strange intruder.
But David sat with his eye glaring, in a horrible mixture of
personal apprehension and superstitious dread, upon the person
of his deadliest foeman.

“Arise, David, thou minion! arise, and quit the presence to
which thou art a foul and plague-like blot!” cried the deep

voice of Ruthven, ere a word had yet found its way to the lips
of the indignant queen

“Sir Patrick Ruthven — if our eyes deceive us not,” she said
at length, erecting her noble figure to its utmost, and bending
upon him a glance which, hardened as he was in crime and
cruelty, he could no more have met with his than the vile raven
have gazed upon the noonday sun — “Sir Patrick Ruthven, we
would learn what means this insolent intrusion?”

“It means, fair madam,” replied Darnley — who now followed
his savage instrument, accompanied by his no less fierce accomplices,
the base-born Douglas, the brutal Ker of Fawdonside,
in bearing and in manners fitted rather for the guardhouse
than the court, and the most thorough ruffian of the party, Patrick
de Balantyne — “it means that your vile minion's race is
run!”

“Ha! comes the blow from thee? — I might indeed have
deemed it so,” she replied, calmly but scornfully. “What is
your grace's pleasure?” and she smiled in beautiful contempt.

“My pleasure is that he — you base Italian, you destroyer
of my honor, and of yours — of your honor, madam, if you know
such a word — shall perish!”

“Never, Henry Darnley! mine own life sooner!” And she
confronted him with flashing eyes and heightened color, her
whole frame quivering with resolve and indignation. “Thinkst
thou to put a stain like this upon the honor of a queen, and that
queen, too, thine own much-injured wife? Out, out upon thee,
for a heartless, coward thing! A man, a brute, hath some affection,
hath some touch of love for those who have loved him, as
I have once loved thee; of gratitude toward those who have
elevated him — not, no! not as I have elevated thee — for never
yet did woman lavish honor, power, kingdom, upon mortal man,
as I have lavished them on thee! Away, insolent and ungrateful,
hence! Thinkst thou to do murder, foul murder, in the

presence of a woman, of a wife — a wife soon, wretch that she
is, to be the mother of a child — of thy child, Henry? Hence,
and I will forgive thee all — even this last offence! Banish
these murderous ruffians from my presence; spare an honest
and a noble servant — one who hath never, never wronged thee
or thine! spare him, and I will take thee yet again unto my
heart, and love thee, as I have loved thee ever, even when thou
hast been most cruel — ever, Henry Darnley, ever!”

The king was moved, his lips quivered, and he would have
spoken: all might still have been explained, all might have
been forgiven; but it was not so decreed.

“Tush, we but dally,” cried the brutal Ruthven, “we but
dally! On, gentlemen, and drag the villain from the presence!”

Foremost himself, he strode to seize the unarmed wretch,
who, broken in spirits, and appalled more perhaps by the recollection
of the wizard's doom than by the sordid fear of death,
clung to the robe of his adored mistress, poor wretch, as though
the altar itself would have been to him a sanctuary against his
ruthless murderers.

“Mercy!” shrieked the miserable queen; “mercy, for the
love of Him that made you! mercy, Henry — mercy, for my
sake, or, if not for mine, mercy for thine unborn infant's sake!
Ruthven — villain, false knight, uncourteous traitor — forego thy
hold!” and she struggled madly with the assassins. “To arms!”
she screamed in shrilled tones, “to arms! — O God! O God!
have I no guards, no friends, no husband? Oh, that I had been
born a man, and ye should rue this day — ay, and ye shall
rue it!”

Ruthven had clutched his victim with a grasp of iron, and,
whirling him from his frail tenure, cast him to the attendant
murderers. “Spare him!” she shrieked once more; “spare
him, and I will bless you! Ay, strike!” she continued in calmer
tones, as the ruffian Ker brandished his naked dagger at her

throat; “and thou, too, fire — fire upon thy mistress and thy
queen!” Maddened by her resistance, and fearful that the citizens
might rise in her behalf, Balantyne cocked his petronel.
“Fire, thou coward! why dost thou pause? I am a woman,
true — a queen, a wife — about to be a mother; but what is that
to such as thee? Fire, and make your butchery complete!”

But, as the words passed from her lips, the bloody deed was
over. Even in the presence of the queen, dirk after dirk was
plunged into the unresisting wretch. Long after life was extinguished,
the maddened assassins continued to mangle the
senseless clay with their bloodthirsty weapons. So long as
life remained, and so long as the horrid strife was doubtful, did
Mary's fearful cries for mercy ring upon the ears of those who
neither heard nor heeded her. The massacre was ended, and,
with a degree of unmanly insensibility that would alone have
stamped him the worst and fiercest of his race, Ruthven seated
himself before the outraged woman, the insulted queen, and
calmly wiped his brow, still reeking with her favorite's life-blood.
“My sickness,” he said, “must pardon me for sitting
in your presence. I had arisen from my bed to do this deed,
and am now somewhat weary and o'erspent. I pray your highness
command your minions to bear yon winecup hither.”

Without regarding for an instant this fresh insult, she dried
her streaming eyes. “We have demeaned ourselves to pray
for mercy from butchers. Tears are for men! I have one
duty left me, and I will fulfil it — one aim to my existence, one
study for my ingenuity, and one prayer to my God: my duty,
mine aim, my study, and my prayer, shall be, to be avenged!”