The Abbot

She was conducted to her apartment, and in the hurried consultation of her attendants, the fatal resolution of the retreat to England was finally adopted. In the morning it received her approbation, and a messenger was despatched to the English warden, to pray him for safe-conduct and hospitality, on the part of the Queen of Scotland. On the next day the Abbot Ambrose walked in the garden of the Abbey with Roland, to whom he expressed his disapprobation of the course pursued. "It is madness and ruin," he said; "better commit herself to the savage Highlanders or wild Bordermen, than to the faith of Elizabeth. A woman to a rival woman--a presumptive successor to the keeping of a jealous and childless Queen!--Roland, Herries is true and loyal, but his counsel has ruined his mistress."

"Ay, ruin follows us every where," said an old man, with a spade in his hand, and dressed like a lay-brother, of whose presence, in the vehemence of his exclamation, the Abbot had not been aware--"Gaze not on me with such wonder!--I am he who was the Abbot Boniface at Kennaquhair, who was the gardener Blinkhoolie at Lochleven, hunted round to the place in which I served my noviciate, and now ye are come to rouse me up again!--A weary life I have had for one to whom peace was ever the dearest blessing!"

"We will soon rid you of our company, good father," said the Abbot; "and the Queen will, I fear, trouble your retreat no more."

"Nay, you said as much before," said the querulous old man, "and yet I was put forth from Kinross, and pillaged by troopers on the road.--They took from me the certificate that you wot of--that of the Baron--ay, he was a moss-trooper like themselves--You asked me of it, and I could never find it, but they found it--it showed the marriage of--of--my memory fails me--Now see how men differ! Father Nicholas would have told you an hundred tales of the Abbot Ingelram, on whose soul God have mercy!--He was, I warrant you, fourscore and six, and I am not more than--let me see----"

"Was not Avenel the name you seek, my good father?" said Roland, impatiently, yet moderating his tone for fear of alarming or offending the infirm old man.

"Ay, right--Avenel, Julian Avenel--You are perfect in the name--I kept all the special confessions, judging it held with my vow to do so--I could not find it when my successor, Ambrosius, spoke on't--but the troopers found it, and the Knight who commanded the party struck his breast, till the target clattered like an empty watering-can."

"Saint Mary!" said the Abbot, "in whom could such a paper excite such interest! What was the appearance of the knight, his arms, his colours?"

"Ye distract me with your questions--I dared hardly look at him--they charged me with bearing letters for the Queen, and searched my mail-- This was all along of your doings at Lochleven."

"I trust in God," said the Abbot to Roland, who stood beside him, shivering and trembling "with impatience," the paper has fallen into the hands of my brother--I heard he had been with his followers on the scout betwixt Stirling and Glasgow.--Bore not the Knight a holly-bough on his helmet?--Canst thou not remember?"

"Oh, remember--remember," said the old man pettishly; "count as many years as I do, if your plots will let you, and see what, and how much, you remember.--Why, I scarce remember the pear-mains which I graffed here with my own hands some fifty years since."

At this moment a bugle sounded loudly from the beach.

"It is the death-blast to Queen Mary's royalty," said Ambrosius; "the English warden's answer has been received, favourable doubtless, for when was the door of the trap closed against the prey which it was set for?--Droop not, Roland--this matter shall be sifted to the bottom--but we must not now leave the Queen--follow me--let us do our duty, and trust the issue with God--Farewell, good Father--I will visit thee again soon."

He was about to leave the garden, followed by Roland, with half-reluctant steps. The Ex-Abbot resumed his spade.

"I could be sorry for these men," he said, "ay, and for that poor Queen, but what avail earthly sorrows to a man of fourscore?--and it is a rare dropping morning for the early colewort."

"He is stricken with age," said Ambrosius, as he dragged Roland down to the sea-beach; "we must let him take his time to collect himself--nothing now can be thought on but the fate of the Queen."