Quentin Durward

This was done with a touch of the Archer’s weapon, and the liberated captive, springing suddenly on one of the Provost’s guard, wrested from him a halbert with which he was armed. “And now” he said, “come on, if you dare.”

The two officers whispered together.

“Ride thou after the Provost Marshal,” said Trois Eschelles, “and I will detain them here, if I can. Soldiers of the Provost’s guard, stand to your arms.”

Petit Andre mounted his horse, and left the field, and the other Marshals men in attendance drew together so hastily at the command of Trois Eschelles, that they suffered the other two prisoners to make their escape during the confusion. Perhaps they were not very anxious to detain them; for they had of late been sated with the blood of such wretches, and, like other ferocious animals, were, through long slaughter, become tired of carnage. But the pretext was, that they thought themselves immediately called upon to attend to the safety of Trois Eschelles; for there was a jealousy, which occasionally led to open quarrels, betwixt the Scottish Archers and the Marshal guards, who executed the orders of their Provost.

“We are strong enough to beat the proud Scots twice over, if it be your pleasure,” said one of these soldiers to Trois Eschelles.

But that cautious official made a sign to him to remain quiet, and addressed the Scottish Archer with great civility. “Surely, sir, this is a great insult to the Provost Marshal, that you should presume to interfere with the course of the King’s justice, duly and lawfully committed to his charge; and it is no act of justice to me, who am in lawful possession of my criminal. Neither is it a well meant kindness to the youth himself, seeing that fifty opportunities of hanging him may occur, without his being found in so happy a state of preparation as he was before your ill advised interference.”

“If my young countryman,” said the Scot, smiling, “be of opinion I have done him an injury, I will return him to your charge without a word more dispute.”

“No, no! – for the love of Heaven, no!” exclaimed Quentin. “I would rather you swept my head off with your long sword – it would better become my birth, than to die by the hands of such a foul churl.”

“Hear how he revileth,” said the finisher of the law. “Alas! how soon our best resolutions pass away! – he was in a blessed frame for departure but now, and in two minutes he has become a contemner of authorities.”

“Tell me at once,” said the Archer, “what has this young man done.”

“Interfered,” answered Trois Eschelles, with some earnestness, “to take down the dead body of a criminal, when the fleur de lys was marked on the tree where he was hung with my own proper hand.”

“How is this, young man?” said the Archer; “how came you to have committed such an offence?”

“As I desire your protection,” answered Durward, “I will tell you the truth as if I were at confession. I saw a man struggling on the tree, and I went to cut him down out of mere humanity. I thought neither of fleur de lys nor of clove gilliflower, and had no more idea of offending the King of France than our Father the Pope.”

“What a murrain had you to do with the dead body, then?” said the Archer. “You ‘ll see them hanging, in the rear of this gentleman, like grapes on every tree, and you will have enough to do in this country if you go a-gleaning after the hangman. However, I will not quit a countryman’s cause if I can help it. – Hark ye, Master Marshals man, you see this is entirely a mistake. You should have some compassion on so young a traveller. In our country at home he has not been accustomed to see such active proceedings as yours and your master’s.”

“Not for want of need of them, Signior Archer,” said Petit Andre, who returned at this moment. “Stand fast, Trois Eschelles, for here comes the Provost Marshal; we shall presently see how he will relish having his work taken out of his hand before it is finished.”

“And in good time,” said the Archer, “here come some of my comrades.”

Accordingly, as the Provost Tristan rode up with his patrol on one side of the little bill which was the scene of the altercation, four or five Scottish Archers came as hastily up on the other, and at their head the Balafre himself.

Upon this urgency, Lesly showed none of that indifference towards his nephew of which Quentin had in his heart accused him; for he no sooner saw his comrade and Durward standing upon their defence, than he exclaimed, “Cunningham, I thank thee. – Gentlemen – comrades, lend me your aid. – It is a young Scottish gentleman – my nephew – Lindesay – Guthrie – Tyrie, draw, and strike in!”

There was now every prospect of a desperate scuffle between the parties, who were not so disproportioned in numbers but that the better arms of the Scottish cavaliers gave them an equal chance of victory. But the Provost Marshal, either doubting the issue of the conflict, or aware that it would be disagreeable to the King, made a sign to his followers to forbear from violence, while he demanded of Balafre, who now put himself forward as the head of the other party, what he, a cavalier of the King’s Bodyguard, purposed by opposing the execution of a criminal.

“I deny that I do so,” answered the Balafre. “Saint Martin! [patron saint of Tours, Lucca, and of penitent drunkards. He was greatly honoured in the Middle Ages.] there is, I think, some difference between the execution of a criminal and a slaughter of my own nephew!”

“Your nephew may be a criminal as well as another,” said the Provost Marshal; “and every stranger in France is amenable to the laws of France.”

“Yes, but we have privileges, we Scottish Archers,” said Balafre, “have we not, comrades?”

“Yes, yes,” they all exclaimed together. “Privileges – privileges! Long live King Louis – long live the bold Balafre – long live the Scottish Guard – and death to all who would infringe our privileges!”

“Take reason with you, gentlemen cavaliers,” said the Provost Marshal; “consider my commission.”

“We will have no reason at your hand,” said Cunningham; “our own officers shall do us reason. We will be judged by the King’s grace, or by our own Captain, now that the Lord High Constable is not in presence.”

“And we will be hanged by none,” said Lindesay, “but Sandie Wilson, the auld Marshals man of our ain body.”

“It would be a positive cheating of Sandie, who is as honest a man as ever tied noose upon hemp, did we give way to any other proceeding,” said the Balafre. “Were I to be hanged myself, no other should tie tippet about my craig.”

“But hear ye,” said the Provost Marshal, “this young fellow belongs not to you, and cannot share what you call your privileges.”

“What we call our privileges, all shall admit to be such,” said Cunningham.

“We will not hear them questioned!” was the universal cry of the Archers.

“Ye are mad, my masters,” said Tristan l’Hermite. “No one disputes your privileges; but this youth is not one of you.”

“He is my nephew,” said the Balafre, with a triumphant air.

“But no Archer of the Guard, I think,” retorted Tristan l’Hermite.

The Archers looked on each other in some uncertainty.

“Stand to it yet, comrade,” whispered Cunningham to Balafre. “Say he is engaged with us.”

“Saint Martin! you say well, fair countryman,” answered Lesly; and raising his voice, swore that he had that day enrolled his kinsman as one of his own retinue. This declaration was a decisive argument.

“It is well, gentlemen,” said the Provost Tristan, who was aware of the King’s nervous apprehension of disaffection creeping in among his Guards. “You know, as you say, your privileges, and it is not my duty to have brawls with the King’s Guards, if it is to be avoided. But I will report this matter for the King’s own decision; and I would have you to be aware, that, in doing so, I act more mildly than perhaps my duty warrants.”

So saying, he put his troop into motion, while the Archers, remaining on the spot, held a hasty consultation what was next to be done. “We must report the matter to Lord Crawford, our Captain, in the first place, and have the young fellow’s name put on the roll.”

“But, gentlemen, and my worthy friends and preservers,” said Quentin, with some hesitation, “I have not yet determined whether to take service with you or no.”

“Then settle in your own mind,” said his uncle, “whether you choose to do so, or be hanged – for I promise you, that, nephew of mine as you are, I see no other chance of your ‘scaping the gallows.”

This was an unanswerable argument, and reduced Quentin at once to acquiesce in what he might have otherwise considered as no very agreeable proposal; but the recent escape from the halter, which had been actually around his neck, would probably have reconciled him to a worse alternative than was proposed.

“He must go home with us to our caserne,” said Cunningham; “there is no safety for him out of our bounds, whilst these man hunters are prowling.”

“May I not then abide for this night at the hostelry where I breakfasted, fair uncle?” said the youth – thinking, perhaps, like many a new recruit, that even a single night of freedom was something gained.

“Yes, fair nephew,” answered his uncle, ironically, “that we may have the pleasure of fishing you out of some canal or moat, or perhaps out of a loop of the Loire, knit up in a sack for the greater convenience of swimming – for that is like to be the end on’t. The Provost Marshal smiled on us when we parted,” continued he, addressing Cunningham, “and that is a sign his thoughts were dangerous.”

“I care not for his danger,” said Cunningham; “such game as we are beyond his bird bolts. But I would have thee tell the whole to the Devil’s Oliver [Oliver Dain: Oliver’s name, or nickname, was Le Diable, which was bestowed on him by public hatred, in exchange for Le Daim, or Le Dain. He was originally the King’s barber, but afterwards a favourite counsellor. S.], who is always a good friend to the Scottish Guard, and will see Father Louis before the Provost can, for he is to shave him tomorrow.”

“But hark you,” said Balafre, “it is ill going to Oliver empty handed, and I am as bare as the birch in December.”

“So are we all,” said Cunningham. “Oliver must not scruple to take our Scottish words for once. We will make up something handsome among us against the next payday; and if he expects to share, let me tell you, the payday will come about all the sooner.”

“And now for the Chateau,” said Balafre; “and my nephew shall tell us by the way how he brought the Provost Marshal on his shoulders, that we may know how to frame our report both to Crawford and Oliver.”

CHAPTER VII: THE ENROLMENT

Justice of Peace. —
Here, hand me down the statute – read the articles —