Sorry for her! Ah, I soon knew what sore cause there was to be sorry to the very soul for some one else!
It was while we were sat at supper that Donald came. I saw him enter from the high table where I sat, and I knew in an instant that he brought some fearsome tidings. I lost him in the crowd at the further end, and then Mereworth, one of the varlets of the King’s chamber, came all in haste up the hall, with a face that had evil news thereon writ: and Sir John de Ros, that was then Seneschal, saw him, and guessing, as I think, the manner of word he brought, stepped down from the dais to meet him. Then, in an other minute, I saw Donald brought up to the King and to the Queen.
I watched them both. As Donald’s news was told, the young King’s face grew ashen pale, and he cried full dolefully “Dieu eit mercie!” The news troubled him sore and sure enough. But the Queen’s eyes, that a moment before had been full of terror and untholemodness (impatience), shot out one flash of triumphant gladness: and the next minute she had hidden her face in her sudary, and was greeting as though her heart had broke. I marvelled what tidings they could be, that were tene (grief) to the King, and blisfulhed (happiness) to the Queen. Sir John de Gaytenby, the King’s confessor, was sat next to me at the table, and to him I said—
“Father, can you guess what manner of news Donald de Athole shall have brought?”
“Ay, daughter,” he made answer. “Would I were in doubt!”
“You think—?” I asked him, and left him to fill up.
“I think,” he saith in a low voice somewhat sorrowful of tone, “that God hath delivered from all labour and sorrow one of His servants that trust in Him.”
“Why, that were nought to lament o’er!” I was about to say; but I stayed me when half through. “Father, you mean there is man dead?”
“We call it death,” saith Sir John de Gaytenby—“we of this nether world, that be ever in sickness and weariness, in tene and in temptation. Know we what they call it which have forded the Rubicon, and stand safe on the pavement of the Golden City? ‘Multo magis melius,’ saith the Apostle (Philippians One verse 23): ‘much more better’ to dissolve and to be with Christ. And the colder be the waters man hath to ford, the gladder and welcomer shall be the light of the Golden City. They were chill, I cast no doubt: and all the chiller for the hand that chilled them. With how sharp thorns and briers God hath to drive some of His sheep! But once in the Fold, there shall be time to forget them all. ‘When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee’ (Isaiah 43 verse 2)—that is enough now. We can stay us upon that promise till we come through. And then there shall be no more need for Him to be with us in tribulation, since we shall reign with Him for ever and ever.”
Old Sir Simon de Driby came up behind us as the Confessor ended.