A manuscript, however, in those days, was of course much more precious in the eyes of those who could read, than such a thing possibly can be now; and De Coucy, hoping, as many have done since, to shelter himself behind a book, from the sharp attacks of unpleasant thought, eagerly opened the manifold bars and bucklings of the wooden case, and took out the first vellum that his hand fell upon. This proved to be but a collection of tensons, lais, and pastourelles,--all of which he knew by heart, so that he was obliged to search farther. The next he came to had nearly shared the same fate, being a copy of the Life of Louis the Fat, written in Latin a few years before, by Suger, abbot of St. Denis. The Latin, however, was easy, and De Coucy's erudition coining to his aid, he read various passages from those various pages, wherein the great minister who wrote it gives such animated pictures of all that passed immediately previous to the very age and scenes amidst which the young knight was then living. At length his eye rested on the epigraph of the sixteenth chapter, "Concerning the treachery committed at the Roche Guyon, by William, brother-in-law of the king;--concerning, also, the death of Guy; and the speedy vengeance that overtook William."
No title could have been more attractive in the eyes of De Coucy; and skipping a very little of his text, where his remembrance of the language failed him, he went on to read.
"Upon a promontory formed by the great river Seine, at a spot difficult of access, is built an ignoble castle, of a frightful aspect, called La Roche Guyon. On the surface of the promontory the castle is invisible, being hollowed out of the bowels of the high rock. The skilful hand of him who formed it has cut the high rock itself on the side of the hill, and by a mean and narrow opening has practised a subterranean habitation of immense extent.
* * * * *
"This subterranean castle, not more hideous in the sight of men than in the sight of God, had about this time for its lord, Guy de la Roche Guyon,--a young man of gentle manners, a stranger to the wickedness of his ancestors. He had indeed interrupted its course, and showed himself resolved to lead a tranquil and honourable life, free from their infamous and greedy rapacity.
"Surprised by the very position of his wretched castle, and massacred by the treachery of his own father-in-law, the most wicked of the wicked, he lost, by an unexpected blow, both his dwelling and his life.
"William, his father-in-law, was by birth a Norman; and, unequalled in treachery, he made himself appear the dearest friend of his daughter's husband. This man, tormented by black envy, and brewing wicked designs, unhappily found, on the evening of a certain Sunday, an opportunity of executing his diabolical designs. He came then, with his arms covered with a mantle, and accompanied by a handful of assassins; and mingled himself, though with very different thoughts, amongst a crowd of pious people hastening to a church, which communicated by a passage in the rock with the subterranean castle of Guy. For some time, while the rest gave themselves up to prayer, he feigned to pray also; but, in truth, occupied himself in examining attentively the passage communicating with the dwelling of his son-in-law. At that moment, Guy entered the church; when, drawing his sword, and seconded by his criminal associates, William, madly yielding to the iniquity of his heart, cast himself into the doorway, and struck down his son-in-law, who was already smiling a welcome upon him, when he felt the edge of his sword. The noble bride of the châtelain, stupefied at the sight, tore her hair and her cheeks, after the manner of women in their anger, and running towards her husband, without fearing the fate that menaced her, she cast herself upon him to cover his body from the blows of the murderer, crying, while he received a thousand wounds,--'Vile butchers! slay me rather than him!--What has he done to merit death?'"
* * * * *
"Seizing her by the hair, the assassins dragged her away from her husband, who, crushed by their repeated blows, pierced by their swords, and almost torn in pieces with his various wounds, soon expired under their hands. Not contented yet, with a degree of cruelty worthy of Herod, such of his unhappy children as they could find they dashed mercilessly against the rock--"[[16]]
"Give me my lance!" cried De Coucy, starting up, with his blood boiling at this picture of an age so near his own--"give me my lance, ho! By all the saints of France----"