The Knights of England, France, and Scotland

by Henry William Herbert

But on rode the tyrants, onward—careless of the ruin they had wrought, ruthless toward the innocence they had determined to destroy; confident in the puissance of their prowess, and almost defying the thunders of Heaven, which were even then rolling and muttering far away among the volcanic peaks of the Mont d’or. Were these the omens of a coming storm?

They reached the esplanade before the castle-gates, and Marguerite was still unconscious. Happy had she nevermore regained her consciousness! But as the horses’ hoofs thundered over the echoing drawbridge, the clang roused her from her swoon. She raised herself up, drew her hand across her brow, as if to clear away some imaginary mist obscuring her mental vision, and gazed wildly and hurriedly around her on the strange objects which met her eyes, as if she had not as yet realized to herself her condition, nor altogether knew her destination. As she was carried, however, through the dim, resounding vault of the barbacan, and heard the grating clang of the portcullis when it thundered down behind her, a sense of her lost condition flashed upon her soul, and a voice seemed to whisper in her ear those words of horrible import which Danté, in after-days, inscribed upon the gates of hell; “On entering here, leave every hope behind!”

Still she shrieked not, nor wept, nor craved or sympathy or pity; for too well did she know that the hearts of those to whom she should appeal were harder, colder than their own iron breastplates; her only confidence was in her own strenuous virtue, her only hope in Him who alone can save.

She was lifted from the horse, not only with some show of gentleness, but even of respect, without receiving word or sign of intelligence from the young lord of Roche d’or, who strode away, accompanied by his ill-counsellor, Canillac the madman, toward the banqueting-room, wherein the noontide meal was prepared already, and where the flower of the knights and nobles of the province were assembled to welcome the new-comer. Then she was conducted by the page through several long, winding passages, to a sort of withdrawing-room, in which she found several female-servants of the higher class, to the care of one of whom she was consigned, with a few words of whispered orders, by her conductor, who bowed low and retired. The girls looked at her for a moment or two earnestly, inquiringly—eying her gay bridal-dress, so ill-suited to the mode of her arrival, with an air between suspicion and sympathy—until, at length, one of them seemed to recognise her, and exclaimed: “Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! if it be not the fair Marguerite!”

And then, as pity seemed to prevail over all other feelings, they crowded round her kindly and respectfully; and after a few kindly-intended but little-meaning words, one of them offered to conduct her to her appointed chamber, promising to bring her refreshments shortly, and saying that doubtless she would prefer to take some repose, and be alone.

Through dark, circuitous passages, vaulted with solid stone, and ribbed as though they had been hewn out of the living rock, and up interminable winding stairs, she led her, until her brain whirled round and round, and her senses were almost bewildered. At length they reached the topmost story of the huge, square tower, and, opening a low, arched door, the hapless bride was ushered into a room so sumptuously furnished as Marguerite had never seen or dreamed of; and then, with a deep reverence, and a half-compassionate air, the attendant maiden left her, a prisoner; for she heard the lock turned from without, and her heart fell at the sound.

The sun, which had turned already toward the westward, was pouring a rich stream of light through the oriel window, over the tapestried walls and floor; over the velvet bed in a deep alcove; over the soft arm-chairs, and central table covered with a splendid carpet, and strewn with illuminated books, and rich, sculptured cups and vases. But it was on none of these that the eyes of Marguerite dwelt meaningly; for, as they wandered over these, half-marvelling amid her terrors at their beauty, she discerned an oaken prie-Dieu, in a small niche beside the window, with a missal on its embroidered cushion, and a crucifix with the sacrificed Redeemer looking down from it on the repentant sinner.

In an instant, she was on her knees before the image of her God, pouring forth the whole of her innocent and spotless soul, in the holiest of supplications. She prayed for aid from on high to preserve her unstained virtue; she prayed for strength from on high to resist temptation; she prayed for pardon from on high for her sins and errors past, for grace that she might err no more in future; she prayed that He, who alone could pity human suffering—for that he had suffered as no man suffereth—would touch the hearts of her ruthless persecutors, through his Virgin Mother; she prayed that he would console her sorrowing parents, and him whom she scarcely dared think of, so terrible she knew must be his anguish; lastly, she prayed for pardon to her persecutor, and that, if she were doomed that night to perish, her soul might be received to grace, through the intercession of the saints, and her, the ever-blessed, the Virgin Mother Mary!

Her prayer, if in form it were erroneous, in spirit was sincere and fervent; and, as sincere and fervent prayers will ever, surely must hers have found a hearing at the throne of mercy, for she arose from her knees confirmed, if not consoled, and strengthened in her virtuous principles, and calm by the very strength of her resolves.

Then, opening the oriel window, she stepped out into the little balcony, or bartizan, which projected out beyond the face of the wall—perhaps in the hope of finding some means of escape; but, alas! if such a hope had flattered her, it was delusive; for there was no egress from it, nor any method of descending; and it impended far over the broad, deep moat, a hundred feet or more above its dark, clear waters—which, she remembered to have heard men say, were fifty feet in depth to the bottom of their rock-hewn channel. Long, long she gazed over the lovely sunlit valley of her birth, which all lay mapped out in the glorious glow before her eyes; the happy home among the limes, beneath which she was born; the happier home of promise, into which she had hoped that day to be led by him whom she loved the best; the little chapel in the dell, among the oaks, in which she had plighted, that very morn, her faith for ever, until death, and death alone, should dissolve the bonds.