“Nay, nay,” said he meekly, “thou art headstrong and rash. But our Holy Mother inflicts a penance upon these men, for their irreverent and unbecoming treatment of her humble son and servant. What! profane wretches, do you laugh? Beware. If this crucifix brand the curse, woe, woe unto you. Boy, lead them to the penance room, and I myself will release them. Come.”
They dared not disobey; for then, every man, noble, or knight, or menial, was the priest’s retainer. The ministers of the altar were more powerful than the satellites of the throne, and beneath the single pall and crosier of the one, lurked a vengeance which could scathe and destroy the proud tiara of the other. How mysterious and yet real was the influence concealed in the slightest external of the Church!
The Welsh retainers groaned as they were compelled to rise, and proceed into the dark and cheerless apartment, which, in later times, served for a dungeon. The palmer turned the key, and fastened it to his belt.
“They are safe,” he whispered to himself. They were now met by some of Sir William’s old retainers, who bowed low to the holy man, and seemed inclined, by their looks and haltings, to ask concerning their dead lord.
Feudal times might be the times of slavery on the part of retainers, but they were those also of fidelity and strong attachment. These retainers might be treated as brutes, but if so, they were treated like dogs, and in return they yielded a service which no hire could have extorted. Their love for their lord was powerful, and yet instinctive; their happiness was genuine, and yet animal,—far from the happiness of man. Their privileges were extensive; not scullions of the kitchen, they were the genii of the old halls. Their attachment to places and domains,—was that of the dog. As they were fond of loitering in old paths, or glancing at the proud mansion, or seated at the porch, their feelings were those of that animal, licking every part of the house, and lying down on favourite spots. And when their lord departed they drooped and pined; not as men sorrowing.
These reflections might have been awakened at a sight of the old servants of the Bradshaigh family, as they gazed so anxiously and inquiringly. Go to a house where the master has been long absent. An affectionate dog answers to your knock, and whines so piteously, and looks so fondly, as if begging to know tidings of him who has gone. Such was the appearance of the aged retainers of Haigh.
The palmer blessed them, in low tones, but feelingly, and then passed on with the boys.
They crept through the entrance, and were soon threading their way through the dark labyrinth. They gained the staircase. The palmer had taken the lead, evidently familiar with the place. He paused, and listened to the gentle tread of Lady Mabel. He strained his ears, as if expecting to hear the music of the voice, as well as of the foot; not for the sake of the future, but of the past. The setting rays, rich from the golden west, were streaming brightly on a little lattice, which lighted a recess in the long gallery, and meeting those which entered by the wide casement, they threw a dull haze around. They prevented him from seeing distinctly, as he looked through it; but the fluttering of a white robe, and the soft motion of a fair hand at the further extremity could be perceived. At that moment a horse was heard approaching the hall.
A suppresed shriek arose from within.
“It is Sir Osmund,” exclaimed the boys.