The princess blushed, and turning from Patrick, proceeded in confusion towards the palace; while he followed at a distance, repenting of what he had said, and of what he had done, or, rather, wishing that he had said more, or said less.
"Yet," thought he, "she did not look on me as if I had spoken presumptuously! I will hope, though it be against hope—even though it be but the shadow of despair."
But an hour had not passed, although he sought to hide himself with his thoughts in his chamber, when he heard that the commissioners who had arrived from his native land, were Thomas Charteris, the High Chancellor; Patrick de Graham, William de St Clair, and John de Soulis; and that their errand was to demand the beautiful Jolande as the bride and queen of their liege sovereign, Alexander the Third, yet called good.
Now, the praise of Alexander was echoed in every land. He was as a father to his people, and as a husband to his kingdom. He was wise, just, resolute, merciful. Scotland loved him—all nations honoured him. But Death, that spareth not the prince more than the peasant, and which, to short-sighted mortals, seemeth to strike alike at the righteous and the wicked, had made desolate the hearths of his palaces, and rendered their chambers solitary. Tribulation had fallen heavily on the head of a virtuous King. A granddaughter, the infant child of a foreign prince, was all that was left of his race; and his people desired that he should leave behind him, as inheritor of the crown, one who might inherit also his name and virtues. He was still in the full vigour of his manhood, and the autumn of years was invisible on his brow. No "single silverings" yet marked the raven ringlets which waved down his temples; and, though his years were forty and three, his appearance did not betoken him to be above thirty.
His people, therefore, wished, and his courtiers urged, that he should marry again; and fame pointed out the lovely Jolande, the daughter of the Count of Dreux, as his bride.
When Patrick Douglas, the learned and honoured, but fortuneless soldier, found that his new competitor for the hand of the gentle Jolande was none other than his sovereign, he was dumb with despair, and the last, the miserable hope which it imparts, and which maketh wretched, began to leave him. He now accused himself for having been made the sacrifice of a wild and presumptuous dream, and again he thought of the kindly smile and the look of sorrow which met together on her countenance, when, in a rash, impassioned moment, he fell on his knee before her, and made known what his heart felt.
But, before another sun rose, Patrick Douglas, the honoured military adventurer of King Philip, was not to be found in the palace of the Count de Dreux. Many were the conjectures concerning his sudden departure; and, amongst those conjectures, as regarding the cause, many were right. But Jolande stole to her chamber, and in secret wept for the brave stranger.
More than two years passed away, and the negotiations between the Courts of Scotland and of France, respecting the marriage of King Alexander and Fair Jolande, were continued; but, during that period, even the name of Patrick Douglas, the Scottish soldier, began to be forgotten—his learning became a dead letter, and his feats of arms continued no longer the theme of tongues. It is seldom that kings are such tardy wooers; but between the union of the good Alexander and the beautiful Jolande many obstacles were thrown. When, however, their nuptials were finally agreed to, it was resolved that they should be celebrated on a scale of magnificence such as the world had not seen. Now, the loveliest spot in broad Scotland, where the Scottish King could celebrate the gay festivities, was the good town of Jedworth, or, as it is now called, Jedburgh. For it was situated, like an Eden, in the depth of an impenetrable forest; gardens circled it; wooded hills surrounded it; precipices threw their shadows over flowery glens; wooded hills embraced it, as the union of many arms; waters murmured amidst it; and it was a scene on which man could not gaze without forgetting, or regretting his fallen nature. Yea, the beholder might have said—"If the earth be yet so lovely, how glorious must it have been ere it was cursed because of man's transgression!"
Thither, then, did the Scottish monarch, attended by all the well-affected nobles of his realm, repair to meet his bride. He took up his residence in the castle of his ancestors, which was situated near the Abbey, and his nobles occupied their own, or other houses, in other parts of the town; for Jedburgh was then a great and populous place, and, from the loveliness of its situation, the chosen residence of royalty. (It is a pity but that our princes and princesses saw it now, and they would hardly be again charmed with the cold, dead, and bare beach of Brighton.) An old writer (I forget whom) has stated, in describing the magnitude of Jedburgh in those days, that it was six times larger than Berwick. This, however, is a mistake, for Berwick, at that period, was the greatest maritime town in the kingdom, and surpassed London, which strove to rival it.
On the same day that King Alexander and his splendid retinue reached Jedburgh, his bride, escorted by the nobles of France and their attendants, also arrived. The dresses of the congregated thousands were gorgeous as summer flowers, and variegated as gorgeous. The people looked with wonder on the glittering throng. The trees had lost the hues of their fresh and living green—for brown October threw its deep shadows o'er the landscape—but the leaves yet trembled on the boughs from which they were loath to part; and, as a rainbow that had died upon the trees, and left its hues and impression there, the embrowning forest appeared.