Cannot he that wisely declines walking upon the ice for fear of falling, though possibly it might carry him sooner to his journey's end, as wisely forbear drinking more wine than is necessary, for fear of being drunk and the ill-consequences thereof?—Lord Clarendon.
THE NOVELIST.
No. CX.
THE RESCUE.
By Miss Roberts.
"King Stephen was a worthy peer."
The hall was lofty, sculptured round with armorial devices, and hung with gaily-embroidered banners, which waved in the wind streaming from the crannies in windows which had suffered some dilapidation from the hand of time. Minstrel harps rang throughout the wide apartment, and at a board well covered with smoking viands—haunches of the red deer, bustards, cranes, quarters of mutton, pasties, the grinning heads of wild boars,—and flanked with flagons of wine, and tankards of foaming ale, sat King Stephen, surrounded by the flower of the Norman nobles, whose voices had placed him on the English throne. In the midst of the feast, the jovial glee of the wassailers was interrupted by the entrance of a page, who, forcing his way through the yeomen and lacqueys crowding at the door, flew with breathless haste to the feet of the king, and falling down on his knees, in faltering accents delivered the message with which he had been intrusted. "Up, gallants," exclaimed the martial monarch, "don your harness, and ride as lightly as you may to the relief of the Countess of Clare, she lies in peril of her life and honour, beleaguered by a rabble of unnurtured Welsh savages, who, lacking respect for beauty, have directed their arms against a woman. Swollen with vain pride at their late victory, (the fiend hang the coward loons who fled before them,) they have sworn to make this noble lady serve them barefoot in their camp. By St. Dennis and my good sword, were I not hampered by this pestilent invasion of the Scots, I would desire no better pastime than to drive the ill-conditioned serfs howling from the walls. Say, who amongst you will undertake the enterprise?—What, all silent? are ye knights? are ye men? do I reign over christian warriors, valiant captains who have been sworn to protect beauty in distress; or are ye like the graceless dogs of Mahomed, insensible to female honour?" "My ranks are wonderous scant," returned Milo Fitzwalter, "I may not reckon twenty men at arms in the whole train, and varlets have I none; but it boots not to number spears when danger presses; so to horse and away. Beshrew me, were it the termagant Queen Maude herself, I'd do my best to rescue her in this extremity."—"Thou art a true knight, Fitzwalter," replied the king, "and wilt prosper: the Saint's benizon be with thee, for thou must speed on this errand with such tall men as thou canst muster of thine own proper followers: the Scots, whom the devil confound, leave me too much work, to spare a single lance from mine own array. We will drink to thy success, and to the health of the fair countess, in a flask of the right Bourdeaux: and tell the lady that thy monarch grudges thee this glorious deed; for by my Halidom, an thou winnest her unscathed from the hands of these Welsh churls, thou wilt merit a niche beside the most renowned of Charlemagne's paladins." Fitzwalter made no answer, but he armed in haste, and, leaping into his saddle, gave the spur to his gallant steed, and followed by his esquires and men at arms, rested not either night or day, until he reached the marches of Wales. The lions of England still proudly flying over the castle walls, assured him that the countess had been enabled to hold out against the savage horde, who surrounded it on all sides. The besiegers set up a furious yell as the knight and his party approached their encampment. Half naked, their eyes glaring wildly from beneath a mass of yellow hair, and scantily armed with the rudest species of offensive and defensive weapons, their numbers alone made them terrible; and had the castle been manned and victualled, it might have long defied their utmost strength. Drawing their falchions, the knight and his party keeping closely together, and thus forming an impenetrable wedge, cut their desperate path through the fierce swarm of opposing foes, who, like incarnate demons, rushed to the onslaught, and fell in heaps before the biting steel of these experienced soldiers. Pressing forward with unyielding bravery, Fitzwalter won the castle walls; whence, with the assistance of such frail aid as the living spectres on the battlements could give, he beat back the Welsh host, and in another quarter of an hour, having dispersed the enemy with frightful loss, gained free entrance to the castle. Feeble was the shout of triumph which welcomed Fitzwalter and his brave companions; the corpses of the unburied dead lay strewed upon the pavement; the heroic countess, and her attendant damsels, clad in the armour of the slain, weakened by famine, and hopeless of succour, yet still striving to deceive the besiegers by the display of living warriors, by this stratagem retarded the assault which they could not repel. Fitzwalter took advantage of the darkness of the night, and the panic of the Welshmen, to withdraw from a fortress which was destitute of all the implements of war; and with the rescued ladies mounted behind them, the brave band returned to the court of King Stephen; and the charms of the fair one, and the valour of her chivalric defender, formed the theme of the minstrel in every knightly hall and lady's bower throughout Christendom.