“In this small matter,” said the King, “I trust you will allow my command to outweigh his, even with you his liege subjects.—I am something indisposed, my lords—something fatigued. Great pleasure hath its toils, as well as great pain. I trust to enjoy your society better tomorrow.—And yours, too, Seignior Philip of Comines—I am told you are the annalist of the time—we that desire to have a name in history must speak you fair, for men say your pen hath a sharp point, when you will.—Goodnight, my lords and gentles, to all and each of you.”
The Lords of Burgundy retired, much pleased with the grace of Louis's manner, and the artful distribution of his attentions; and the King was left with only one or two of his own personal followers, under the archway of the base court of the Castle of Peronne, looking on the huge tower which occupied one of the angles, being in fact the Donjon, or principal Keep, of the palace. This tall, dark, massive building was seen clearly by the same moon which was lighting Quentin Durward betwixt Charleroi and Peronne, which, as the reader is aware, shone with peculiar lustre. The great Keep was in form nearly resembling the White Tower in the Citadel of London, but still more ancient in its architecture, deriving its date, as was affirmed, from the days of Charlemagne. The walls were of a tremendous thickness, the windows very small, and grated with bars of iron, and the huge clumsy bulk of the building cast a dark and portentous shadow over the whole of the courtyard.
“I am not to be lodged there,” the King said, with a shudder that had something in it ominous.
“No,” replied the gray headed seneschal, who attended upon him unbonneted. “God forbid!—Your Majesty's apartments are prepared in these lower buildings which are hard by, and in which King John slept two nights before the battle of Poitiers.”
“Hum—that is no lucky omen neither,” muttered the King; “but what of the Tower, my old friend? and why should you desire of Heaven that I may not be there lodged?”
“Nay, my gracious Liege,” said the seneschal, “I know no evil of the Tower at all, only that the sentinels say lights are seen, and strange noises heard in it at night; and there are reasons why that may be the case, for anciently it was used as a state prison, and there are many tales of deeds which have been done in it.”
Louis asked no further questions; for no man was more bound than he to respect the secrets of a prison house. At the door of the apartments destined for his use, which, though of later date than the Tower, were still both ancient and gloomy, stood a small party of the Scottish Guard, which the Duke, although he declined to concede the point to Louis, had ordered to be introduced, so as to be near the person of their master. The faithful Lord Crawford was at their head.
“Crawford—my honest and faithful Crawford,” said the King, “where hast thou been today?—Are the Lords of Burgundy so inhospitable as to neglect one of the bravest and most noble gentlemen that ever trode a court?—I saw you not at the banquet.”
“I declined it, my Liege,” said Crawford, “times are changed with me. The day has been that I could have ventured a carouse with the best man in Burgundy and that in the juice of his own grape; but a matter of four pints now flusters me, and I think it concerns your Majesty's service to set in this an example to my gallants.”
“Thou art ever prudent,” said the King, “but surely your toil is the less when you have so few men to command?—and a time of festivity requires not so severe self denial on your part as a time of danger.”