The old man, thus admonished, came forward, and, in good terms of speech, gave her Grace joy of her deliverance. The Queen returned him thanks in the most gracious manner, and added, “It will remain to us to offer some immediate reward for your fidelity, for we wot well your house has been long the refuge in which our trusty servants have met to concert measures for our freedom.” So saying, she offered gold, and added, “We will consider your services more fully hereafter.”
“Kneel, brother,” said the Abbot, “kneel instantly, and thank her Grace's kindness.”
“Good brother, that wert once a few steps under me, and art still many years younger,” replied the gardener, pettishly, “let me do mine acknowledgments in my own way. Queens have knelt to me ere now, and in truth my knees are too old and stiff to bend even to this lovely-faced lady. May it please your Grace, if your Grace's servants have occupied my house, so that I could not call it mine own—if they have trodden down my flowers in the zeal of their midnight comings and goings, and destroyed the hope of the fruit season, by bringing their war-horses into my garden, I do but crave of your Grace in requital, that you will choose your residence as far from me as possible. I am an old man who would willingly creep to my grave as easily as I can, in peace, good-will, and quiet labour.”
“I promise you fairly, good man,” said the Queen, “I will not make yonder castle my residence again, if I can help it. But let me press on you this money—it will make some amends for the havoc we have made in your little garden and orchard.”
“I thank your Grace, but it will make me not the least amends,” said the old man. “The ruined labours of a whole year are not so easily replaced to him who has perchance but that one year to live; and besides, they tell me I must leave this place and become a wanderer in mine old age—I that have nothing on earth saving these fruit-trees, and a few old parchments and family secrets not worth knowing. As for gold, if I had loved it, I might have remained Lord Abbot of St. Mary's—and yet, I wot not—for, if Abbot Boniface be but the poor peasant Blinkhoolie, his successor, the Abbot Ambrosius, is still transmuted for the worse into the guise of a sword-and-buckler-man.”
“Is this indeed the Abbot Boniface of whom I have heard?” said the Queen. “It is indeed I who should have bent the knee for your blessing, good Father.”
“Bend no knee to me, Lady! The blessing of an old man, who is no longer an Abbot, go with you over dale and down—I hear the trampling of your horses.”
“Farewell, Father,” said the Queen. “When we are once more seated at Holyrood, we will neither forget thee nor thine injured garden.”
“Forget us both,” said the Ex-Abbot Boniface, “and may God be with you!”
As they hurried out of the house, they heard the old man talking and muttering to himself, as he hastily drew bolt and bar behind them.