“Follow me,” said a knight, or man-at-arms, well mounted, and attired completely in black armour, but having the visor of his helmet closed, and bearing no crest on his helmet, or device upon his shield.
“We will follow no stranger,” said the Abbot, “without some warrant of his truth.”
“I am a stranger and in your hands,” said the horseman; “if you wish to know more of me, the Queen herself will be your warrant.”
The Queen had remained fixed to the spot, as if disabled by fear, yet mechanically smiling, bowing, and waving her hand, as banners were lowered and spears depressed before her, while, emulating the strife betwixt Seyton and Arbroath, band on band pressed forward their march towards the enemy. Scarce, however, had the black rider whispered something in her ear, than she assented to what he said; and when he spoke aloud, and with an air of command, “Gentlemen, it is the Queen's pleasure that you should follow me,” Mary uttered, with something like eagerness, the word “Yes.”
All were in motion in an instant; for the black horseman, throwing off a sort of apathy of manner, which his first appearance indicated, spurred his horse to and fro, making him take such active bounds and short turns, as showed the rider master of the animal; and getting the Queen's little retinue in some order for marching, he led them to the left, directing his course towards a castle, which, crowning a gentle yet commanding eminence, presented an extensive view over the country beneath, and in particular, commanded a view of those heights which both armies hastened to occupy, and which it was now apparent must almost instantly be the scene of struggle and dispute.
“Yonder towers,” said the Abbot, questioning the sable horseman, “to whom do they belong?—and are they in the hands of friends?”
“They are untenanted,” replied the stranger, “or, at least, they have no hostile inmates.—But urge these youths. Sir Abbot, to make more haste—this is but an evil time to satisfy their idle curiosity, by peering out upon the battle in which they are to take no share.”
“The worse luck mine,” said Henry Seyton, who overheard him—“I would rather be under my father's banner at this moment than be made Chamberlain of Holyrood, for this my present duty of peaceful ward well and patiently discharged.”
“Your place under your father's banner will shortly be right dangerous,” said Roland Avenel, who, pressing his horse towards the westward, had still his look reverted to the armies; “for I see yonder body of cavalry, which presses from the eastward, will reach the village ere Lord Seyton can gain it.”
“They are but cavalry,” said Seyton, looking attentively; “they cannot hold the village without shot of harquebuss.”