"Oh that I were now at Rome, instead of loitering here in Flanders," resumed the abbot; "how many souls might yet be saved!"
"The devil hath been long at his work, father abbot, since that tempting day in the Garden of Eden," said Gray, laughing, as he took the abbot's hand in his.
"Good morrow, sir," said the churchman, coldly, as he scrutinized the strange costume and scarred face of the speaker.
"You do not know me?" exclaimed Sir Patrick.
"Nay, sir, not I."
"'Tis well," said Gray, with a bitter smile, as he remembered his wound, "I seem a Muscovite, but the cowl does not make the monk. I crave a word apart, lord abbot – I have that to say, which you must hear alone."
When they withdrew a pace or two back, Sir Patrick lifted his fur cap, and displayed his features more fully.
"Heaven grant us its peace," exclaimed the abbot, with astonishment; "'tis my kinsman, Gray of Foulis!"
"Hush," said Gray, placing a hand upon his mouth.
"Rash boy, and bold as rash, what seek you here in Flanders?" asked the abbot, with gloom, alarm, and almost anger expressed in his face.
"I came on the king's service; but now I seek Murielle Douglas – and Murielle I shall see, father!"
"Beware, lest you find death instead."
"I know the penalty, if discovered," said Gray carelessly; "but in this disguise, and with a face so altered, I may escape, as I have already eluded, the penetrating eyes of the villain Achanna."
"But the earl – he whose projects are so high – so deep – so terrible!" urged the priest in a whispered voice of agony.
"He will not dare to touch me here in a fortified town – "
"What! You expect Earl James to be a saint in Gueldreland, though he is a devil in Galloway? What saith Horace – that those who cross the seas change their climate but not their mind."
"I know with what intention he has crossed the seas, and for what object he will return."
"You do!" said the abbot, in a husky whisper.
"Aye, as well as you, father abbot, who are the keeper of that pretty burden, his conscience. I have seen, yea, and supped with, Robert, duke of Albany."
"Hush!" said the abbot, glancing at his chaunter.
"Ah – 'tis your turn to say hush now."
"You have seen him – this poor outlawed prince?"
"Yes, and spent an evening with him – an interesting, if not a jovial one, certainly; and in his cups, he unfolded some very pretty schemes, concerning which, I shall be silent, until I tread again the streets of Edinburgh."
"Oh, be wary, kinsman – be wary!" said the abbot, in a voice that betrayed increasing alarm.
"The duke modestly asked me to aid in a little plot against my own life, and made me several fair offers to lure me to his service against the king."
"Offers, of what?"
"Lands and titles."
"He is liberal, as that Fell Spirit, who took our Lord unto the mountain top, and offered Him cities and empires, when he had not an inch of land to give – not even the mud that adhered to his cloven hoof. Oh, that I were now at Rome!"
"But Murielle is to be made the tool – the victim of these desperate plotters – and you know it, father, you know it!"
"Ah," said the abbot, with a groan, "there you sting my inmost heart."
"Then how must mine be stung? but you will enable me to meet – to console her?"
"I – impossible!"
"There is nothing impossible in it," continued Gray, with earnestness; "you must – you shall! Ah, I do not threaten you – I implore. Think of all we have suffered for each other; think of what we may yet be condemned to suffer, by those, whom Evil Fortune seems to have made the arbiters of our destiny."
"'Tis very sad, and very true," replied the abbot, slowly, "but I dare not."
"You are a priest, and may dare anything," exclaimed
Gray, passionately, "and here I swear, that if you do not take me to Murielle, or bring her to me – in short, if you do not enable us to meet, by all that we revere in heaven and on earth, and by the bones of St. Genevieve, I will cast myself in the earl's path, and brave him and his followers to the last; and you know what is sure to ensue then."
"Your instant destruction."
"Promise me – promise," urged Gray, in whose eyes the tears were starting as he pressed the hands of the old abbot.
The latter was kind and gentle hearted, and loved his young kinsman too well to withstand his entreaties long; he felt his resolution waver, and strangely enough became a little irritated.
"By St. Bryde, of Douglas, I would we had never met," he exclaimed; "although Sir Patrick, the sequel might have been the worse for you."
"Where does she reside?"
"With the earl and countess," replied the abbot, briefly.
"Of course," said Gray, impatiently, "but, where are they?"
"In a house belonging to the Dyck Graf, and adjoining the great church and the college of canons. I am to-night to bring her – "
"Where, father – where?"
"To this church of St. Genevieve."
"Oh, how happy was the chance that brought me hither! You will allow me to go with you?"
"Impossible – never; by my habit, my order – "
"Why – why?"
"Your relations with her, and my office – "
"Your office will protect us; it is ordained that you should succour those in distress, and Murielle and I are both in need of succour. Father Abbot – dear kind friend, you agree."
"Be then silent and wary, and meet me at the porch here, at the hour of seven this evening," replied the abbot, suddenly giving way.
"God will reward you – I never can – adieu, adieu!" said Gray, in the fulness of his heart, and in a voice which became husky with emotion, as he hastened into the street, with a giddy head and a light heart, muttering: "I shall see her – to-night I shall see her! but ah, by the dial, it lacks five hours of the time!"
CHAPTER XXXII
THE CHURCH OF ST. GENEVIEVE
When stars are in the quiet skies,
Then most I pine for thee;
Bend on me then thy tender eyes,
As stars look on the sea!
For thoughts, like waves that glide by night,
Are stillest when they shine;
Mine earthly love lies hush'd in light,
Beneath the heaven of thine. —
To Gray it appeared as if the day would never pass, and he spent the hours of it in thinking over all he would say to Murielle, and all she might probably reply. He glanced at his mirror – would the scar on his face shock her? Doubtless, but she would love him the more for it, and then it would wear away in time. Then he consulted the gnomons of the sun-dials at the street corners, and the clocks of the numerous churches, and to the eyes of an impatient lover, the shadows of the former, and the hands of the latter, seemed alike to stand still.
Yet inevitable Time, which may neither be anticipated or withheld, passed slowly, and surely on. The shadows of the quaint streets, of the carved and traceried steeples, and of the battlemented castle, with its grey old walls and muddy sluices, fell far to the eastward, along the grassy meadows of the Bommelerwaard; the storks were already in their nests on the steep old gables, and long before the appointed hour, Gray was at the porch of St. Genevieve, where, with anxious eyes, he scanned the passengers, and the thoroughfares in every direction.
At last seven tolled from the spire, and every stroke reverberated in his heart. They had not yet come, and just as a sigh of impatience escaped him, a hand was laid upon his shoulder; he turned, and beheld the abbot of Tongland, and standing behind him, on the upper step of the porch, a pace or two within the church, was a lady, wearing a Flemish hood and veil. Gray's heart rose to his lips, as he sprang towards her, and pressed in his the hands of Murielle.
"Beware, Sir Patrick," said the abbot, "we cannot permit such transports here, and in view of the passers, too! Retire into the north aisle, while I betake me to the south, for I have still some leaves of my daily office to read; and when that is over, I shall rejoin you. Be secret – be wary!"