The Days of Bruce: A Story from Scottish History. Vol. 1Aguilar, Grace
History
The Days of Bruce: A Story from Scottish History. Vol. 1
Aguilar, Grace
Robert I, King of Scots, 1274-1329 -- Fiction; Scotland -- History -- Robert I, 1306-1329 -- Fiction
The imperative gesture of the
abbot commanded and retained order and silence, the service proceeded;
there might have been some faltering in the tones of the choir, but the
swelling notes of the organ concealed the deficiency.
The eye of Agnes voluntarily sought her betrothed. His head was still
bent down in earnest prayer, but she had not looked long before she saw
him raise it, and lift up his clasped hands in the evident passionate
fervor of his prayer. So beautiful, so gloriously beautiful was that
countenance thus breathing prayer, so little seemed that soul of earth,
that tears started to the eyes of Agnes, and the paleness of strong
emotion over-spread the cheek, aye, and the quivering lip, which the war
and death-speaking trumpet had had no power to disturb.
"Let me abide by him, merciful Father, in weal or in woe; oh, part us
not!" she prayed again and yet again, and the bright smile which now
encircled his lips--for he had caught her glance--seemed an answer to
her prayer.
It was a beautiful, though perhaps to many of the inmates of Kildrummie
a terrible sight, which from the roof of the turret now presented itself
to their view. The English force lay before them, presenting many a
solid phalanx of steel, many a glancing wood of spears. Nor were these
all; the various engines used in sieges at this time, battering-rams,
and others, whose technical names are unfortunately lost to us, but used
to fling stones of immense weight to an almost incredible distance;
arbalists, and the incomparable archer, who carried as many lives as
arrows in his belt; wagons, heavily laden, with all things necessary
for a close and numerous encampment--all these could be plainly
distinguished in rapid advance towards the castle, marking their path
through the country by the smoke of the hamlets they had burned. Many
and eager voices resounded in various parts of the castle; numbers had
thronged to the tower, with their own eyes to mark the approach of the
enemy, and to report all they had seen to their companions below,
triumphantly or despondingly, according to the temper of their minds.
Sir Nigel Bruce and Sir Christopher Seaton, with others of the superior
officers, stood a little apart, conversing eagerly and animatedly, and
finally separating, with an eager grasp of the hand, to perform the
duties intrusted to each.
"Ha! Christine, and thou, fair maiden," exclaimed Sir Christopher,
gayly, as on turning he encountered his wife and Agnes arm-in-arm. "By
mine honor, this is bravely done; ye will not wait in your tiring-bower
till your knights seek ye, but come for information yourselves. Well,
'tis a goodly company, is't not? as gallant a show as ever mustered, by
my troth. Those English warriors tacitly do us honor, and proclaim our
worth by the numbers of gallant men they bring against us. We shall
return the compliment some day, and pay them similar homage."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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