At this ignominious sentence, by which the proud heir of the house of Loring would share the fate of the meanest village poacher, the hot blood of Nigel rushed to his face, and his eye glanced round him with a gleam which said more plainly than words that there could be no tame acceptance of such a doom. Twice he tried to speak, and twice his anger and his shame held the words in his throat.
“I am no subject of yours, proud Abbot!” he cried at last. “My house has ever been vavasor to the king. I deny the power of you and your court to lay sentence upon me. Punish these your own monks, who whimper at your frown, but do not dare to lay your hand upon him who fears you not, for he is a free man, and the peer of any save only the king himself.”
The Abbot seemed for an instant taken aback by these bold words, and by the high and strenuous voice in which they were uttered. But the sterner sacrist came as ever to stiffen his will. He held up the old parchment in his hand.
“The Lorings were indeed vavasors to the king,” said he; “but here is the very seal of Eustace Loring, which shows that he made himself vassal to the Abbey, and held his land from it.”
“Because he was gentle,” cried Nigel, “because he had no thought of trick or guile.”
“Nay!” said the summoner. “If my voice may be heard, father Abbot, upon a point of the law, it is of no weight what the causes may have been why a deed is subscribed, signed or confirmed, but a court is concerned only with the terms, articles, covenants, and contracts of the said deed.”
“Besides,” said the sacrist, “sentence is passed by the Abbey court, and there is an end of its honour and good name if it be not upheld.”
“Brother sacrist,” said the Abbot, angrily, “methinks you show overmuch zeal in this case, and certes, we are well able to uphold the dignity and honour of the Abbey court without any rede of thine. As to you, worthy summoner, you will give your opinion when we crave for it, and not before, or you may yourself get some touch of the power of our tribunal. But your case hath been tried, Squire Loring, and judgment given. I have no more to say.”
He motioned with his hand, and an archer laid his grip upon the shoulder of the prisoner. But that rough plebeian touch woke every passion of revolt in Nigel’s spirit. Of all his high line of ancestors, was there one who had been subjected to such ignominy as this? Would they not have preferred death? And should he be the first to lower their spirit or their traditions? With a quick, lithe movement, he slipped under the arm of the archer, and plucked the short, straight sword from the soldier’s side as he did so. The next instant he had wedged himself into the recess of one of the narrow windows, and there were his pale set face, his burning eyes, and his ready blade turned upon the assembly.
“By Saint Paul!” said he, “I never thought to find honourable advancement under the roof of an abbey, but, perchance, there may be some room for it ere you hale me to your prison.”
The chapter-house was in an uproar. Never in the long and decorous history of the Abbey had such a scene been witnessed within its walls. The monks themselves seemed for an instant to be affected by this spirit of daring revolt. Their own lifelong fetters hung more loosely as they viewed this unheard-of defiance of authority. They broke from their seats on either side, and huddled half-scared, half-fascinated, in a large half-circle round the defiant captive, chattering, pointing, grimacing, a scandal for all time. Scourges should fall and penance be done for many a long week before the shadow of that day should pass from Waverley. But meanwhile there was no effort to bring them back to their rule. Everything was chaos and disorder. The Abbot had left his seat of justice and hurried angrily forward, to be engulfed and hustled in the crowd of his own monks like a sheepdog who finds himself entangled amid a flock.
Only the sacrist stood clear. He had taken shelter behind the half-dozen archers, who looked with some approval and a good deal of indecision at this bold fugitive from justice.
“On him!” cried the sacrist. “Shall he defy the authority of the court, or shall one man hold six of you at bay? Close in upon him and seize him. You, Baddlesmere, why do you hold back?”
The man in question, a tall, bushy-bearded fellow, clad like the others in green jerkin and breeches, with high brown boots, advanced slowly, sword in hand, against Nigel. His heart was not in the business, for these clerical courts were not popular, and everyone had a tender heart for the fallen fortunes of the house of Loring and wished well to its young heir.
“Come, young sir, you have caused scathe enough,” said he. “Stand forth and give yourself up!”
“Come and fetch me, good fellow,” said Nigel, with a dangerous smile.
The archer ran in. There was a rasp of steel, a blade flickered like a swift dart of flame, and the man staggered back, with blood running down his forearm and dripping from his fingers. He wrung them and growled a Saxon oath.
“By the black rood of Bromeholm!” he cried, “I had as soon put my hand down a fox’s earth to drag up a vixen from her cubs.”
“Stand off!” said Nigel curtly. “I would not hurt you; but, by Saint Paul! I will not be handled, or someone will be hurt in the handling.”
So fierce was his eye and so menacing his blade as he crouched in the narrow bay of the window that the little knot of archers
