* * * * * * *CHAPTER XXIV.MALMO.Yes! there are sighs for the bursting heart,And tears for the sleepless eye;But tears and sighs and sympathy,Are luxuries unknown tome.The wretch immured in the dungeon-keepMay snatch an hour's repose;And dream of home and the light of heavenEre he wake to misery's throes;IfHopewith her radiant light be there—I mate with the swarthy fiend Despair!Vedder.Here, for a page or so, we resume the MSS. of the reverend and worthy Magister Absalom Beyer.About this period, his diary, journal, or history (which you will), for it partakes of them all, suddenly breaks off, and there are left but a few fragments, referring to a later period.One records the baptism of the sixth son of Anna and Konrad, whom King Frederick, for his valour in capturing a Lubeck frigate that ravaged the shores of Bergen, had created Count of Saltzberg, Lord of Welsöö, and governor of Bergenhuis; and the garrulous Magister records that this baptismal ceremony, at which he officiated, and which was celebrated with great splendour, was the seventh anniversary of that joyous day on which he had blessed the nuptial ring of Anna and Konrad in the old cathedral of the bishopric of Bergen; and he further records the quantity of ale, wine, and dricka imbibed on the occasion, and the loads of venison, bread, and bergenvisch, eaten by the tenantry at the baptism of young Hans (for so baby the sixth was named); and how he screamed and kicked when the holy water fell on him, till he nearly sprang from his carved cradle, which was hollowed like a boat in the Norse fashion, lined with moss and velvet, and was borne by Christina Slingebunder, who had found her way from Westeray back to Bergen.He also mentions that Konrad had grown somewhat florid, and rather more round in form, than when he had placed the ring on Anna's hand before that magnificent altar; and that she too, though retaining her youthful bloom, had (alas, for romance!) lost much of her slender and graceful aspect, and looked quite like the mother of the five chubby little ones, each of whom clung to her skirts with one hand, while the other was occupied with a great piece of the spiced christening cake, on which they were regaling with a satisfaction, equalled only by that of the Danish soldier, who, having again found the can and the cake offered on this occasion to Nippen, had appropriated them both to himself.* * * * *Ten years have elapsed since the reader last heard in these pages of Bothwell's hapless earl, and the lonely towers of Malmö.Ten years!And in all that long and weary time he had been a fettered felon within the iron walls of Malmö. Pining hopelessly in a captivity the most crushing to a heart so fierce and proud—to a soul so high-spirited and restless, with one thought ever before him—liberty and home; and though forgotten by Mary, or remembered only with a shudder, his old love for her had never died; and many a futile effort he made, by piteous letters and petitions, to Frederick II. of Demark—petitions so humble, that his once proud nature would have shrunk from their tenor—to interest himself, "pour la deliverance de la Royne sa Princesse Marie."[*][*] See Les Affaires de le Cante du Boduel.But neither her deliverance or his own were ever achieved; for, were such a thing possible, even God seemed to have abandoned them to a fate that was alike inexorable and irresistible.Year after year wore away, and the seasons succeeded each other in dreary and monotonous succession. This monotony was most intolerable in winter—the long and desolate winter of the north; when the descending avalanche roared between the frozen peaks—when the ice cracked and burst in the narrow fiords, where the seals and walrusses slept in the rays of the moon—and when the northern lights, as they flashed behind the summits of the distant hills, filled the midnight sky with figures that were equally beautiful and terrible.Ever and anon, in one of those dreary winters, when (as in A.D. 1333) all the harbours of the Sound were sheeted over with ice, and the shallow Baltic was frozen from Lubeck to the castle of Kiobenhafen, Bothwell sighed, as he thought of the great Yule-logs that blazed so merrily in many a Scottish hall, of the nut-brown ale and wine that flowed in many a quaigh and luggie; while the green holly branch and the mistletoe bough hung from the old roof-trees, and the mirth and joy of the season expanded every heart.Then came the short spring, that lasted but a month, when the snow melted or lingered only on the distant peaks; when the streams burst their frosty barriers, and, with the roar of a thousand waterfalls, poured in silver currents over the rocks of the fiord, where the wild rasp, the dwarf birch, and the barberry, sprouted in the warmth of the coming sun.And then, in the early mornings and the late nights of that northern region—nights when the sun sets at twelve P.M., he would gaze, dreamily, from his prison window on the waters of the Sound, until, to his fancy, they became like those of the Clyde, that swept round Bothwell bank, amid its dark green woods and sylvan solitude.The summer passed, and winter would come again to spread snow and desolation over the face of the land; and so the time wore on, until its very monotony turned his impetuous brain, and he became a raving maniac!* * * * ** * * * *It was in the year of grace 1577, when a Scottish priest, one of those whom the Reformation had compelled to wander, in misery and penury, far from their native lands, appeared at the gates of Malmö, and sought permission of Beirn Gowes, knight castellan, to visit the unhappy captive.The priest was a man about five-and-thirty; but the duties of his office, toil, and hardship, made him seem considerably older; his head was already becoming bald, even where he had no tonsure; his blue eyes were mild, and deep, and thoughtful; he leaned a little on a staff, and bore on his back the wallet containing a few of the necessaries required by him on his solitary pilgrimage; for he was one of those whose life had been devoted to spreading and upholding the Catholic faith in those northern lands, where it had been most severely shaken; and, amid hardship and danger, his days were spent in exhorting the faithful, recovering the faithless, and confirming the wavering.He stood within the vault where Bothwell lay, and, folding his hands upon his breast, regarded him fixedly with eyes that filled with tears.Oh, what a change was there!Visible only in the twilight that struggled through the open grating of that vaulted dungeon, the captive lay in a corner upon a little damp straw, chained by the middle to the wall like a wild animal; he was completely nude, and his coal-black hair and beard, now beginning to be grizzled, flourished in one thick matted and luxuriant mass, from amid which his wild black eyes gleamed like two bright stars. They were hollow, dilated, and ghastly. His form was attenuated to the last degree; every rib, joint, and muscle being horribly visible; he resembled an inmate of the grave—a chained fiend—any thing but a man in the prime of life, for the miserable being had barely reached his fortieth year.When he moved, the straw rustled, and the rusty chain that fretted his tender skin rattled grimly in the ears of the priest, who knelt down in the further end of the dungeon, and prayed with fervour; but Bothwell neither saw nor heard him.One of those glimmerings of the past that so frequently haunted him, was at that moment coming like a vision before his mind. Exhausted by illness, and the fever of his spirit, the poor maniac had become calm; and his thoughts were slowly emerging from the mist that obscured them, and arranging themselves in order and form, as he struggled back into a consciousness of existence—the brief consciousness that so often precedes the oblivion of the grave.In the figures made by the damp on his dungeon wall, he saw the same pale face, with its weeping eyes and white veil, that had haunted him so often, ere his overcharged mind found a relief in insanity. Mary—la Reine Blanche!he stretched his bony arms towards the figure; but still it remained there, neither advancing nor retiring, till a change came over its features.Then its eyes seemed to fill with a terrible glare, and the shriek that once rang through the Kirk-of-Field, seemed to rend the massive vault, and to pierce his tingling ears like a poniard. Then he dashed his hands against them, and grovelled down among the straw, to shut out that dreadful sound—the dying cry of Darnley!"Oh, Father of mercy and of justice!" said the priest, beating himself upon the breast; "how dreadful is thy vengeance, when thou permittest the sinner to mete out the meed of his own sin!""A voice! a voice—who spoke?" said the Earl, struck by the unusual sound. "Hah! was it thee?"His tone was low and husky, and the sounds seemed to come with labour from his furry throat."Was it thee—oh, say it was thee!" he continued, as he paused, and seemed to wrestle mentally with his madness, till he overcame it, and, by obtaining one further revelation of the past, became more and more cognizant of the present, and alive to the real horrors of his situation. "Memory," said he, passing a hand thoughtfully over his brow—"Oh, memory! what a curse art thou; and, when united to remorse, how doubly so! Hah! those eyes," he groaned; "those weeping eyes again! ... But that voice—it was hers! so soft—so gentle! it came back to me like a strain of old music on the wind of memory—as it has often come in the slow hours of many a cheerless day, and the dead calm silence of many a changeless night—through the long dark vista of many monotonous years. Years—how many! oh, how many! Dost thou smile with thine unearthly features? ha! ha!" ...Like sunshine emerging from a mist, the past was coming gradually back; and suddenly, like a flash of light, one bright gleam of thought brought all the long-forgotten days of other years before him.The visionary saw her—Mary—the bright, the beautiful, the innocent, as she had shone in the buoyancy of youth and loveliness, when surrounded by the chivalry of France, and the splendour of the house of Bourbon.The scene changed—she was standing timidly, irresolute, and pale, on the shores of her half-barbarized native land; again she appeared—it was with the diadem of the Bruces on her brow, and the orb of the Alexanders on her sceptre, as she presided over the first of her factious parliaments, in the ancient hall of the Scottish estates. He saw her standing with the triumphant Darnley at the altar of Sancte Crucis, with more in her air and eye of the timid bride than the stately queen, blushing and abashed by the side of her handsome and exulting vassal.Then came the memory of that terrible hour in the Kirk-of-Field—the night in the towers of Dunbar, and that fruitless cry for mercy—the sad low wail that chilled the ruffian heart of Ormiston.He saw to what he had reduced that bright and happy being, who, like a butterfly or an Indian bird, was born alone for the sunshine and the most flowery paths of life! He saw her robbed of her purity and sweetness—crushed like a rose beneath the coil of a snake; and fancy painted her in a prison like his own, sad, solitary, and desolate—broken in heart, and crushed in spirit—blighted in name and fame and honour—withered in hope, and faded in form—a household word of scorn to the cruel and the factious, and all by him—by him, who had loved her so madly and so wickedly.These thoughts poured like a current through the floodgate of memory; each and all came back with returning consciousness; and gradually his career arose before him, like one stupendous curse.He sighed heavily."God be with thee, thou sinful and vainglorious—thou rash and headstrong—lord!" said the priest; "now thou seest to what thy manifold transgressions against the blessed law have brought thee.""It was my doom—my destiny," replied the Earl, pressing his bony hands upon his thin, wan temples."Nay, Lord Earl," replied the other, in a sad and broken accent; "unless it be that a man maketh his own destiny, as assuredly thou didst thine.""And who," he asked, endeavouring to pierce the gloom with his hopeless eye; "who art thou that speakest thus to Bothwell?""One, in other days, Lord Bothwell's steadfast friend. I am John Hepburn of Bolton—hast thou quite forgotten me? I was long the partner of thy folly—the abettor of thine insane ambition—the partaker of thy damning guilt!O miserere mei Deus!""Oh, Bolton! John of Bolton!" exclaimed the fettered Earl, bursting into tears, and stretching forth his thin worn hands, which the priest grasped with fervour; "I know thee now—and where I am, andwhatI am. And thou art now a priest? Oh, how much thou art to be envied! Years—years have gone past me as the wind passes over the ocean. As the waves arise and sink, these years have come and gone, and have left no trace on my memory. But I feel that I am dying now!" he exclaimed in an unearthly voice; "Oh, God of my fathers! look down with pity on me, the most abject of their race! Oh, John of Bolton! if Heaven should be as unforgiving as earth—if God should be as inexorable as man!""Think not so, Bothwell"——"Oh! it were indeed better that I should perish altogether, and pass into oblivion.""Say not so," replied Bolton; "behold the flowers of the field, and the fruits of the earth; they spring up—they bloom—they wither, and die, but only to be reproduced at another season, more beautiful and blooming than before. So it is with men—and so will it be with thee. All human memory is freighted with care and sad remembrance"——"But few with such remorse as mine.""This contrition and grief are good," replied the priest, as, with kindling eyes, he pointed upwards to Heaven; "by perishing thou shalt be preserved, and die but to be renewed for ever, and in such glory as the mind of angels can alone conceive; for He who is above us, beareth aloft those scales, from which, on one hand, he metes out eternal life to the good and contrite—on the other, the eternal punishment to the unrepentant.""Thou hast been lately in Scotland," said the Earl abruptly."Nay; not for ten long years," replied the priest calmly."Ten, ten!" reiterated Bothwell, passing his hands across his brow; "and what of Mary?""She is still a captive, with the axe of the English queen hanging over her devoted head."Bothwell started, as if he would have leaped from the ground; but his strength failed him, and he sank heavily on the straw among which he was chained."My energies, so briefly gained, are sinking fast again; but ere they leave me, and perhaps for ever—oh! thou who art a priest, bless me, for I have sinned! Hear my confession—let it be written out, and attested by the captain of my prison, that my last earthly act may be one of justice to her whom I have so deeply wronged. Oh, John of Bolton! thou knowest well that she was the most innocent and artless of all God's creatures! Quick, quick! as an atonement to her, and to the world, for all I have done—hasten, ere it be too late!" cried the Earl sinking back, overcome by weakness and despair.The friar knocked hurriedly on the dungeon door; it was opened by a Danish pikeman, who, by his request, hastened to summon the attendance of Biern Gowes, the castellan of Malmö and governor of Draxholm. Unwillingly he came, accompanied by Christian Alborg, Otto Brawe, captain of the king's castle of Ottenbrocht, Baron Gullemstierne, and others, with whom he had been drinking skiedam, till their faces, where visible through their red Danish beards and outrageous whiskers, were flushed like scarlet—and in their presence, that document now so well known, the CONFESSION of Bothwell's many crimes, and Mary's innocence of all that she had ever been accused of, was written, attested, and sealed up for transmission to King Frederick.What a subject for a picture would this episode have formed!That dreary vault of red granite, half-veiled in dusky obscurity, save where the moonlight struggled through a narrow slit on one hand; while, on the other, the flickering light of a single torch shed its fitful glare on the unearthly form of the dying Earl—hollow-eyed, pale, and attenuated to a skeleton—chained by the waist to his bed of straw, and sinking fast, with the death rattle almost in his throat; the bald head and dark robe of the priest, who knelt by his side writing down his dying words—that priest in other days his friend and knightly comrade—on the tall, burly figures of the sleepy Danish governor and his friends, with their long beards, and fantastic costumes trimmed with sable fur, stooping over the sputtering torch, to hear the faint but terrible words of those pale lips that were about to close for ever."Now, blessed be God, it is done!" cried the Earl, closing his eyes; "for I feel that I am passing from among you. I am dying! Oh, John of Bolton! in this dread moment let me think that thou at least will stand by my grave—will say one prayer for my soul; and, in memory of the days of other years, will remember me with pity and forgiveness!"Bolton pressed his clammy hand, but there was no return, for the jaw relaxed, and the eyes turned back within their sockets, announced that the soul of the Earl had fled.* * * * * * * *His grave lay under the old castle wall, in a lonely little dell.It was shaded by the light leaves of the dwarf-birch and the purple flowers of the lilac tree; the blue forget-me-not, the white strawberry, and the yellow daisy, were planted there by the kind-hearted Swedes, in memory of the poor stranger that had found a grave so far from his home, and from where the dust of his forefathers lay.On St. Bothan's eve, for many a returning year, a wandering priest was seen to kneel beside that lonely grave, with eyes downcast, and a crucifix in his clasped hands; and after praying he would go sadly away, but whither no one knew.Year after year passed on, and still he came to offer up that promised prayer for the repose of the dead man's soul; though on the grave the weeds grew long and rank, and he who lay within it had long since mingled with the dust.Those who first remembered the priest when they were little children, saw him still returning when they were men and women in the prime of life—but then he was decrepit and old.The last time he was seen was in the reign of King Christian IV., about the year 1622. His form was then bent with extreme old age, and he leaned upon a staff; his hair was thin and white—his cheeks were hollow, and he wept as he prayed.He gazed long and wistfully at the grassy tomb, and tottered away to return no more.Where that poor priest died, no man knew.And there lay the deserted grave in its loneliness, by the shore of the northern sea, with the long grass waving on its solemn ridge, till in time it became flattened and effaced, and its memory was forgotten; for no kind hand ever raised a stone to mark where that memorable instance of ambition and misrule, the last Earl of the old line of Hailes and Bothwell, lay.NOTES.ANNA ROSENKRANTZ.The foregoing story has been conceived from a passage in SUHM'S "SAMLINGES," or Collections for the History of Denmark.As stated in the romance, there is every reason to believe that James Hepburn, the famous Earl of Bothwell, was married early in life to a Norwegian lady, Anne Throndson (daughter of Christopher Throndson), prior to his marriage with Lady Jean Gordon, of the house of Huntly, and that his possessing, by her, certain lands in Orkney, was the reason for his obtaining the Dukedom of these Isles in 1567.—(SeeLes Affaires du Conte de Boduel: Bannatyne Club.)After his battle with, and defeat at sea by, the celebrated Sir William Kirkaldy of Grange, Bothwell entered Karmesound, a harbour between the island of Karm and the mainland, where he was found by Captain Christian Alborg, commander of theBiornen, or Great Bear, a Danish ship of war. He immediately demanded Bothwell's passports and licence for sailing with flag displayed and cannon bent in the Danish seas; and, failing their production, requested the Earl to follow him to Bergen up the Jelta Fiord. In his declaration or report, Alborg states, "That among the Scottish crew there was one dressed in old torn and patched boatswain's clothes, who, some time afterwards, stated himself to be the supreme ruler of all Scotland."This was the Earl, with whom he reached the castle of Bergen on the 2nd September, 1567.The governor of the castle and province, as stated in the romance, was Erick Rosenkrantz, a wealthy Danish noble, who, on the captain's report, appointed a committee of twenty-four gentlemen to examine the captive. They met on the 23rd September; among them were the bishop and four councillors of Bergen, who successively questioned Bothwell. He requested and obtained leave to reside in the city. Among his followers, we are told, there was found "one David Wood, a famous pirate."Magister Absalom Beyer, the minister of Bergen, who has left behind him a diary, calledThe Chapter Book, extending from the year 1533 to 1570, recorded the following, which is extracted from SUHM'S "SAMLINGES.""1567,September2—Came in (to Bergen harbour) the shipRoyal David, of which Christian Alborg is captain. He had captured a Scottish noble, named James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, Duke of Orkney and Shetland, who had been wedded to the Queen of Scotland. He was suspected to have been in the plot against the King's life. The Council of the kingdom having revolted against the Queen, this Earl escaped, and has come hither to Norway."1567,September17—I upbraided the Lady Anne, the daughter of Christopher Throndson, that the Earl of Bothwell had taken her from her native country, and yet would not keep her as his lawful wife, which he had promised her to do, with hand, mouth, and letters, which letters she caused to be read before him; and, whereas, he has three wives living—firstly, herself—secondly, another in Scotland, from whom he has bought (divorced?) himself—and, thirdly, Queen Mary. The Lady Anne opined, 'that he was good for nothing.' Then he promised her an annual rent of a hundred dollars from Scotland, and a ship with all her anchors and cordage complete."1567,September25—The Earl went to the Castle, where Erick Rosenkrantz did him great honour."1567,September28—Erick Rosenkrantz made a splendid banquet for the Earl and his followers."1567,September30—The Earl departed on board the David, and was carried captive into Denmark,where he yet remainsin the Castle of Malmo at this time, 1568."1567,October10—Part of the Earl's men were returned to Scotland, on beard a small pink which Erick Rosenkrantz lent them, and, it is said, they were all put to death on their landing."The only discrepancy lies in one statement of the Magister and the Committee; the former calls the Danish ship, the David; the latter,Biornen; but probably the Captain Alborg commanded two bearing these names.From other passages in the diary, we find that so early as 1563, Lady Anna Rosenkrantz moved in the best circle in the province (which she could not have done as Bothwell's mistress); and also that she was usually namedSkottefruin, or the Scottish lady. Her second sister, Dorothy, was married to John Stewart, a gentleman of Shetland; and the third, Else', was thrice married—the last time to Axel Mouatt, a Scottish gentleman settled in Norway.The song sung by Anna in the first volume, is an old Norse or Lapland ballad, and is taken from Consett'sRemarksin a Tour through Lapland.II.—THE QUEEN'S APOTHECARY.Three documents are still preserved in the General Register House of Edinburgh, from which we learn the name of this person, and other interesting items concerning that murder in the Kirk-of-Field, which bears so prominent a place in the romance.On the 12th February, this precept, written by the Earl of Huntly, was issued by the Queen's order to Mr Robert Richardson, treasurer of Scotland, to pay £40 for perfuming the King's body."My Lord Thesaurar, forsamekle as the Queenis Majestie and Counsell has direckett ane Pottinger and Schirurgen to caus perfume the Kingis body, and in respect that there is syndri thingis requirit to the samyn quhilkis thay hadde nocht, heirfore the Queenis Majestie has ordanit me to advertis you, that ye cans delyver fourtie pundis for performance of sick necessars as appertenis thairtill, quhilkis sal be allouit to you, and delyver the same to the Pottinger, and tak his vritting thairon; and for my awin part, I vald pray you effectualy that the said soume war perfarmit with diligence and delyverit in all haist, in respect the same rynis to the Queenis Majesties honor and the hale cuntrey."At the Palyce of Halirudhous, the xij. februar, 1566."Your L. guid freind, HUNTLYE.""To my Lord Thesraur."(In dorso.)"Je, Martin Picauet, appore de la Royne de Scosse, Douairiere de France, confesse auair Recu de Mr. Robert Richardson, tresorier des finances de la diste dame, la soume de quatre vintz livres Tourn., pour la fourniture des drogues pour l'ambamemente de Roy, de la quelle soume prometz en tenir compt au dist tresoreir, et a tous auttres Tesmointz mon seing Manuel cy mis le xij., jour de februier mil cinq cent soixante et six, auant pasques."E. PICAUET."The High Treasurer's Accounts contain two interesting entries for the above purpose,"Item, the xij. day of Februar, be the Queenis grace's speciall command toMartine Picauet, ypothegar, to mak furnesing of droggis, spices, and utheris necessaris for oppining and perfuming of the Kingis grace Majesties umquhile bodie, as his acquittance shawin upon compt beris, ... xl. li."Item, for colis, tubbis, hardis, barrellis, and utheris necessaris preparit for bowalling of the Kingis grace. ... xlvj. s."For more information concerning this, see the third volume of ARCHÆOLOGIA SCOTICA, from which this is taken.III.—QUEEN MARY'S ARCHERS."The Archearis of our Soverane Ladyis Gaird," seem to have numbered only seventy-five on their muster roll, in the books of the Comptroller and Collector of the Thirds of Benefices, 1st April, 1562. The pay list is as follows:—"*Item*, To the Captain of the Guard, . . . . . v. c. lib."To Robert Stewart, Ensign, . . . . . . . . . . j. c. l. lib."To Corporal Jenat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . l. v. li."To Captain Bello . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . j. c. lib."To Captain Hew Lawder . . . . . . . . . . . . lxxv. lib."Six Frenchmen, Dionese and Charles La Brone, Duval, La Bram, La Fram, Savoy, and a Trumpeter, appear on the list.This garde-du-corps, which were enrolled under Sir Arthur Erskine, 1st April, 1562, or not quite a year after the Queen's return from France, continued under pay till 1567, when they were disbanded on her imprisonment in Lochleven. See theMaitland Club Miscellany.IV.—BOTHWELL.The following document is so little known, and so immediately relates to the melancholy fate of the unhappy hero of these pages, that an apology is almost unnecessary for presenting it here to the reader. It is the royal order for imprisoning him in the Castle of Malmö:—Til Biorn Kaas."FREDERICK—Be it known unto you, that we have ordered our well-beloved Peder Oxe, our man, Councillor and Marshall of the Kingdom of Denmark, to send the Scottish Earl, who resides in the Castle of Copenhagen, over to our Castle of Malmo, where he is to remain for some time. Therefore we request of you, that you will prepare the same vaulted room in the Castle where the Marshal Eyler Hardenberg had his apartment; and that you will cover with mason-work the private place in the same chamber; and where the iron bars of the windows may not be sufficiently strong and well guarded, that you will have them repaired; and when he arrives, that you will put him in the said chamber, give him a bed and good entertainment, as Peder Oxe will further direct and advise you; and that you,before all things, will keep a strong guard, and hold in good security, the said Earl, as you may best devise, in order that he shall not escape."THER MET SKEER WOR WILGE. (Thereby our will is done.)"Written at Fredericksborg, the 28th day of December, of the year after the birth of Christ, 1567."(SeeLes Affaires du Conte de Boduel, 4to.)END OF VOL. III.M'CORQUODALE AND CO., PRINTERS, LONDON.WORKS, NEWTON.*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKBOTHWELL, VOLUME III (OF 3)***
* * * * * * *
CHAPTER XXIV.
MALMO.
Yes! there are sighs for the bursting heart,And tears for the sleepless eye;But tears and sighs and sympathy,Are luxuries unknown tome.The wretch immured in the dungeon-keepMay snatch an hour's repose;And dream of home and the light of heavenEre he wake to misery's throes;IfHopewith her radiant light be there—I mate with the swarthy fiend Despair!Vedder.
Yes! there are sighs for the bursting heart,And tears for the sleepless eye;But tears and sighs and sympathy,Are luxuries unknown tome.The wretch immured in the dungeon-keepMay snatch an hour's repose;And dream of home and the light of heavenEre he wake to misery's throes;IfHopewith her radiant light be there—I mate with the swarthy fiend Despair!Vedder.
Yes! there are sighs for the bursting heart,
And tears for the sleepless eye;
And tears for the sleepless eye;
But tears and sighs and sympathy,
Are luxuries unknown tome.
The wretch immured in the dungeon-keep
May snatch an hour's repose;
May snatch an hour's repose;
And dream of home and the light of heaven
Ere he wake to misery's throes;
Ere he wake to misery's throes;
IfHopewith her radiant light be there—
I mate with the swarthy fiend Despair!
Vedder.
Vedder.
Vedder.
Here, for a page or so, we resume the MSS. of the reverend and worthy Magister Absalom Beyer.
About this period, his diary, journal, or history (which you will), for it partakes of them all, suddenly breaks off, and there are left but a few fragments, referring to a later period.
One records the baptism of the sixth son of Anna and Konrad, whom King Frederick, for his valour in capturing a Lubeck frigate that ravaged the shores of Bergen, had created Count of Saltzberg, Lord of Welsöö, and governor of Bergenhuis; and the garrulous Magister records that this baptismal ceremony, at which he officiated, and which was celebrated with great splendour, was the seventh anniversary of that joyous day on which he had blessed the nuptial ring of Anna and Konrad in the old cathedral of the bishopric of Bergen; and he further records the quantity of ale, wine, and dricka imbibed on the occasion, and the loads of venison, bread, and bergenvisch, eaten by the tenantry at the baptism of young Hans (for so baby the sixth was named); and how he screamed and kicked when the holy water fell on him, till he nearly sprang from his carved cradle, which was hollowed like a boat in the Norse fashion, lined with moss and velvet, and was borne by Christina Slingebunder, who had found her way from Westeray back to Bergen.
He also mentions that Konrad had grown somewhat florid, and rather more round in form, than when he had placed the ring on Anna's hand before that magnificent altar; and that she too, though retaining her youthful bloom, had (alas, for romance!) lost much of her slender and graceful aspect, and looked quite like the mother of the five chubby little ones, each of whom clung to her skirts with one hand, while the other was occupied with a great piece of the spiced christening cake, on which they were regaling with a satisfaction, equalled only by that of the Danish soldier, who, having again found the can and the cake offered on this occasion to Nippen, had appropriated them both to himself.
* * * * *
Ten years have elapsed since the reader last heard in these pages of Bothwell's hapless earl, and the lonely towers of Malmö.
Ten years!
And in all that long and weary time he had been a fettered felon within the iron walls of Malmö. Pining hopelessly in a captivity the most crushing to a heart so fierce and proud—to a soul so high-spirited and restless, with one thought ever before him—liberty and home; and though forgotten by Mary, or remembered only with a shudder, his old love for her had never died; and many a futile effort he made, by piteous letters and petitions, to Frederick II. of Demark—petitions so humble, that his once proud nature would have shrunk from their tenor—to interest himself, "pour la deliverance de la Royne sa Princesse Marie."[*]
[*] See Les Affaires de le Cante du Boduel.
But neither her deliverance or his own were ever achieved; for, were such a thing possible, even God seemed to have abandoned them to a fate that was alike inexorable and irresistible.
Year after year wore away, and the seasons succeeded each other in dreary and monotonous succession. This monotony was most intolerable in winter—the long and desolate winter of the north; when the descending avalanche roared between the frozen peaks—when the ice cracked and burst in the narrow fiords, where the seals and walrusses slept in the rays of the moon—and when the northern lights, as they flashed behind the summits of the distant hills, filled the midnight sky with figures that were equally beautiful and terrible.
Ever and anon, in one of those dreary winters, when (as in A.D. 1333) all the harbours of the Sound were sheeted over with ice, and the shallow Baltic was frozen from Lubeck to the castle of Kiobenhafen, Bothwell sighed, as he thought of the great Yule-logs that blazed so merrily in many a Scottish hall, of the nut-brown ale and wine that flowed in many a quaigh and luggie; while the green holly branch and the mistletoe bough hung from the old roof-trees, and the mirth and joy of the season expanded every heart.
Then came the short spring, that lasted but a month, when the snow melted or lingered only on the distant peaks; when the streams burst their frosty barriers, and, with the roar of a thousand waterfalls, poured in silver currents over the rocks of the fiord, where the wild rasp, the dwarf birch, and the barberry, sprouted in the warmth of the coming sun.
And then, in the early mornings and the late nights of that northern region—nights when the sun sets at twelve P.M., he would gaze, dreamily, from his prison window on the waters of the Sound, until, to his fancy, they became like those of the Clyde, that swept round Bothwell bank, amid its dark green woods and sylvan solitude.
The summer passed, and winter would come again to spread snow and desolation over the face of the land; and so the time wore on, until its very monotony turned his impetuous brain, and he became a raving maniac!
* * * * *
* * * * *
It was in the year of grace 1577, when a Scottish priest, one of those whom the Reformation had compelled to wander, in misery and penury, far from their native lands, appeared at the gates of Malmö, and sought permission of Beirn Gowes, knight castellan, to visit the unhappy captive.
The priest was a man about five-and-thirty; but the duties of his office, toil, and hardship, made him seem considerably older; his head was already becoming bald, even where he had no tonsure; his blue eyes were mild, and deep, and thoughtful; he leaned a little on a staff, and bore on his back the wallet containing a few of the necessaries required by him on his solitary pilgrimage; for he was one of those whose life had been devoted to spreading and upholding the Catholic faith in those northern lands, where it had been most severely shaken; and, amid hardship and danger, his days were spent in exhorting the faithful, recovering the faithless, and confirming the wavering.
He stood within the vault where Bothwell lay, and, folding his hands upon his breast, regarded him fixedly with eyes that filled with tears.
Oh, what a change was there!
Visible only in the twilight that struggled through the open grating of that vaulted dungeon, the captive lay in a corner upon a little damp straw, chained by the middle to the wall like a wild animal; he was completely nude, and his coal-black hair and beard, now beginning to be grizzled, flourished in one thick matted and luxuriant mass, from amid which his wild black eyes gleamed like two bright stars. They were hollow, dilated, and ghastly. His form was attenuated to the last degree; every rib, joint, and muscle being horribly visible; he resembled an inmate of the grave—a chained fiend—any thing but a man in the prime of life, for the miserable being had barely reached his fortieth year.
When he moved, the straw rustled, and the rusty chain that fretted his tender skin rattled grimly in the ears of the priest, who knelt down in the further end of the dungeon, and prayed with fervour; but Bothwell neither saw nor heard him.
One of those glimmerings of the past that so frequently haunted him, was at that moment coming like a vision before his mind. Exhausted by illness, and the fever of his spirit, the poor maniac had become calm; and his thoughts were slowly emerging from the mist that obscured them, and arranging themselves in order and form, as he struggled back into a consciousness of existence—the brief consciousness that so often precedes the oblivion of the grave.
In the figures made by the damp on his dungeon wall, he saw the same pale face, with its weeping eyes and white veil, that had haunted him so often, ere his overcharged mind found a relief in insanity. Mary—la Reine Blanche!he stretched his bony arms towards the figure; but still it remained there, neither advancing nor retiring, till a change came over its features.
Then its eyes seemed to fill with a terrible glare, and the shriek that once rang through the Kirk-of-Field, seemed to rend the massive vault, and to pierce his tingling ears like a poniard. Then he dashed his hands against them, and grovelled down among the straw, to shut out that dreadful sound—the dying cry of Darnley!
"Oh, Father of mercy and of justice!" said the priest, beating himself upon the breast; "how dreadful is thy vengeance, when thou permittest the sinner to mete out the meed of his own sin!"
"A voice! a voice—who spoke?" said the Earl, struck by the unusual sound. "Hah! was it thee?"
His tone was low and husky, and the sounds seemed to come with labour from his furry throat.
"Was it thee—oh, say it was thee!" he continued, as he paused, and seemed to wrestle mentally with his madness, till he overcame it, and, by obtaining one further revelation of the past, became more and more cognizant of the present, and alive to the real horrors of his situation. "Memory," said he, passing a hand thoughtfully over his brow—"Oh, memory! what a curse art thou; and, when united to remorse, how doubly so! Hah! those eyes," he groaned; "those weeping eyes again! ... But that voice—it was hers! so soft—so gentle! it came back to me like a strain of old music on the wind of memory—as it has often come in the slow hours of many a cheerless day, and the dead calm silence of many a changeless night—through the long dark vista of many monotonous years. Years—how many! oh, how many! Dost thou smile with thine unearthly features? ha! ha!" ...
Like sunshine emerging from a mist, the past was coming gradually back; and suddenly, like a flash of light, one bright gleam of thought brought all the long-forgotten days of other years before him.
The visionary saw her—Mary—the bright, the beautiful, the innocent, as she had shone in the buoyancy of youth and loveliness, when surrounded by the chivalry of France, and the splendour of the house of Bourbon.
The scene changed—she was standing timidly, irresolute, and pale, on the shores of her half-barbarized native land; again she appeared—it was with the diadem of the Bruces on her brow, and the orb of the Alexanders on her sceptre, as she presided over the first of her factious parliaments, in the ancient hall of the Scottish estates. He saw her standing with the triumphant Darnley at the altar of Sancte Crucis, with more in her air and eye of the timid bride than the stately queen, blushing and abashed by the side of her handsome and exulting vassal.
Then came the memory of that terrible hour in the Kirk-of-Field—the night in the towers of Dunbar, and that fruitless cry for mercy—the sad low wail that chilled the ruffian heart of Ormiston.
He saw to what he had reduced that bright and happy being, who, like a butterfly or an Indian bird, was born alone for the sunshine and the most flowery paths of life! He saw her robbed of her purity and sweetness—crushed like a rose beneath the coil of a snake; and fancy painted her in a prison like his own, sad, solitary, and desolate—broken in heart, and crushed in spirit—blighted in name and fame and honour—withered in hope, and faded in form—a household word of scorn to the cruel and the factious, and all by him—by him, who had loved her so madly and so wickedly.
These thoughts poured like a current through the floodgate of memory; each and all came back with returning consciousness; and gradually his career arose before him, like one stupendous curse.
He sighed heavily.
"God be with thee, thou sinful and vainglorious—thou rash and headstrong—lord!" said the priest; "now thou seest to what thy manifold transgressions against the blessed law have brought thee."
"It was my doom—my destiny," replied the Earl, pressing his bony hands upon his thin, wan temples.
"Nay, Lord Earl," replied the other, in a sad and broken accent; "unless it be that a man maketh his own destiny, as assuredly thou didst thine."
"And who," he asked, endeavouring to pierce the gloom with his hopeless eye; "who art thou that speakest thus to Bothwell?"
"One, in other days, Lord Bothwell's steadfast friend. I am John Hepburn of Bolton—hast thou quite forgotten me? I was long the partner of thy folly—the abettor of thine insane ambition—the partaker of thy damning guilt!O miserere mei Deus!"
"Oh, Bolton! John of Bolton!" exclaimed the fettered Earl, bursting into tears, and stretching forth his thin worn hands, which the priest grasped with fervour; "I know thee now—and where I am, andwhatI am. And thou art now a priest? Oh, how much thou art to be envied! Years—years have gone past me as the wind passes over the ocean. As the waves arise and sink, these years have come and gone, and have left no trace on my memory. But I feel that I am dying now!" he exclaimed in an unearthly voice; "Oh, God of my fathers! look down with pity on me, the most abject of their race! Oh, John of Bolton! if Heaven should be as unforgiving as earth—if God should be as inexorable as man!"
"Think not so, Bothwell"——
"Oh! it were indeed better that I should perish altogether, and pass into oblivion."
"Say not so," replied Bolton; "behold the flowers of the field, and the fruits of the earth; they spring up—they bloom—they wither, and die, but only to be reproduced at another season, more beautiful and blooming than before. So it is with men—and so will it be with thee. All human memory is freighted with care and sad remembrance"——
"But few with such remorse as mine."
"This contrition and grief are good," replied the priest, as, with kindling eyes, he pointed upwards to Heaven; "by perishing thou shalt be preserved, and die but to be renewed for ever, and in such glory as the mind of angels can alone conceive; for He who is above us, beareth aloft those scales, from which, on one hand, he metes out eternal life to the good and contrite—on the other, the eternal punishment to the unrepentant."
"Thou hast been lately in Scotland," said the Earl abruptly.
"Nay; not for ten long years," replied the priest calmly.
"Ten, ten!" reiterated Bothwell, passing his hands across his brow; "and what of Mary?"
"She is still a captive, with the axe of the English queen hanging over her devoted head."
Bothwell started, as if he would have leaped from the ground; but his strength failed him, and he sank heavily on the straw among which he was chained.
"My energies, so briefly gained, are sinking fast again; but ere they leave me, and perhaps for ever—oh! thou who art a priest, bless me, for I have sinned! Hear my confession—let it be written out, and attested by the captain of my prison, that my last earthly act may be one of justice to her whom I have so deeply wronged. Oh, John of Bolton! thou knowest well that she was the most innocent and artless of all God's creatures! Quick, quick! as an atonement to her, and to the world, for all I have done—hasten, ere it be too late!" cried the Earl sinking back, overcome by weakness and despair.
The friar knocked hurriedly on the dungeon door; it was opened by a Danish pikeman, who, by his request, hastened to summon the attendance of Biern Gowes, the castellan of Malmö and governor of Draxholm. Unwillingly he came, accompanied by Christian Alborg, Otto Brawe, captain of the king's castle of Ottenbrocht, Baron Gullemstierne, and others, with whom he had been drinking skiedam, till their faces, where visible through their red Danish beards and outrageous whiskers, were flushed like scarlet—and in their presence, that document now so well known, the CONFESSION of Bothwell's many crimes, and Mary's innocence of all that she had ever been accused of, was written, attested, and sealed up for transmission to King Frederick.
What a subject for a picture would this episode have formed!
That dreary vault of red granite, half-veiled in dusky obscurity, save where the moonlight struggled through a narrow slit on one hand; while, on the other, the flickering light of a single torch shed its fitful glare on the unearthly form of the dying Earl—hollow-eyed, pale, and attenuated to a skeleton—chained by the waist to his bed of straw, and sinking fast, with the death rattle almost in his throat; the bald head and dark robe of the priest, who knelt by his side writing down his dying words—that priest in other days his friend and knightly comrade—on the tall, burly figures of the sleepy Danish governor and his friends, with their long beards, and fantastic costumes trimmed with sable fur, stooping over the sputtering torch, to hear the faint but terrible words of those pale lips that were about to close for ever.
"Now, blessed be God, it is done!" cried the Earl, closing his eyes; "for I feel that I am passing from among you. I am dying! Oh, John of Bolton! in this dread moment let me think that thou at least will stand by my grave—will say one prayer for my soul; and, in memory of the days of other years, will remember me with pity and forgiveness!"
Bolton pressed his clammy hand, but there was no return, for the jaw relaxed, and the eyes turned back within their sockets, announced that the soul of the Earl had fled.
* * * * * * * *
His grave lay under the old castle wall, in a lonely little dell.
It was shaded by the light leaves of the dwarf-birch and the purple flowers of the lilac tree; the blue forget-me-not, the white strawberry, and the yellow daisy, were planted there by the kind-hearted Swedes, in memory of the poor stranger that had found a grave so far from his home, and from where the dust of his forefathers lay.
On St. Bothan's eve, for many a returning year, a wandering priest was seen to kneel beside that lonely grave, with eyes downcast, and a crucifix in his clasped hands; and after praying he would go sadly away, but whither no one knew.
Year after year passed on, and still he came to offer up that promised prayer for the repose of the dead man's soul; though on the grave the weeds grew long and rank, and he who lay within it had long since mingled with the dust.
Those who first remembered the priest when they were little children, saw him still returning when they were men and women in the prime of life—but then he was decrepit and old.
The last time he was seen was in the reign of King Christian IV., about the year 1622. His form was then bent with extreme old age, and he leaned upon a staff; his hair was thin and white—his cheeks were hollow, and he wept as he prayed.
He gazed long and wistfully at the grassy tomb, and tottered away to return no more.
Where that poor priest died, no man knew.
And there lay the deserted grave in its loneliness, by the shore of the northern sea, with the long grass waving on its solemn ridge, till in time it became flattened and effaced, and its memory was forgotten; for no kind hand ever raised a stone to mark where that memorable instance of ambition and misrule, the last Earl of the old line of Hailes and Bothwell, lay.
NOTES.
ANNA ROSENKRANTZ.
The foregoing story has been conceived from a passage in SUHM'S "SAMLINGES," or Collections for the History of Denmark.
As stated in the romance, there is every reason to believe that James Hepburn, the famous Earl of Bothwell, was married early in life to a Norwegian lady, Anne Throndson (daughter of Christopher Throndson), prior to his marriage with Lady Jean Gordon, of the house of Huntly, and that his possessing, by her, certain lands in Orkney, was the reason for his obtaining the Dukedom of these Isles in 1567.—(SeeLes Affaires du Conte de Boduel: Bannatyne Club.)
After his battle with, and defeat at sea by, the celebrated Sir William Kirkaldy of Grange, Bothwell entered Karmesound, a harbour between the island of Karm and the mainland, where he was found by Captain Christian Alborg, commander of theBiornen, or Great Bear, a Danish ship of war. He immediately demanded Bothwell's passports and licence for sailing with flag displayed and cannon bent in the Danish seas; and, failing their production, requested the Earl to follow him to Bergen up the Jelta Fiord. In his declaration or report, Alborg states, "That among the Scottish crew there was one dressed in old torn and patched boatswain's clothes, who, some time afterwards, stated himself to be the supreme ruler of all Scotland."
This was the Earl, with whom he reached the castle of Bergen on the 2nd September, 1567.
The governor of the castle and province, as stated in the romance, was Erick Rosenkrantz, a wealthy Danish noble, who, on the captain's report, appointed a committee of twenty-four gentlemen to examine the captive. They met on the 23rd September; among them were the bishop and four councillors of Bergen, who successively questioned Bothwell. He requested and obtained leave to reside in the city. Among his followers, we are told, there was found "one David Wood, a famous pirate."
Magister Absalom Beyer, the minister of Bergen, who has left behind him a diary, calledThe Chapter Book, extending from the year 1533 to 1570, recorded the following, which is extracted from SUHM'S "SAMLINGES."
"1567,September2—Came in (to Bergen harbour) the shipRoyal David, of which Christian Alborg is captain. He had captured a Scottish noble, named James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, Duke of Orkney and Shetland, who had been wedded to the Queen of Scotland. He was suspected to have been in the plot against the King's life. The Council of the kingdom having revolted against the Queen, this Earl escaped, and has come hither to Norway.
"1567,September17—I upbraided the Lady Anne, the daughter of Christopher Throndson, that the Earl of Bothwell had taken her from her native country, and yet would not keep her as his lawful wife, which he had promised her to do, with hand, mouth, and letters, which letters she caused to be read before him; and, whereas, he has three wives living—firstly, herself—secondly, another in Scotland, from whom he has bought (divorced?) himself—and, thirdly, Queen Mary. The Lady Anne opined, 'that he was good for nothing.' Then he promised her an annual rent of a hundred dollars from Scotland, and a ship with all her anchors and cordage complete.
"1567,September25—The Earl went to the Castle, where Erick Rosenkrantz did him great honour.
"1567,September28—Erick Rosenkrantz made a splendid banquet for the Earl and his followers.
"1567,September30—The Earl departed on board the David, and was carried captive into Denmark,where he yet remainsin the Castle of Malmo at this time, 1568.
"1567,October10—Part of the Earl's men were returned to Scotland, on beard a small pink which Erick Rosenkrantz lent them, and, it is said, they were all put to death on their landing."
The only discrepancy lies in one statement of the Magister and the Committee; the former calls the Danish ship, the David; the latter,Biornen; but probably the Captain Alborg commanded two bearing these names.
From other passages in the diary, we find that so early as 1563, Lady Anna Rosenkrantz moved in the best circle in the province (which she could not have done as Bothwell's mistress); and also that she was usually namedSkottefruin, or the Scottish lady. Her second sister, Dorothy, was married to John Stewart, a gentleman of Shetland; and the third, Else', was thrice married—the last time to Axel Mouatt, a Scottish gentleman settled in Norway.
The song sung by Anna in the first volume, is an old Norse or Lapland ballad, and is taken from Consett'sRemarksin a Tour through Lapland.
II.—THE QUEEN'S APOTHECARY.
Three documents are still preserved in the General Register House of Edinburgh, from which we learn the name of this person, and other interesting items concerning that murder in the Kirk-of-Field, which bears so prominent a place in the romance.
On the 12th February, this precept, written by the Earl of Huntly, was issued by the Queen's order to Mr Robert Richardson, treasurer of Scotland, to pay £40 for perfuming the King's body.
"My Lord Thesaurar, forsamekle as the Queenis Majestie and Counsell has direckett ane Pottinger and Schirurgen to caus perfume the Kingis body, and in respect that there is syndri thingis requirit to the samyn quhilkis thay hadde nocht, heirfore the Queenis Majestie has ordanit me to advertis you, that ye cans delyver fourtie pundis for performance of sick necessars as appertenis thairtill, quhilkis sal be allouit to you, and delyver the same to the Pottinger, and tak his vritting thairon; and for my awin part, I vald pray you effectualy that the said soume war perfarmit with diligence and delyverit in all haist, in respect the same rynis to the Queenis Majesties honor and the hale cuntrey.
"At the Palyce of Halirudhous, the xij. februar, 1566.
"Your L. guid freind, HUNTLYE."
"To my Lord Thesraur."
(In dorso.)
"Je, Martin Picauet, appore de la Royne de Scosse, Douairiere de France, confesse auair Recu de Mr. Robert Richardson, tresorier des finances de la diste dame, la soume de quatre vintz livres Tourn., pour la fourniture des drogues pour l'ambamemente de Roy, de la quelle soume prometz en tenir compt au dist tresoreir, et a tous auttres Tesmointz mon seing Manuel cy mis le xij., jour de februier mil cinq cent soixante et six, auant pasques.
"E. PICAUET."
The High Treasurer's Accounts contain two interesting entries for the above purpose,
"Item, the xij. day of Februar, be the Queenis grace's speciall command toMartine Picauet, ypothegar, to mak furnesing of droggis, spices, and utheris necessaris for oppining and perfuming of the Kingis grace Majesties umquhile bodie, as his acquittance shawin upon compt beris, ... xl. li.
"Item, for colis, tubbis, hardis, barrellis, and utheris necessaris preparit for bowalling of the Kingis grace. ... xlvj. s."
For more information concerning this, see the third volume of ARCHÆOLOGIA SCOTICA, from which this is taken.
III.—QUEEN MARY'S ARCHERS.
"The Archearis of our Soverane Ladyis Gaird," seem to have numbered only seventy-five on their muster roll, in the books of the Comptroller and Collector of the Thirds of Benefices, 1st April, 1562. The pay list is as follows:—
"*Item*, To the Captain of the Guard, . . . . . v. c. lib."To Robert Stewart, Ensign, . . . . . . . . . . j. c. l. lib."To Corporal Jenat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . l. v. li."To Captain Bello . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . j. c. lib."To Captain Hew Lawder . . . . . . . . . . . . lxxv. lib."
Six Frenchmen, Dionese and Charles La Brone, Duval, La Bram, La Fram, Savoy, and a Trumpeter, appear on the list.
This garde-du-corps, which were enrolled under Sir Arthur Erskine, 1st April, 1562, or not quite a year after the Queen's return from France, continued under pay till 1567, when they were disbanded on her imprisonment in Lochleven. See theMaitland Club Miscellany.
IV.—BOTHWELL.
The following document is so little known, and so immediately relates to the melancholy fate of the unhappy hero of these pages, that an apology is almost unnecessary for presenting it here to the reader. It is the royal order for imprisoning him in the Castle of Malmö:—
Til Biorn Kaas.
"FREDERICK—Be it known unto you, that we have ordered our well-beloved Peder Oxe, our man, Councillor and Marshall of the Kingdom of Denmark, to send the Scottish Earl, who resides in the Castle of Copenhagen, over to our Castle of Malmo, where he is to remain for some time. Therefore we request of you, that you will prepare the same vaulted room in the Castle where the Marshal Eyler Hardenberg had his apartment; and that you will cover with mason-work the private place in the same chamber; and where the iron bars of the windows may not be sufficiently strong and well guarded, that you will have them repaired; and when he arrives, that you will put him in the said chamber, give him a bed and good entertainment, as Peder Oxe will further direct and advise you; and that you,before all things, will keep a strong guard, and hold in good security, the said Earl, as you may best devise, in order that he shall not escape.
"THER MET SKEER WOR WILGE. (Thereby our will is done.)
"Written at Fredericksborg, the 28th day of December, of the year after the birth of Christ, 1567."
(SeeLes Affaires du Conte de Boduel, 4to.)
END OF VOL. III.
M'CORQUODALE AND CO., PRINTERS, LONDON.WORKS, NEWTON.
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKBOTHWELL, VOLUME III (OF 3)***