



Produced by David Widger





SKETCHES

By Benjamin Disraeli




THE CARRIER PIGEON




CHAPTER I.

     _Charolois and Branchimont_

ALTHOUGH the deepest shades of twilight had descended upon the broad
bosom of the valley, and the river might almost be recognised only
by its rushing sound, the walls and battlements of the castle of
Charolois, situate on one of the loftiest heights, still blazed in the
reflected radiance of the setting sun, and cast, as it were, a glance of
triumph at the opposing castle of Branchimont, that rose on the western
side of the valley, with its lofty turrets and its massy keep black and
sharply defined against the resplendent heaven.

Deadly was the hereditary feud between the powerful lords of these high
places--the Counts of Charolois and the Barons of Branchimont, but the
hostility which had been maintained for ages never perhaps raged with
more virulence than at this moment; since the only male heir of the
house of Charolois had been slain in a tournament by the late Baron of
Branchimont, and the distracted father had avenged his irreparable loss
in the life-blood of the involuntary murderer of his son.

Yet the pilgrim, who at this serene hour might rest upon his staff
and gaze on the surrounding scene, would hardly deem that the darkest
passions of our nature had selected this fair and silent spot for the
theatre of their havoc.

The sun set; the evening star, quivering and bright, rose over the dark
towers of Branchimont; from the opposite bank a musical bell summoned
the devout vassals of Charolois to a beautiful shrine, wherein was
deposited the heart of their late young lord, and which his father had
raised on a small and richly wooded promontory, distant about a mile
from his stern hold.

At the first chime on this lovely eve came forth a lovelier maiden from
the postern of Charolois--the Lady Imogene, the only remaining child of
the bereaved count, attended by her page, bearing her book of prayers.
She took her way along the undulating heights until she reached
the sanctuary. The altar was illumined; several groups were already
kneeling,--faces of fidelity well known to their adored lady; but as she
entered, a palmer, with his broad hat drawn over his face, and closely
muffled up in his cloak, dipped his hand at the same time with hers in
the fount of holy water placed at the entrance of of the shrine, and
pressed the beautiful fingers of the Lady Imogene. A blush, unperceived
by the kneeling votaries, rose to her cheek; but apparently such was her
self-control, or such her deep respect for the hallowed spot, that she
exhibited no other symptom of emotion, and, walking to the high altar,
was soon buried in her devotions.

The mass was celebrated--the vassals rose and retired. According to her
custom, the Lady Imogene yet remained, and knelt before the tomb of her
brother. A low whisper, occasionally sounding,-assured her that someone
was at the confessional; and soon the palmer, who was now shrived, knelt
at her side. 'Lothair!' muttered the lady, apparently at her prayers,
'beloved Lothair, thou art too bold!'

'Oh, Imogene! for thee what would I not venture?' was the hushed reply.

'For the sake of all our hopes, wild though they be, I counsel caution.'

'Fear naught. The priest, flattered by my confession, is fairly duped.
Let me employ this golden moment to urge what I have before entreated.
Your father, Imogene, can never be appeased. Fly, then, my beloved! oh,
fly!'

'Oh, my Lothair! it never can be. Alas! whither can we fly?'

'Sweet love! I pray thee listen:--to Italy. At the court of my
cousin, the Duke of Milan, we shall be safe and happy. What care I
for Branchimont, and all its fortunes? And for that, my vassals are
no traitors. If ever the bright hour arrive when we may return in joy,
trust me, sweet love, my flag will still wave on my father's walls.'

'Oh, Lothair! why did we meet? Why, meeting, did we not hate each other
like our fated race? My heart is distracted. Can this misery be love?
Yet I adore thee------'

'Lady!' said the page, advancing, 'the priest approaches.'

The Lady Imogene rose, and crossed herself before the altar.

'To-morrow, at this hour,' whispered Lothair.

The Lady Imogene nodded assent, and, leaning on her page, quitted the
shrine.




CHAPTER II.

     _A Pert Page_

'DEAREST Lady,' said the young page, as they returned to the castle,
'my heart misgives me. As we quitted the shrine, I observed Rufus, the
huntsman, slink into the adjoining wood.' 'Hah! he is my father's most
devoted instrument: nor is there any bidding which he would hesitate to
execute--a most ruthless knave!'

'And can see like a cat in the dark, too,' observed young Theodore.

'I never loved that man, even in my cradle,' said the Lady Imogene;
'though he can fawn, too. Did he indeed avoid us?'

'Indeed I thought so, madam.'

'Ah! my Theodore, we have no friend but you, and you are but a little
page.'

'I would I were a stout knight, lady, and I would fight for you.'

'I warrant you,' said Imogene; 'you have a bold heart, little Theodore,
and a kind one. O holy Virgin. I pray thee guard in all perils my
bright-eyed Lothair!'

'Lord Branchimont is the finest knight I ever set eyes upon,' said
Theodore. 'I would I were his squire.'

'Thou shalt be his squire, too, little Theodore, if all goes well.'

'Oh! glorious day, when I shall wear a sword instead of a scarf! Shall I
indeed be his squire, lady sweet?'

'Indeed I think thou wilt make a very proper squire.'

'I would I were a knight like Lord Branchimont; as tall as a lance, and
as strong as a lion; and such a fine beard too!'

'It is indeed a beard, Theodore,' said the Lady Imogene. 'When wilt thou
have one like it?'

'Another summer, perchance,' said Theodore, passing his small palm
musingly over his smooth chin.

'Another summer!' said the Lady Imogene, laughing; 'why, I may as soon
hope to have a beard myself.'

'I hope you will have Lord Branchimont's,' said the page.

'Amen!' responded the lady.




CHAPTER III.

     _Love's Messenger_

THE apprehensions of the little Theodore proved to be too well founded.
On the morning after the meeting of Lady Imogene with Lord Branchimont
at the shrine of Charolois, she was summoned to the presence of her
father, and, after having been loaded with every species of reproach and
invective for her clandestine meeting with their hereditary foe, she was
confined to a chamber in one of the loftiest towers of the castle, which
she was never permitted to quit, except to walk in a long gloomy gallery
with an old female servant remarkable for the acerbity of her mind and
manners. Her page escaped punishment by flight; and her only resource
and amusement was her mandolin.

The tower in which the Lady Imogene was imprisoned sprang out of a steep
so precipitous that the position was considered impregnable. She was
therefore permitted to open her lattice, which was not even barred. The
landscape before her, which was picturesque and richly wooded, consisted
of the en-closed chase of Charolois; but her jailers had taken due care
that her chamber should not command a view of the castle of Branchimont.
The valley and all its moving life were indeed entirely shut out from
her. Often the day vanished without a human being appearing in sight.
Very unhappy was the Lady Imo-gene, gazing on the silent woods, or
pouring forth her passion over her lonely lute.

A miserable week had nearly elapsed. It was noon; the Lady Imogene was
seated alone in her chamber, leaning her head upon her hand in thought,
and dreaming of her Lothair, when a fluttering noise suddenly roused
her, and, looking up, she beheld, to her astonishment, perched on the
high back of a chair, a beautiful bird-a pigeon whiter than snow, with
an azure beak, and eyes blazing with a thousand shifting tints. Not
alarmed was the beautiful bird when the Lady Imogene gently approached
it; but it looked up to her with eyes of intelligent tenderness, and
flapped with some earnestness its pure and sparkling plume. The Lady
Imogene smiled with marvelling pleasure, for the first time since her
captivity; and putting forth her hand, which was even whiter than
the wing, she patted the bright neck of the glad stranger, and gently
stroked its soft plumage.

'Heaven hath sent me a friend,' exclaimed the beautiful Imogene; 'Ah!
what--what is this?'

'Didst thou call, Lady Imogene?' inquired the harsh voice of acid
Martha, whom the exclamation of her mistress had summoned to the door.

'Nothing--nothing--I want nothing,' quickly answered Imogene, as she
seized the bird with her hand, and, pressing it to her bosom, answered
Martha over her shoulder. 'Did she see thee, my treasure?' continued the
agitated Imogene, 'Oh! did she see thee, my joy? Methinks we were
not discovered.' So saying, and tripping along on the lightest step
imaginable, the captive secured the door; then bringing forth the bird
from its sweet shelter, she produced a letter, which she had suddenly
detected to be fastened under its left wing, and which she had
perceived, in an instant, to be written by Lord Branchimont.

Her sight was dizzy, her cheek pale, her breath