If You Would
Take His Word For It, John Baliol, Or, As He Called Him, Jean De
Bailleul, Had Died
Of chagrin in this very chamber on hearing of the
success of his rival, Robert the Bruce, at the battle
Of Bannockburn;
and when he added that the Duke de Guise had slept in it during the
wars of the League, my uncle was fain to felicitate himself upon being
honored with such distinguished quarters.
The night was shrewd and windy, and the chamber none of the warmest. An
old, long-faced, long-bodied servant in quaint livery, who attended
upon my uncle, threw down an armful of wood beside the fire-place, gave
a queer look about the room, and then wished him bon repos, with a
grimace and a shrug that would have been suspicious from any other than
an old French servant. The chamber had indeed a wild, crazy look,
enough to strike any one who had read romances with apprehension and
foreboding. The windows were high and narrow, and had once been
loop-holes, but had been rudely enlarged, as well as the extreme
thickness of the walls would permit; and the ill-fitted casements
rattled to every breeze. You would have thought, on a windy night, some
of the old Leaguers were tramping and clanking about the apartment in
their huge boots and rattling spurs. A door which stood ajar, and like
a true French door would stand ajar, in spite of every reason and
effort to the contrary, opened upon a long, dark corridor, that led the
Lord knows whither, and seemed just made for ghosts to air themselves
in, when they turned out of their graves at midnight.
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