XXXVIII. The Burning of the Church and Town of Forres…

XXXVIII. The Burning of the Church and Town of Forres

“By’r Lady, but the bonfire brens right merrily,” cried a stern voice, which they immediately knew to be that of the Wolfe of Badenoch. “Ha! is’t not gratifying to behold? Morte de ma vie, see there, son Alexander, how the Archdeacon’s manse belches forth its flaming bowels against the welkin. By St. Barnabas, but thou mayest tell the very blaze of it from that of any other house, by the changes produced in it from the abundant variety of ingredients that feed it. Thou seest the cobwebby church consumeth but soberly and meekly as a church should; but the proud mansion of the Archdeacon brenneth with a clear fire, that haughtily proclaims the costly fuel it hath got to maintain it—his crimson damask and velvets—his gorgeous chairs and tables—his richly carved cabinets—his musty manuscripts, the which do furnish most excellent matter of combustion. By the mass, but that sudden quenching of the flame must have been owing to the fall of some of those swollen down-beds, and ponderous blankets, in which these lazy churchmen are wont to snore away their useless lives. But, ha! see how it blazes up again; perdie, it hath doubtless reached the larder; some of his fattest bacon must have been there; meseems as if I did nose the savoury fumes of it even here. Ha! glorious! look what a fire-spout is there. Never trust me, if that brave and brilliant feu d’artifice doth not arise from the besotted clerk’s well-stored cellars. Ha, ha, ha! there go his Malvoisie and his eau-de-vie. The vinolent costrel’s thirsty soul was ever in his casks; so, by the Rood, thou seest, that, maugre every suspicion and belief to the contrary, it hath yet some chance of mounting heavenward after all. Ha, ha, ha! by the beard of my grandfather, but it is a right glorious spectacle to behold.”

“My Lord brother-in-law,” cried the Earl of Moray, in a voice of horror and dismay, as he now advanced towards the group, “can it be? Is it really thou who speakest thus?”

“Ha, Sir Earl of Moray,” cried the Wolfe, starting and turning sharply round, “what makest thou here, I pray thee? Methought that ere this thou wert merry in thy wine wassail?”

“Nay, perhaps I should have been so,” replied the Earl of Moray temperately, “had not news of yonder doleful burning banished all note of mirth from my board. Knowest thou aught of how this grievous disaster may have befallen?”

“Ha, ha, ha! canst thou not guess, brother of mine?” cried the Wolfe, with a sarcastic laugh.

“I must confess I am not without my fears as to who did kindle yonder wide-spreading calamity,” said the Earl of Moray gravely; “yet still do I hang by the hope that it was impossible thou couldst have brought thyself to be the author of so cruel, so horrible, so sacrilegious a deed. Even the insatiable thirst of revenge itself, directed as it was against one individual, could hardly have led thee to wrap the holy house of God, and the dwellings of the innocent and inoffensive burghers, in the same common ruin with the tenements belonging to those whom thou mayest suspect as being entitled to a share of thy vengeance. ’Tis impossible.”

“Ha! by the flames of Tartarus, but it is possible,” cried the Wolfe, gnashing his teeth; “yea, and by all the fiends, I have right starkly proved the possibility of it too. What! dost think that I have spared the church, the which is the very workshop of these mass-mongering magpies? Or was I, thinkest thou, to stop my fell career of vengeance, because the beggarly hovels of some dozen pitiful tailors, brogue-men, skinners, hammermen, and cordwainers, stood in my way?—trash alswa, who pay rent and dues to this same nigon and papelarde Priest-Bishop, who hath dared to pour out his venomous malison on the son of a King—on the Wolfe of Badenoch! By all the infernal powers, but the surface of the very globe itself shall smoke till my revenge be full. This is but a foretaste of the wrekery I shall work; and if the prating jackdaw’s noxious curse be not removed, ay, and that speedily too, by him that rules the infernal realms, I swear that the walthsome toad and all the vermin that hang upon him shall have tenfold worse than this to dree!”

“Alexander Stewart!” cried a clear and commanding voice, which came suddenly and tremendously, like that of the last trumpet, from the summit of the knoll immediately above where the group was standing. There was an awful silence for some moments; a certain chill of superstitious dread stole over every one present; nay, even the ferocious and undaunted Earl of Buchan himself felt his heart grow cold within him, at the almost more than human sound. He looked upwards to the bare pinnacle of the rising ground, and there, standing beside a scathed and blasted oak, he beheld a tall figure enveloped in black drapery. The irregular blaze of the distant conflagration came only by fits to illumine the dusky and mysterious figure, and the face, sunk within a deep cowl, was but rarely and transiently rendered visible by it, though the eyes, more frequently catching the light, were often seen to glare fearfully, when all the other features were buried in shade, giving a somewhat fiendish appearance to the spectre.

“Alexander Stewart!” cried the thrilling voice again; “Alexander Stewart, thou grim and cruel Wolfe, when will the measure of thine iniquity be filled up? Thou sweepest over fair creation, levelling alike the works of God and man, regardless of human misery, like the dire angel of destruction; the very green of the earth is turned into blood, and hearts are rent beneath every tramp of thy horse’s hoofs: yet art thou but as a blind instrument in the hands of the righteous Avenger; and when thou shalt have served the end for which thou wert created, verily thou shalt be cast into eternal fire. If thou wouldst yet escape the punishment which speedily awaits thine atrocities, hasten to bow, in penitence, before those altars thou hast dared to pollute, and make full reparation to the holy ministers of religion for the unheard of insults and injuries thou hast offered them. Do this, or thine everlasting doom is fixed; death shall speedily overtake thee, and thou shalt writhe amidst the ineffable torments of never-ceasing flames.”

As the voice ceased, there arose from the distant town a strong and more enduring gleam of light, which rendered visible every little broom-blossom and heath-bell that grew upon the side of the knoll, and threw a pale, but distinct illumination over the features of the figure.

“Holy Virgin! blessed St. Andrew! ’tis the mysterious Franciscan,” whispered several of the Earl of Buchan’s attendants, as they crossed themselves, in evident alarm.

“Ha! is it thee, thou carrion chough?” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, recovering from the surprise and dismay into which he had been plunged by so unexpected and fearful a warning from one whom he had not at first recognized; “ha! morte de ma vie,” cried he, couching his lance, digging the spurs deep into his horse’s flanks, and making him bound furiously up the slope of the knoll; “by all the furies, thou shalt not ’scape me this bout, an thou be not a very fiend. Haste, Alexander, ride round the hill.”

“This way, villains,” cried Sir Alexander Stewart instantly, obedient to his father’s command; “this way, one-half of ye, and that way the other half. Let not the caitiff escape us; take him alive or dead; by the mass, it mattereth not which.”

Divided into little parties, the Wolfe’s attendants spurred off to opposite points of the compass, in order to encircle the hill. The figure had already disappeared from the pinnacle it stood on, but the furious Earl of Buchan still pushed his panting horse up the steep ascent, until he disappeared over the top. The Earl of Moray and Sir Patrick Hepborne remained for some time in mute astonishment, perfectly at a loss what to think or how to act. Shouts were heard on all sides of the hillock; but in a short time they ceased, and the individuals of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s party came dropping in one by one, with faces in which superstitious dread was very strongly depicted.

“Didst thou see him?” demanded one. “Nay, I thank the Virgin, I saw him not,” replied another. “Whither can he have vanished?” cried a third. “Vanished indeed!” cried a fourth, shuddering, and looking over his shoulder. “Ave Maria, sweet Virgin, defend us, it must have been a spirit,” cried another, in a voice of the utmost consternation.

“Hold your accursed prating,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, who now appeared, with his sons clustered at his back, all bearing it up boldly, yet all of them, even the stout Earl himself, much disturbed and troubled in countenance. “Ha!” continued he, “by all that is good, there is something strange and uncommon about that same friar. I know not well what to think. I bid thee good-bye, brother-in-law; I wot, we part but as half friends; yet commend me to Margery. Sir Patrick Hepborne, when it pleaseth thee to come to Lochyndorbe, thou shalt be right welcome. Allons, son Alexander, we must thither to-night yet for our hostelry; so forward, I say;” and saying so, he rode away at the head of his party.

“Rash and intemperate man,” cried the good Earl of Moray, in a tone of extreme distress and vexation, as he turned his horse’s head towards Forres, “what is it thou hast done? Into what cruel and disgraceful outrage hath thy furious wreken driven thee. The very thought of this ferocious deed being thine, is to me more bitter than ligne-aloes. The noble and the peasant must now alike hold thee accursed for thy red crimes. Hadst thou not been my wife’s brother, and the son of my liege lord the King, I must of needscost have done my best to have seized thee straightway; but Heaven seemeth to be itself disposed to take cognizance of thy coulpe, for in truth he was more than mortal messenger who pronounced that dread denunciation against thee.”

The solemn silence with which these words were received by Sir Patrick, showed how much his thoughts were in unison with those of the Earl.

“But let us prick onwards,” cried Lord Moray, starting from his musing fit; “every moment may be precious.”

They had not gone many yards, when they heard the mingled sound of numerous voices, and found themselves in the midst of a great crowd of people of all ages, and of both sexes, who, idle and unconcerned, had taken post on the brow of the hill, and now stood, or lay on the ground in groups, calmly contemplating the rapid destruction that was going on in the little town, and giving way to thoughtless expressions of wonder and delight, at the various changes of the aspect of combustion.

“Why stand ye here, idlers?” cried the Earl of Moray, riding in among them, and stirring up some of them with the shaft of his lance; “come, rouse ye, my friends; shame on you to liggen here, when ye might have bestirred ye to save the town; come, rouse ye, I say.”

“Nay, by the mass, I’ll not budge,” cried one. “’Tis no concern of mine,” cried another. “Nay, nor of mine,” cried a third. “I do but come here to sell my wares at the tourney,” cried a fourth.

“Depardieux, but every mother’s son of ye shall move,” cried the Earl, indignant at their apathy.

“And who art thou, who dost talk thus high?” gruffly demanded one of the fellows, as he raised a sort of pole-axe in a half-defensive and half-menacing attitude.

“I am John Dunbar, Earl of Moray,” replied the Earl resolutely; “and by St. Andrew, if ye do not every one of you make the best of your way to Forres sans delay, and put forth what strength ye may to stop the brenning of the poor people’s houses and goods, I will order down an armed band from the Castle, who shall consume and burn to tinder every tent, booth, bale, and box, that now cumbereth the meads of St. John. “Will ye on with me now, knaves, or no?”

“Holy Virgin, an thou be’st the good Earl,” cried the fellow, lowering his pole-axe, “I humbly crave thy pardon; verily we are all thine humble slaves. Come, come, my masters, run, I pray ye, ’tis the good Earl John. Fie, fie, let’s on with him, and do his bidding, though we bren for it.”

“Huzza for the good Earl John—huzza! let’s on with the good Earl of Moray,” cried they all.

“Mine honest men,” cried the Earl, “I want not thy services for nought. Trust me, I shall note those who work best, and they shall not go guerdonless; and if ye should all be made as dry as cinders, by hard and hot swinking, ye shall be rendered as moist as well-filled sponges, with stout ale, at the Castle, after all is over.”

“Huzza for the good Earl John! huzza for the good Earl of Moray!” shouted the rabble; and he rode off, followed by every man of them, each being well resolved in his own mind to earn his skinful of beer.

As the Earl and Sir Patrick were pushing up towards the ridge along which the town was situated, the shouts of men, and the dismal screams and wailings of women and children, arose from time to time from within it. The good nobleman redoubled his speed as he heard them, and the party soon reached the main street, the scene of confusion, misery, and devastation. The way was choked with useless crowds, who so encumbered those who were disposed to exert themselves, that little effectual opposition could be given to the fury of the fire. Amidst the shrieks and cries which burst forth at intervals from the mob, the Earl’s ears were shocked by the loud curses on the Wolfe of Badenoch that were uttered by the frantic sufferers. But no sooner was he recognized than his arrival was hailed with acclamations of joy and gratitude, which drowned the expression of every other feeling.

“Here comes the good Earl”—“The Virgin be praised—blessed be St. Laurence that the Earl hath come”—“Ay, ay, all will go well now sith he is here”—“Stand aside there—stand aside, and let us hear his commands.”

The Earl and Sir Patrick Hepborne hastily surveyed the wide scene of ruin, and were soon aware of its full extent. The manse of the Archdeacon, to which the incendiaries had first set fire, was already reduced to a heap of ashes. The priest who owned it had fled in terror for his life when it was first assailed; and the greater part, if not all the population of the little burgh having been employed on the Mead of St. John’s in the preparations for the tournament, or in loitering as idle spectators of what was going on there, little interruption was given to the vengeful Wolfe of Badenoch in his savage work. He and his troop were tamely allowed to stand by until they had seen the residence of the churchman so beleagured by the raging element, that little hope could remain of saving any part of it. He next set fire to one end of the church; and ere he and his party mounted to effect their retreat, they fired one or two of the intervening houses. Many of the tenements being of wood, and the roofs mostly thatched with straw, the fire spread so rapidly as very soon to form itself into one great conflagration, that threatened to extend widely on all sides. Still, however, it was confined to one part of the town, and there yet remained much to save. Hitherto there had been no head to direct, but the moment the Earl appeared all were prepared to give implicit and ready obedience to his orders. He took his determination in a few minutes, and, imparting his plan to Hepborne, they proceeded to carry it into instant execution.

The portion of the street that was already in flames had been abandoned by the people, the fire having gained so hopeless an ascendancy there that all efforts to subdue it would have been vain. The Earl therefore resolved to devote his attention to confining it within its present limits. He stationed himself within a few yards of that extremity which they had first reached, and, having ordered the crowd to withdraw farther off, he brought forward the useful and active in such numbers as might be able to work with ease, and he began to pull down some of the most worthless of the houses. Hepborne, in the meanwhile, called together a few hardy and fearless-looking men, and followed by these and Mortimer Sang, who was rarely ever missed from his master’s back when anything serious or perilous was going forward, he proceeded, at the risk of life, to ride down the narrow street, between two walls of fire, where blazing beams and rafters were falling thick around them. His chief object was to get to the farther boundary of the conflagration, and he might have effected this by making a wide circuit around the town; but, besides gaining time by forcing the shorter and more desperate passage, the generous knight was anxious to ascertain whether, amidst the confusion that prevailed, some unfortunate wretches might not have been left to their fate among the blazing edifices.

He moved slowly and cautiously onwards, his horse starting and prancing every now and then as the burning ruins fell, or as fresh bursts of flame took place; and, steering a difficult course among the smoking fragments that strewed the street, or the heaped-up goods and moveables, which their owners had not had time to convey farther to some place of greater security, he peered eagerly into every door, window, and crevice, and listened with all his attention for the sound of a human voice. More than once his eyes and his ears were deceived, and he frequently stopped, in doubt whether he should not rush boldly through fire and smoke to rescue some one whom his fancy had caused him, for an instant, to imagine perishing within. His mind being so intensely occupied, it is no wonder that he could pay but little attention to his own preservation; and accordingly he received several rude shocks, and was at last fairly knocked down from his saddle by the end of a great blazing log, which grazed his shoulder as it descended from a house he was standing under. Mortimer Sang caught the reins of his master’s horse, and Sir Patrick was speedily raised from the ground by the people who were near him; and he regained his seat, having fortunately escaped with some slight bruises received from the fall, and a contusion on his shoulder, arising from the blow given him by the beam.

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XXXIX. Sir Patrick and the Earl at Forres

Sir Patrick Hepborne had hardly recovered himself when, as he was passing a house to which the fire had but just communicated, he encountered a crowd of people rushing out, hastily attired in all manner of strange coverings. It was the inn of the burgh. Among those who came forth there was one gigantic figure, who ran against his horse like a battering-ram, and almost threw the animal on his haunches by the concussion. Ere Hepborne could recover himself the monster was gone; but his attention was quickly diverted from this incident by the sound of a voice chanting irregularly in broken song, mingled with the notes of a harp. It came from the upper part of the building. The house, though extending a good way backwards from the street, was of two storeys only; but as the flames were briskly attacking the lower part, no time was to be lost in making the musician leave it.

Hepborne sprang from his horse, and, hastening down a lane to the doorway, rushed up the narrow stair, and being led by ear towards the music, ran along a passage and entered an apartment over the gable next the street, where, to his utter astonishment, he beheld the minstrel, Adam of Gordon, seated on a stool, in his nightcap and under-garments, accompanying his voice by striking wild chords upon the harp, and looking upwards at intervals, as if seeking inspiration.

“Adam of Gordon!” cried Hepborne, in absolute amazement, “what dost thou here? Quick, quick, old man; thy life is in peril; throw on thy cloak and fly with me; the flames gain upon us!”

“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the minstrel, “disturb me not, I beseech thee; I do but work myself here into proper bardic enthusiasm, that I may the better describe the grandeur of this terrific scene. Trust me, this is the minstrel’s golden moment; let it not pass by unimproved.” And saying so he again began to strike on his harp, and to recur to his subject.

The raging flame in fury swept, It seized their chamber where they slept, Along the wasting floor it crept, Where locked in virtuous love they lay. She dreamt that on a bed of flowers, Beneath the cool and fragrant bowers, With him she wasted happy hours; She waked—she shrieked! she swooned away! He quick uprose, in wild alarm, To snatch his love——

“Nay, Adam, this is absolute madness, for whilst thou art composing thy ballad we shall both be brent. Haste thee, old man. Hark! there was the crash of falling ruins.”

“One stanza more, I entreat thee, Sir Knight; my brain is hot with my subject.

To snatch his love from threatening harm, He clasped her in his vigorous arm.”

“Nay, then,” said Hepborne, “I must of needscost enclasp thee in mine, or we shall both perish;” and snatching up, with one hand, the minstrel’s drapery that lay beside him, he lifted old Adam, harp and all, high in his other arm, and carried him down the stair on his shoulder; whilst the bard, entirely occupied with his subject, was hardly conscious of being removed from his position, and went on chatting and strumming—

“He quick uprose, in wild alarm, To snatch his love from threatening harm; He clasped her in his vigorous arm, And rushed——

Holy St. Cuthbert, I’m choked! I’m—pugh!—ooh!”

A sudden stop was indeed put to his song by the smoke through which Hepborne was condemned to force his way with his burden, and the harp accompaniment was effectually silenced by the flames which shot over them on either hand, and burnt off the strings of the instrument. Hepborne bore the minstrel bravely into the street.

“Where is thy steed, Adam?” demanded Hepborne, as he set him down.

“In the stable behind,” replied the minstrel, somewhat brought to his senses by the danger which he now saw had threatened him. Hepborne immediately despatched some of those who were with him to fetch out the horse.

“Heaven bless thee for my safety, Sir Knight,” said Adam; “but now that I am beyond risk, if it so please thee I would gladly saunter through the burning town alone, to gather hints for the garniture of my ballad.”

“Nay, nay, old man,” replied Hepborne, quickly, “this is no place for thee. Here cometh thy little curtal nag—mount thee, straightway, and hie thee to Tarnawa with this man, who shall guide thee thither. There thou mayest inquire for a page of mine, called Maurice de Grey, who will quickly make thee known to my Lady the Countess of Moray; she will be right glad to see any one of minstrel kind in these times of tournament. But stay,” added Hepborne, laughing to observe the grotesque figure of the half-clad minstrel on horseback; “Here, throw his cloak over him and hasten hence with him beyond danger. Away, away from hence, or ye are lost,” cried he, with increased rapidity of utterance; and the group had hardly time to make their horses spring from the spot ere the front wall of a house, slowly cracking and rending, fell with a tremendous crash into the street, and they were divided from each other by the heaped-up debris. Satisfied, however, of the minstrel’s safety, Sir Patrick now hurried on to the post which the Earl of Moray had assigned him at the farther extremity of the conflagration.

A considerable vacant space around the church had fortunately prevented the fire from spreading beyond it. The holy edifice itself was burning slowly, yet so little attention had been paid to it that the choir, which the incendiaries had first inflamed, was already almost consumed. Sir Patrick Hepborne immediately established two lines of people, extending between the church and a neighbouring well, so that buckets of water were conveyed with great rapidity towards it, and the supply in this way was so great that he soon succeeded in preventing the flames from spreading to the other parts of the building; and their progress being once arrested, they at last began to sink of themselves from lack of combustible materials, and by degrees were altogether subdued by the crowds of active and well-directed men, who thought and talked of nothing but the Castle beer, and who worked to earn a skinful of it.

The sun had now risen on the scene of desolation. Toil-spent, and overwhelmed with grief at the misery which appeared around him, as well as vexation at the thought of how it had been occasioned, the Earl dismounted from his horse and sat himself disconsolately down on a stone by the side of the way. There Hepborne found and saluted him for the first time since their separation of the previous evening.

“’Tis a grievous spectacle, my Lord Earl,” said Sir Patrick, as he observed the affliction that was pourtrayed on his Lordship’s countenance, “’tis indeed a grievous spectacle; but thou hast the pleasing gratification of thinking that, without thy timely presence here, the ruin must have spread itself wider, and that if it had not been for thy well-timed counsels and generous exertions not a house would have been remaining at this moment within the burgh.”

“Alas!” exclaimed the Earl, in a tone of extreme mortification, “grievous as the calamity is, I am less moved by it than with the tormenting reflection that it was the work of my wife’s brother. ’Tis piteous, indeed, to listen to the lamenting of those helpless and innocent people, but their wounds may be speedily salved by the aid of a little paltry gold; whilst those which the Earl of Buchan hath inflicted on the hearts of all connected with him by allowing a brutal thirst of revenge to make him guilty of an act so cruel and outrageous, must fester and rankle for many a day. What will the good old greyheaded Monarch suffer when the news do reach him? Verily it doleth me sorely that by my marriage I should be sykered with one who hath the fear of God so little before his eyes. Yet must I not think of it. It behoveth me now to remedy the mischief he hath wrought, and to set about relieving the more immediate wants of the wretched people who have lost their houses and their all. Here, Martin,” cried he to one of his esquires, “take these tablets; seek out some one who is well informed as to the town and its inhabitants, and quickly bring me a careful list of the houses that have been burned, together with the name, sex, age, and condition of the inmates.”

The squire hastened to obey the Earl’s command. Several of the knights, his guests, who had followed him from the Castle, and who had given him good assistance in extinguishing the fire, now came about him, pouring out liberal congratulations on the success of his well-conceived and promptly-executed measures; and while they formed a knot around him, they were in their turn surrounded by crowds of the lower sort of people, composed partly of the homeless sufferers, who were weeping and wailing for the calamity that had befallen themselves and their little ones, and pouring out curses against the ferocious Wolfe of Badenoch, who had brought all this misery upon them. But these execrations on the Earl of Buchan were not unmingled with blessings on the Earl of Moray for his timely aid, without which the speakers felt that they too might have been by this time rendered as destitute as their less fortunate neighbours. Then many were the clamorous entreaties for charitable succour; whilst those indifferent persons, who had assisted in subduing the conflagration, were elbowing one another, and uttering many a broad and rustic hint of the reward they looked for. At length Martin appeared with his list.

“Here,” said the Earl, aside to him, “into thy faithful hands do I confide this purse; ’tis for the more immediate relief of those poor people. Leave not the town until thou hast inquired into circumstances, and done all thou canst to secure temporary accommodation for those who have been rendered houseless. I shall take care to provide more permanent aid for them anon.”

This order, though given in a half whisper, was caught up by some of those miserables, whose wretched and forlorn state had quickened their ears to every sound which gave them the hope of relief. The news of the Earl’s humane bounty spread among them more rapidly than the fire had done over their possessions and property. Their gratitude burst forth in shouts:

“God bless the noble Earl of Moray!”—“Long live our noble preserver!”—“Heaven reward our kind benefactor!”—“If his brother, the wicked Wolfe of Badenoch, be a destroying devil, surely the good Earl of Moray is a protecting angel!”—“May the best gifts of the Virgin be upon him and his!”

The Earl called for his horse, and mounted amid the cheers of the populace.

“Let all those who lent me their friendly aid on this occasion forthwith follow me to the Castle,” cried he, and, glad to escape from praises which, as they were bestowed on him at the expense of the brother of his Countess, gave him more of pain than pleasure, he turned his horse’s head in the direction of the Castle, and rode off, accompanied by Sir Patrick Hepborne and the rest of the knights who were with him, and followed at a distance by a shouting and ragamuffin rabble, who were eager to moisten their hot and parched throats from the capacious and hospitably-flowing cellars of Tarnawa.

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Chapter XL

In the Countess of Moray’s Apartments—Sir Patrick gets Quizzed.

The Earl and his friends had no sooner reached Tarnawa, than they retired, each to his own chamber, to enjoy a few hours’ rest. Sir Patrick Hepborne made inquiry for his page, but the latter was nowhere to be found at the time; so, leaving orders that the youth should be in attendance, he gladly committed his wearied limbs to the comforts of his couch.

It was about midday when he raised his head from his pillow, and his first thought was to call for Maurice de Grey; but a lacquey informed him that the youth had not yet appeared. He sent the man for Mortimer Sang, and when the esquire came, he was much disappointed to learn that he had seen or heard nothing of the boy.

“Go then, I pr’ythee,” said Sir Patrick, “and make diligent inquiry for the youth through the Castle, and when thou hast found him, send him hither without a moment’s delay. Verily, it seemeth that he doth already begin to forget that I am his master.”

Sang hastened to obey, but remained absent much longer than Sir Patrick, in his anxiety about the boy, could think reasonable. The knight walked hastily about the room, and at length becoming very impatient, he sent first one lacquey, and then another, after the esquire. At last Mortimer Sang returned.

“Well, where is Maurice de Grey?” demanded Hepborne.

“By the mass, Sir Knight, I can gain no tidings of him.”

“’Tis very strange,” replied the knight, with a look of much vexation. “I do much fear me that the youth is of a truant disposition; it was indeed that which gave him to me. He ran away from his paternal home, and from maternal care, united himself to my party, and how oft did he solemnly and hautently vow never to quit me until death should sever us! His present absence doth wear a very mysterious and suspicious aspect.—Hath the old Harper been seen?” demanded Sir Patrick, after a pause, during which he paced the room two or three times backwards and forwards.

“Nay, Sir Knight,” replied the squire, “he hath not been visible.”

“Depardieux, then they must have gone off together,” replied Sir Patrick, with a tone of extreme dissatisfaction; “’tis most like that the minstrel, who must have known him before, hath aided, and perhaps been the partner of his escape. Yes, they must have been well acquainted, seeing that old Adam did so greatly frequent the English Border, and that he was so much esteemed by the Lady Eleanore de ———, I mean, by the page’s kinswoman. Well, I shall feel the loss of the boy’s company, for, sooth to say, his prattle did often beguile me of a dull hour. Truly, he was a shrewd and winning youth; but I am sore grieved to discover that he hath had in him such deceit, and so little feeling for the kindness I did ever show him.”

With these words, the knight threw himself on the couch, altogether unable to conceal the chagrin and distress of mind he was suffering.

“Perdie, I should have been as a father to that boy,” said he again; “I should have made him a knight worthy of the highest place in the annals of chivalry. The youth seemed to value, yea, and to give heed to my counsels too; nay, the admiration with which he looked up to me might have been almost considered as ridiculous, had it not been viewed as the offspring of extreme attachment. He spoke as if he imagined that I was all excellence, all perfection. What strange cause can have occasioned his so sudden abandonment of me, and that, too, without having given me the smallest warning or hint of his intention? Did not I, more than once, tell him that I should be willing to aid his return to his friends, should he ever feel a desire to do so? His escapade is an utter mystery to me. Ha! I have it,” continued he, after a short pause of consideration; “I trow, I have hit it at last. The youth hath some turn, nay, and, I wot, no mean one neither, for poesy and song; moreover, he toucheth the harp with liard and skilful fingers; and seeing that he is fond of change, he hath, ’tis like, taken fancy to become a troubadour, and so has exchanged me as his master for old Adam of Gordon. Well, well, why should I vex myself about a silly, careless, truant boy?”

But Sir Patrick did, notwithstanding, vex himself most abundantly, and, nearly an hour afterwards, he was found, still lying in peevish and fretful soliloquy, by Mortimer Sang, who entered his chamber, with a message from the Countess of Moray, entreating his company in her apartment for a short conference. Sir Patrick hastily prepared himself to attend her, and was immediately ushered into her presence by a squire in waiting.

He found his noble hostess seated with the Lady Jane de Vaux, in the midst of her damsels, some of whom were employed in idle chitchat, others in singing, from time to time, to the harp or guitar, whilst the rest were assisting in an extensive work of embroidery. They were immediately dismissed on his entrance, and the Countess came forward graciously to receive him.

“I fear, Sir Patrick,” said she, “that I may have perhaps broken in rather prematurely upon those hours of repose which the fatigue of yesternight’s violent, though charitable, exertions had doubtless rendered as welcome as they were necessary. The Earl, my husband, was so overspent with toil when he returned this morning, that he was buried in slumber ere I had time to question him as to the cause of the calamity, or even as to its full extent. I was on the eve of entreating a few minutes’ audience of thee at that time, that I might have my curiosity satisfied, but just as I was about to send my page to crave this boon of thine, thy page, Maurice de Grey, came hither, and informed me that thou also hadst betaken thee to thy couch. I have thus been compelled to champ the bit of impatience ever sithence; but, impatient as I am, I shall not easily forgive myself if I have been the means of rudely disturbing thy needful refreshment.”

“My page!” cried the knight with a mixture of surprise and eagerness, and made him forget everything else that the Countess had said to him; “verily, I have been seeking and sending for my page during the greater part of the morning. I beseech your Ladyship, when was the little varlet here, and what could have induced him to be so bold as to intrude himself on the Countess of Moray?”

“Nay,” replied the Countess, with an air of surprise no less strong than that of Sir Patrick, “I did assuredly think that it was thou who didst order him to come hither. He came to introduce a certain minstrel to my notice, and in so doing to take the opportunity of paying his duty to me, by thine own desire, ere the old man and he should depart hence together.”

“Depart hence!” cried Hepborne, with still greater astonishment, mingled with excessive vexation; “depart hence, didst thou say? So then the heartless boy hath really left me. Of a truth, when first I missed him, I did suspect that he and the minstrel had gone off together. Whither have they gone, I do beseech thee?”

“Nay, that is indeed miraculous,” replied the Countess; “’tis indeed miraculous, I say, that thou shouldst not have known the page was going away; for albeit he did not positively say so, yet did he so counterfeit with us that I for one did never doubt but that he came hither by thy very command to do his obeisance to me ere he should yede him hence. ’Tis a right artful youth, I’ll warrant me. Nay, Sir Knight, methinks thou hast good reason to congratulate thyself on being so happily rid of a cunning chit, who mought have worked thee much evil by his tricks. Of a truth, I liked not his looks over much———”

“Forgive me, noble lady,” cried the knight, “I cannot hear the boy spoken of otherwise than as he may in justice deserve. I saw not ever any trick or mischief in him; on the contrary, he did always appear most doced in his demeanour and service. Moreover, he is a boy of most sensible remark, and more prudence of conduct than one might reasonably look for in a head so young and inexperienced; then as for his heart, it was warmer than any I ever met with in old or young. I trow he did prove to me more than once that his attachment to my person was something beyond mere pretence. Twice did he nearly sacrifice his life for me. What can have induced him to go off thus secretly? Had I been cruel to him he might have fled from me with good reason; but I loved the boy as I should have loved a younger brother, yea, or a son, if I had had one. There was so much gentleness about him; yet lacked he not a sly, sharp, and subtle wit.”

“Yea, of a truth, he hath a wit,” cried the Lady Jane de Vaux, archly; “ay, and as you say, Sir Knight, ’tis indeed a sharp one. How the wicked rogue did amuse us by the rehearsal of thy loves, Sir Knight! I do mean thy loves for his fair cousin, the beauteous Lady Eleanore de Selby. Ha, ha, ha! parfay, the varlet did stir up some excellent good-humoured pleasantry and merry laughter in us.”

“In truth, his stories were most amusing,” said the Countess; “trust me, it is a smart and witty little knave as ever I saw.”

“A most rare and laughter-stirring imp, indeed,” cried the Lady Jane de Vaux; “nay, the mere remembrance of him doth provoke me yet—ha, ha, ha!”

Sir Patrick Hepborne stood confounded and abashed, to find himself thus unexpectedly placed as a butt for the ridicule of the two ladies.

“My noble Countess of Moray, and you, beauteous Lady Jane de Vaux, you do seem to have vouchsafed me the honour of being your quintaine this morning—the targe against the which you may gaily prove the sharp points of your merry wit. Depardieux, my lot in being so selected is to be envied, not deplored; and I must thank you for the distinguished preference you have deigned to show me. Yet cannot I but feel disappointment most severe, to discover thus that a youth, towards whom I was so well affected, should have requited my love so ill-favouredly. Of a truth, the wicked knave hath been most indiscreet. And yet meseems that I myself have been even more indiscreet than he, since the secret was altogether mine own, and I ought to have kept it better.”

“In good sooth, we were much indebted to the imp for his information,” said the Lady Jane de Vaux; “for to be free with thee, Sir Knight, our stock of female curiosity, the which was raised highly by the public refusal of so renowned a chevalier to drink a pledge to his lady love, was beginning to be much an over-match for our limited store of patience. Our appetite for intelligence regarding the state of thy heart was waxing so great, that had not this boy of thine come to us this morning, to open his wallet and satisfy our craving, we might ere this have been dead of mere starvation. His visit here was quite a blessing to us.”

“By St. Andrew, I am thunderstruck,” cried the Knight, “Depardieux, the young caitiff hath indeed deceived me deeply in thus betraying the most sacred secret of my heart.”

“Of a truth, thine unexampled constancy did deserve better treatment, Sir Knight,” said the Countess, with a tone and manner tinged with a certain degree of asperity and sarcasm, which Hepborne hardly believed that amiable lady could have assumed; whilst, at the same time, she and Jane de Vaux exchanged very significant looks. With an effort to command herself, however, she turned the conversation rather suddenly towards the subject of the burning of Forres; and after gathering from Hepborne the general circumstances of that calamity, she, with more than usual dignity, signified to him her wish to be alone, and he retired to his apartment, to fret himself about the loss of his page, and the provoking circumstances by which it was accompanied.

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XLI. Rory Spears, the Earl’s Henchman

Sir Patrick Hepborne left the apartments of the Countess of Moray melancholy and unhappy. He retired to his own chamber, to ruminate on the ingratitude of his heartless page; and, when the hour of the banquet arrived, he went to the Hall of Randolph with a mind but little attuned to harmonize with its festivities. But it was more in unison with his feelings than he had anticipated. The Countess of Moray, who was by this time fully aware that the destructive fire of Forres had been kindled by her brother’s hand, was unable to appear; and her example was followed by most of the other ladies. The Earl of Fife, too, and several other nobles and knights, were absent. The Earl of Moray was indeed present; but he was there only in body, for his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. All his attempts to rally his spirits were unavailing, and the sombre air which hung upon his countenance speedily spread along the gay ranks of the festive board, to the extinction of everything like mirth.

In this state of things, the Earl speedily broke up the feast. He had serious thoughts of breaking up the tournament also, and these he privately communicated to his brother-in-law, the Earl of Fife; but that crafty politician objected to a measure which could only make his brother’s outrage the more talked of; and he had a still stronger reason in his own mind, for he did not wish to be deprived of the opportunity, afforded him by the tournament, of gaining over friends to the party he was forming to strengthen his own power. It was therefore finally determined that next day it should be solemnly proclaimed by the heralds.

The Earl of Moray and his lady passed a sleepless night, turning in their minds how they could best repair the wrong done by their brother, the Wolfe of Badenoch. Early in the morning one of the Countess’s favourite damsels, Katherine Spears by name, came to beseech an audience of the Earl for her father, Rory Spears. There was nothing extraordinary in this request, for the Earl was so much the friend of his people that he was ever ready to lend an ear to the complaints of the meanest individual among them. The man who now craved an interview was an old partizan of the Earl’s, who had fought under his banner and at his back in many a battle, and who was employed in time of peace in hunting, hawking, and fishing.

As the Earl had a peculiar regard for Rory Spears, the damsel was ordered to send him up immediately to a small turret room, where his Lordship usually received people in his rank of life. Rory’s heavy fishing boots were soon heard ascending the turret stair, and his bulky figure appeared, followed by a great rough allounde and one or two terriers. As Katherine showed him in, there was something peculiarly striking in the contrast between her sylphlike figure, delicate face, and ladylike air, and his Herculean mould and rough-hewn features, in which there was a strangely-mixed and contradictory expression of acuteness and simplicity, good nature, and sullen testiness. His huge shoulders had a natural bend forward, and a profusion of grizzled curls mingled in bushy luxuriance with the abundant produce of his cheeks, lips, and chin. On his head was a close red hood, that lay over his neck and back, and he wore a coarse grey woollen jerkin and hauselines, covered with an ample upper garment of the same materials, and of a form much resembling that constituting a part of the fisherman’s garb of the present day. In one hand he brandished a long pole with a sharp iron hook at the end of it, the bend of the hook being projected into a long pike, and the whole so constructed as to be equally serviceable as a hunting-spear or as a fish-clip. He stooped yet more as he entered the low doorway of the turret room, and had no sooner established his thick-soled boots upon the floor than he made an obeisance to the Earl, with his cap under his arm.

“What hath brought thee hither so early, friend Rory?” inquired the Earl.

“In good sooth, my noble Lord, I did think that the Castle mought maybe be lacking provender, wi’ a’ thay knights, grandees, and lordlings ilka day in the hall, an’ so mony o’ their people in the kitchen, so I did gather some of the knaves with their horse beasts, and I hae brought thee ower six fat deer, some wild pollayle, and a dozen or twa o’ salmons, to help the buttery-man to fill his spense; ’tis no deaf nits, I rauken, that’ll fill sae mony mouths.”

“I thank thee, Rory,” said the Earl; “it was indeed most considerate in thee; thy present is most welcome. How fares it with Alice, thy wife?”

“Fu’ weel, my Lord Yearl,” replied Rory; “troth I see no complaints about the woman. And how’s a’ wi’ my Lady Countess?”

“A little indisposed to-day, Rory,” replied the Earl gravely.

“Fie, fie! I’m sorry for that,” said Rory; “I’se warrant feasting and galravaging mun agree but soberly wi’ her Ladyship’s honour. By St. Lowry, but I’m no that mokell the better for it mysel when I drink ower deep.”

“Too much drink is certainly bad, Rory, though the Countess’s indisposition hath nothing of that in it,” replied the Earl smiling: “but a black-jack of ale can do thee but little harm of a morning, so get thee to the kitchen, that thou mayest have thy draught.”

“Thanks, my most noble Yearl,” cried Rory; “a black-jack full of ale—nay, I spoke of gallons; it will take gallons to gi’ me an aching head, I promise thee; nay, one gallon, or twa gallons, peraunter, would do me but little harm. But that wasna just a’ my business, my Lord; I hae something mair to speak to thee about. Wasn’t thee wanting a cast o’ hawks?”

“Yea, I did indeed much wish for some of these noble birds, the which our rocks are famed for rearing, good Rory,” replied the Earl. “The King hath heard of the excellence of our falcons, and I have promised to send him a cast of them.”

“Aweel, aweel, the King’s honour shanna want them an’ I can get a grup o’ them,” replied Spears; “and sae your Lordship may tell him frae me.”

“Thanks, good Rory, for thy zeal,” replied the Earl; “get thee then to the kitchen, and have thy morning’s draught.”

“But that was not just a’ that I had to say to thine honourable Lordship,” said Rory, still lingering.

“I do opine that thou lackest advice and assistance in some little matter of thine own, friend Rory?” said the Earl smiling.

“Troth, my noble Lord Yearl, thou art not far from the mark there; and yet it’s not just mine own matter neither, though some few years mought peraunter ha’ made it mine; but it’s nobody’s now but his who hath got it.”

“Nay, now thou art somewhat mystical, Rory,” said the Earl; “come to the point at once, I pr’ythee, and effunde thy whole tale distinctly to me, for my time is rather precious this morning.”

“The short and the long, then, of this matter, my Lord Yearl, is, that my wife’s mother hath been robbed of fifty broad pieces,” replied Rory.

“What! old Elspeth of the Burgh? who can have done so foul a larcen?” demanded the Earl.

“Ay, good my Lord, just our old mother Elspeth,” replied Spears. “The money was the hard earnings of her goodman, the smith, who, rest his soul, was a hard-working Christian, as thou mayest remember.”

“And how did this wicked stouthrief happen?” inquired the Earl.

“By the mass, I will tell thee as speedily as may be, my Lord,” replied Rory. “It was but the night before last, that is to say, the night o’ the brenning o’ the Burgh, that it did happen. The haflins lassie that looketh after old Lucky was sent out to bring her tidings o’ the fire. Thee knawest that the poor soul downa easily budge from eild; and as she did lig in her blankets she hearden a heavy foot in the place; and when she got up she did find the kist opened, and the old leathern purse with her money gone.”

“’Tis a hard case, indeed,” said the Earl; “and hast thou any suspicions, Rory?”

“Nay, for a matter o’ that, I hae my own thoughts,” replied Rory; “yet I canna say that I am just sicker anent it; but cannot thou do nought, my noble Yearl?”

“Do thou use all thine ingenuity to find out the thief,” said the Earl; “I shall see what my people may be able to do to aid thee; and if we discover the rogue, a court shall be summoned, and he shall straightway hang for his villainy.”

“Thanks, my good Lord,” replied Rory, making his obeisance preparatory to departure; “verily I am much beholden to thee; but an’ we recover not the broad pieces, we shall gain little by the foiterer’s neck being lengthened; yet I’ll see what may be done to catch him.”

“Do so, Rory,” said the Earl; “thou shalt have the aid of some of my people, and I do wish thee success.”

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XLII. The Lovely English Damosel

“So,” said Rory Spears to his daughter, as she saw him out into the court-yard of the Castle, previous to his departure, “my lady the Countess hath bid thee attend to a young English damosel, sayest thou?”

“Yea, and she is one of the sweetest, as well as one of the loveliest damosels I did ever behold,” replied Katherine, “and of temper and disposition most gentle and sunshiny. Of a truth, it is quite a pleasure to be with her; I am already as if I had known her from infancy. She is so gently condescending with me, that I could live with her for ever.”

“What, wouldst thou forget thy benefactress to cleave to a stranger?” exclaimed Rory Spears, in a tone of reproach.

“Nay, verily, not so,” replied Katherine. “The duty I owe the Countess, and, above all, the love and gratitude I bear her, are too strong to permit me ever to forget her; but whatever my lady wills me to do, I am bound to do; and I own I do feel grateful to her for laying no more disagreeable task on me than that of attending on one so truly amiable as this English lady.”

“English leddy here, or English leddy there, what is ony English leddy, compared to the Countess of Moray?” replied Rory Spears impatiently. “I like not newfangledness—I like not to see thee relish any one but thy noble mistress, to whom thou shouldst ever cleave. She hath made a woman o’ thee, for the whilk may the Virgin’s blessing be about her. She hath caused thee to be taught many things; but let me not have the grief and vexation to find that thou hast forgotten the plain simple lesson o’ hamely virtue, and right acting, and the kindly feelings that I did put into thy young heart when thou wert but as a wild kid o’ the craigs, that is, when thou wert my bairn; for, from thy leddy lear and tutoring, thou art now far aboon a simple man like me. Yet dost ane honest warm heart, simple though it be, lift up him that carries it to be the make of the very greatest and wisest among the judges o’ the land, and so I am even wi’ thee, lassie, and enteetled to speak to thee, learned as thou art, and foolish though I be. Let not thy heart dance away after strangers.”

“My dearest father, thou hast much misjudged me,” replied Katherine. “This lady hath robbed me of no title of mine affection for the Earl and Countess, whom I do most ardently love, yea, as second parents; nay, I do love them hardly less than I do my mother and thee.”

“Thou shouldst love them more, lassie,” cried Rory, with great energy and emphasis. “Much as we may have claim to thine affection, what have we done for thee that may equal the bounteous blessings they have conferred?”

“Thou art my father, and Alice is my mother,” replied Katherine, seizing his rough horny hands, and looking up in his weather-beaten face and smiling affectionately. “Thou kennest thou didst put notions of virtue and of right acting, yea, and kindly feelings, into my young heart; and do I owe thee nothing for sike gifts?”

“Nay, Kate, thy lear hath made thee an overmatch for me,” cried Rory, quite overcome, and, embracing his daughter with the tears pouring over his cheeks; “God bless thee, my bairn—I fear not for thy heart; but, by St. Lowry, I must away. My blessing rest with thee, Kate. Ho there, loons, hae ye redd your beast horses o’ their burdens?”

“Ou ay, Maister Spears,” replied one of the men who came with him.

“Let’s on, then,” exclaimed he; so, striking the end of his pole to the ground, and whistling shrilly on his dogs, he moved hastily out by the Castle gate at the head of his ragged troop.

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Chapter XLIII

Mustering for the Tournament—The Proclamation—The Procession at St. John’s Chapel.

The lists were now finished, and the crests and blazoned coat-armour of such knights as meant to tilt were on this day to be mustered in the little chapel of St John’s. Chivalry was to be alive in all its gaudy pomp. Hitherto the knights had loitered about idle, or wasted the hours in sighing soft things into the delighted ears of their lady-loves, or in playing with them at chess or tables. Some, indeed, had more actively employed themselves, in hawking or hunting, and others had formed parties at bowls; but now all was to be bustle and busy preparation in the Castle, both with knights and ladies.

By dawn of day, squires, pages, and lacqueys, were seen running in all directions. Armour was observed gleaming in the ruddy beams of the morning sun; proud crests and helms, and nodding plumes, and richly-emblazoned shields and surcoats, and glittering lances, and flaunting banners and pennons, everywhere met the eye. The Earl of Moray, who had much to direct and to decide on, was compelled to shake off the sombre and distressing thoughts that oppressed him, and even to use his eloquence with the Countess, to induce her to rouse herself from the grief she had been plunged into by the shame her brother, the Wolfe of Badenoch, had brought upon her. She also had important duties to perform; and the first burst of her vexation being now over, she exerted her rational and energetic mind to overcome her feelings, and to prepare for the proper execution of them.

To gratify to the fullest extent that fondness for parade which so powerfully characterised the age, and to render the spectacle as imposing as possible, the whole of the knights, with their respective parties, were ordained to appear in the Castle-yard, where, having been joined by the ladies, it was intended they should be formed into a grand procession, in which they were to ride to the Mead of St John’s, to witness the herald’s proclamation.

Sir Patrick Hepborne was early astir, and his attendants and horses were all assembled before the Castle-yard began to fill. In the midst of them waved his red pennon, bearing his achievement on a chevron argent, two lions pulling at a rose. The parade that Mortimer Sang had, with great good judgment, selected for them, was immediately opposite to the window of the apartment which he knew was occupied by Katherine Spears, whose melting eyes had much disturbed his repose, and had created no small turmoil in his bosom. Mortimer yet hoped to win his spurs, in which event, the daughter of Rory Spears, though he was reputed rich, might have hardly, perhaps, been considered a proper match for him. But Master Sang could not resist the fascination of Katherine’s talk; and when in her company, he was so wrapped in admiration of her, that he invariably forgot that Rory Spears was her father, or that she had ever had a father at all. The damsel, for her part, looked with inexpressible delight on the soldier-like form of Squire Mortimer, and listened with no less pleasure to his good-natured sallies of humour, graced, as they always were, with much of the polish of travel.

The sound of the trumpets, as the party of each respective knight appeared within the arched gateway of the Castle’s outworks, now came more frequent, and the neighing of impatient steeds, provoking one another in proud and joyous challenge, became louder, and the shrill voices of the pursuivants were heard, proclaiming the name, rank, and praises of each chevalier as he appeared. The sun shone out bright and hot, increasing the glitter of the gold-embossed armour of the knights, and the splendour of their embroidered pennons and banners, their richly-emblazoned surcoats, and their horse-furniture, that swept the very ground as the coursers moved.

As Sir Patrick Hepborne passed outwards, on his way to descend to the courtyard, he found the Earl of Moray already upon the terrace, arrayed in all his pride. Behind him stood his standard-bearer, supporting the staff of his banner in an inclined position, so that its broad silk hung down unruffled by a breath of air, displaying on a golden field the three cushions pendant, within a double tressure, flowered and counterflowered with fleurs-de-lys gules.

“Sir Patrick,” said he, “thou art yet in good time. If it so please thee to tarry here with me for some short space, I will endeavour to teach thee some of the names and titles of those gallant chevaliers who are beginning to throng the yard of the Castle below. Thou dost already know my brother, the Earl of Dunbar, who standeth yonder, with his red surcoat covered with argent lions rampant; and I have also made thee know him with whom he holdeth parlance, who beareth an ostrich proper as his crest, and who hath his surcoat emblazoned gules, with a fess cheque argent and azure, to be the brave Sir David Lindsay of Glenesk, my worthy brother-in-law. With him is the proud Sir Thomas Hay of Errol, Constable of Scotland, who standeth alike sykered to me. Thou seest he beareth as his crest a falcon proper, and the silver cloth of his surcoat is charged with three red escutcheons.

“But see how the noble Douglas’s flaming salamander—jamais arrière—riseth over the towering crests around him; and as he shifts his place from time to time, thou mayest catch a transient glimpse of the bloody hearts that cover his argent field. Yonder hart’s head erased proper, attired with ten tynes, and bearing the motto, Veritas vincit, tells us that the wearer is Sir John de Keith, son of the Knight Marischal of Scotland. His emblazonry is hid from thee at present, but peraunter thou art aware that his coat-armour is argent on a chief or, three pallets gules. Yonder surcoat of cloth of gold with three mascles on a bend azure, as thou mayest have already discovered, veils the armour of Sir John Halyburton, than whom no knight hath a firmer seat in saddle, or a tougher arm to guide his ashen spear. Thou seest he weareth the red scarf of his lady-love attached to the Moor’s head proper, that grinneth as his crest amid the plumes of his helmet.”

“I do know him well, my Lord,” replied Sir Patrick; “it hath pleased him to admit me already into close friendship.”

“Ha!” continued the Earl, “seest thou yonder knight, who rideth so gaily into the court-yard, with his casque surmounted by a buck’s head couped proper, attired or? He is as brave a chevalier as ever spurred in field—Sir John de Gordon, Lord of Strathbolgy; his azure banner waves behind him, charged with three boars’ heads couped or. That knight who beareth for his crest a sleuth-hound proper, collared and leished gules, and whose gold-woven surcoat is charged with three red bars wavy—he, I mean, who now speaketh to the Douglas as he leaneth on his lance—is his brother-in-law, Sir Malcolm Drummond. Next to him stands Sir Alexander Fraser of Cowie, known by his azure coat, and his three cinquefeuilles argent.

“Thou mayest know the Earl of Sutherland by the gravity of his air, as well as by his richly embroidered red surcoat, displaying three stars within a border or, and the double tressure flowered and counterflowered with fleurs-de-lys of the field, marking his descent from King Robert the First. His helm beareth the cat sejant proper, with the motto, Sans peur. Behind him standeth Hugh Fraser, Lord of Lovat, with his crest, a stag’s head erased or, armed argent, and his azure coat charged with three argent cinquefeuilles.

“Ha! ha! ha! there thou comest, thou mad wag, Sir William de Dalzell, with thine erect dagger on thy helm, and thy motto, I dare. Depardieux, thou mayest well say so, for, by St. Andrew, thou wilt dare anything in lists or in field. Thou seest, Sir Patrick, that his sable surcoat hath on it a naked man, with arms extended proper. That lion passant, quardant gules, doth ornament the silver surcoat of Sir Walter Ogilvie of Wester Powrie, Sheriff of Forfar and Angus; and yonder golden coat, with the three red crescents, doth cover the armour of Sir William Seaton of Seaton. That argent lion rampant is the crest of Sir Robert Bruce of Clackmannan; thou seest his golden coat hath a saltire and chief gules. That crest, a boar’s head couped or, marks Sir Gillespie Campbell of Lochow; and the unicorn’s head, near it, is that of Sir William Cunninghame of Kilmaurs. My neighbour, Sir Thomas de Kinnaird of Cowbin, is easily known by his red surcoat, bearing a saltire between four golden crescents. He that holdeth converse with him, and hath three silver buckles on a bend azure on his silver surcoat, is Sir Norman de Leslie of Rothes. Behind him is Sir Murdoch Mackenzie of Kintail; his surcoat is hid from our view, but he beareth, on an azure field, a stag’s head embossed or.

“Yonder knight, who rideth in at this moment, clad in a golden surcoat, blazoned with a bend azure, charged with a star of six points between two crescents of the field, is Sir Walter Scott of Rankelburn, as brave a Borderer as ever rode with his lance’s point to the South. With him cometh a chevalier, whose crest is an erect silver spur winged; he is Sir John de Johnston, one of the guardians of the Western Marches. He who cometh after Sir John, bearing as his crest the bear’s paw holding a scimitar, and who hath his red surcoat charged with a lion rampant holding a crooked scimitar in his dexter paw, is Sir James Scrimgeour, the Constable of Dundee, I wot a right famous knight. With him is a knight also clad in a red surcoat, but having three golden stars; that is Sir Henry Sutherland of Duffus.

“Yonder sable eagle displayed on the argent surcoat, doth distinguish the gallant Sir Alexander Ramsay, Lord of Dalwolsy; and that other knight in silver, with the three sable unicorns’ heads, is Sir Henry de Preston of Fermartyn. He in the azure——But hark, Sir Patrick, the trumpets sound—the procession is about to be marshalled—we must descend to the courtyard.”

The trumpets had no sooner ceased than the voice of a pursuivant was heard—

“Oyez! oyez! oyez!—Let the standard-bearer of each noble and knight take up the parade which the herald did already assign to him, there to remain till he be duly marshalled.”

Immediately the banners and pennons, which waved in numbers below, were seen moving in various directions through the crowd, and each became stationary at its fixed point, near the edge of the area of the court-yard. This was a preliminary arrangement, without which the herald would have found great difficulty in executing his duty. As it was, he and his assistants soon began to bring the most beautiful order out of the gay confusion that prevailed. The Earl of Fife, who was to represent the King, appeared, and the Countess of Moray, and all the ladies, gorgeously apparelled in robes of state, came forth from the Castle, and began to mingle their slender and delicate forms with the firm, muscular, war-proved, and mail-clad figures of the knights.

At length all were marshalled and mounted; the court-yard shook with the shrill clangour of the trumpets and kettle-drums, and the neighing and prancing of the steeds; and the shouts that began to arise from the vulgar thousands who were impatiently waiting without the walls, announced that their eager eyes were at least gratified with the appearance of the first part of the spectacle.

Forth came some mounted spearmen and bowmen, before whom the dense crowd began slowly to open and divide; and then some half-dozen trumpets, with several kettle-drums and clarions, all riding two and two. These were followed by a troop of pages, also riding in pairs, and after them came a train of esquires, all gallantly mounted and armed, and riding in the same order. Between the pages and the esquires were some kettle-drums and trumpets as before. Then came the Royal Standard, preceded by a strong band of trumpets, kettle-drums, and clarions, and various other martial instruments, and guarded by some of the oldest and noblest of the knights, and such as had no ladies present to claim their attendance. The standard was followed by the Earl of Fife, who rode a magnificent milk-white charger, armed and barbed at all points, and caparisoned with regal splendour. On the present occasion he was here acting as representative of the King his father, and the pomp of his array was not inferior to what might have been looked for from a crowned head. Before him rode six pages and six esquires; and eight more pages walked, four on each side of his horse, supporting the poles of a canopy of crimson velvet, covered with golden shields, bearing the lion rampant gules. His golden surcoat, and the drapery of his horse, were richly emblazoned with the rampant red lion, and his private banner that followed bore the full blazon of his arms. The Earl of Fife was attended by a number of elderly knights of noble blood, who acted as his guards.

After the King’s representative came the trumpets of the heralds, followed by the pursuivants; immediately after them appeared the heralds, in their crowns and robes; and in the middle of the latter was Albany Herald, his horse led by a page on each side of him. He bore before him, on a crimson velvet cushion, a helmet and sword of rare and curious workmanship, which glittered with gold, and sparkled with precious stones. These were to be the prize of him who, by universal consent, should best acquit himself in the lists; and the very sight of them called forth loud shouts of applause from the populace. Immediately after the heralds came the Marischal and Speaker of the Lists, attended by the Marischal’s men.

After these came the Earl and Countess of Moray, richly attired, magnificently mounted, and nobly attended. They were accompanied by the Lord Welles, and his suit of English knights, to whom succeeded the married knights who had ladies present, each riding according to his rank, with his lady by his side, her palfrey being led by a page on foot. Before each chevalier went his banner or his pennon, and he was followed by his esquire, pages, and other attendants. Next came the young or unmarried knights, also marshalled according to their rank, each preceded by his banner or pennon, and followed by his squire and cortège. But the youthful gallants were each bound round the neck with a silken leash, which was held in gentle thrall by the fair hand of a lady, who rode beside him on a palfrey, led by a foot page. It is perhaps unnecessary to mention that Sir John Halyburton’s silken fetters were held by the Lady Jane de Vaux.

After the knights came another train of esquires, who were followed by pages and lacqueys; and, lastly, the procession was closed by a considerable force of spearmen, bowmen, and pole-axemen.

The head of the procession had no sooner appeared through the echoing gateway, than the air was rent with the repeated acclamations of the populace, who formed a dense mass, stretching away from the outworks in one uninterrupted mosaic of heads and faces, until they disappeared beneath the shade of the distant trees of the woodland. The paltry roofs of the cottages in the straggling hamlet were clustered so thick that they looked like animated heaps of human beings; and the ancient single trees that arose here and there among the hovels, were hung with living fruit. The agitation and commotion of the motley and party-coloured crowd was very great, but it expanded, and consequently thinned itself, as the procession moved on, the whole flowing forward like a vast river, until it lost itself in the depths of the forest, where its winding course, and the appearing and disappearing of its various parts among the boles of the trees, with the brilliant though transient gleams produced by the sunbeams, that pierced their way now and then downwards through accidental openings in the foliage, kindling up the bright lance-heads and helmets, and giving fresh lustre to the vivid colours of the proud heraldic emblazonments, lent an infinite variety of effect to the spectacle.

Whilst they moved over the green sod, under the leafy canopy of the forest, the tramp of the horses was deafened, and the shouts of the populace were in some sort muffled; but when the procession issued forth on the Meads of St. John, the affrighted welkin rang again with the repeated and piercing acclamations of a multitude which went on increasing in numbers as they advanced, particularly after they had crossed the bridge, and even until they reached the lists. The gates and barriers were wide open, and the procession filed in.

The Royal Standard was now hoisted over the crimson-covered central balcony, in which the representative of the Sovereign was afterwards to take his place, and it was hailed with prolonged cheers; while the heralds, pursuivants, Marischal, and Speaker of the Lists, and the judges of the field, having stationed themselves on a platform immediately underneath the royal balcony, the procession formed itself into a wide semi-circle in front of it. Meanwhile the galleries surrounding the lists were rapidly filled up by the populace, and all waited the issue with breathless impatience.

The Albany Herald now advanced to the front of the platform, and, holding up the prize sword and helmet in both hands, there was a flourish of trumpets and kettle-drums, which was drowned by the deafening shouts of the spectators. This had no sooner subsided, than Albany, having commanded silence by means of the shrill voices of his pursuivants, thus began:—

“Oyez, oyez, oyez!—All ye princes, lords, barons, knights, esquires, ladies, and gentlemen, be it hereby known to you, that a superb achievement at arms, and a grand and noble tournament, will be held in these lists, within four days from this present time, the acknowledged victor to be rewarded with this helmet and sword, given by the noble and generous John Dunbar, Earl of Moray. All ye who intend to tilt at this tournament are hereby ordained forthwith to lodge your coat-armouries with the heralds, that they may be displayed within the holy chapel of St. John the Baptist, and this on pain of not being received at the tournament. And your arms shall be thus:—The crest shall be placed on a plate of copper, large enough to contain the whole summit of the helmet; and the said plate shall be covered with a mantle, whereon shall be blazoned the arms of him who bears it; and on the said mantle, at the top thereof, shall the crest be placed, and around it shall be a wreath of colours, whatsoever it shall please him. Further be it remembered, that on the morning of the fourth day from hence, the arms, banners, and helmets of all the combatants shall be exposed at their stations; and the speakers shall be present at the place of combat by ten of the horologue, where and when the arms shall be examined, and approved or rejected, as may be fitting and right. The chevaliers shall then become tenants of the field, and tilt with blunt weapons in pairs, and then the victors shall tilt successively in pairs, until they be reduced and amenused to two; and he of the two who may the best acquit himself, shall receive from the hand of her whom he may proclaim to be the most peerless damsel, the prize of the helmet and sword.—God save King Robert!”

The herald’s proclamation was received with a flourish of trumpets, clarions, and kettle-drums, and the continued shouts of the people. Silence being at length restored,

“Pursuivant,” said he, “stand forth and deliver thee of the rules of the tourney.”

The pursuivant obeyed the orders of his superior, and proclaimed the laws of the tourney item by item; after which the trumpets and kettles again sounded, and the shouts of the populace were renewed. When they had died away, the heralds with their attendants again mounted, and then the procession moved round the lists in the order we have already described, and, issuing from the same gate at which it had entered, it proceeded slowly towards the adjacent chapel of St. John the Baptist, which it entirely surrounded, and then halting, under the direction of the heralds, it formed a wide circle about the beautiful little Gothic building that stood in an open grove of tall ash-trees.

“Oyez, oyez, oyez!” cried a pursuivant, “let the esquires of those chevaliers who mean to tilt at this tournament for the prizes given by the noble and generous John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, or who may, in any manner of way, desiderate to challenge others, or to leave open to others the power of challenging them to by-tilting for any other cause whatsoever—let their esquires now advance, and let the heralds have inspection of their crests and coat-armouries. He who shall fail to comply, and whose crest and coat-armour shall not be up before sunset, shall have no right to enter the lists as a tenant of the field in any manner of way whatsoever, except always as to pages or squires, to whom, for this day and to-morrow, the lists shall be open, to give all such an opportunity of proving their manhood. Advance, then, ye standard-men and esquires, that ye may deposit the gages which prove your masters to be gentlemen of arms, blood, and descent; that ye may see their trophies erected, and stay and watch each by his master’s achievement, to mark whosoever may touch the same, that his knight’s honour may not suffer by his neglecting the darreigne.”

In obedience to this order, each knight sent his standard-man, and an esquire or page, towards the chapel; and Sir Patrick Hepborne was about to send Mortimer Sang, when that faithful esquire dropped on his knee before him.

“Nay, my good master, I do humbly crave a boon at thy hands,” said he; “I do beseech thee let some other of thy people be chosen for this duty, sith I should at least wish to be a free man for this day and to-morrow, that I may do some little matter for mine own honour. By St. Andrew, if I may but bestir myself decently, it will not be amiss for thy credit, Sir Knight, seeing that a chevalier, whose personal renommie hath been already established, may be even well enough excused for amusing himself by taking pleasure in the well-doing of his horse, his hound, or his hawk.”

“Friend Mortimer,” replied Sir Patrick, “I do much rejoice that thou hast the glorious desire of reaping laurels so strong within thee. Trust me, I shall be no hindrance in thy way to fame, but rather I shall hold fast the ladder, and aid thee to climb and reach it. Thy time shall be thine own, and thou shalt be at full liberty to use thy discretion. I shall be much interested in thy success, and shall have small fear in thy commanding it; so get thee to one of the armourers of the field, and fit thyself forthwith at my cost, in whatever thou mayest lack.”

The squire threw himself on one knee, and, kissing his master’s hand, warmly expressed his gratitude, and then hastened away towards the lists, to purchase from some of the armourers who had shops there, the pieces of which he deemed himself in want, and Hepborne, for his part, chose out another esquire to fulfil the duty of watching his achievement in the chapel.

The heralds having put everything in such order as might bear inspection, now came forth from the chapel, and marshalling the nobles, knights, and ladies into a foot procession, they led them through the enclosure to the western door, where they entered to behold the spectacle. The sight was most imposing. Along both sides of the nave, and all the way up to the screen of the choir, were placed stands, each covered by a plate of copper, on which stood the tilting helmet, surmounted by the wreath and crest of the knight. The helmet rested on the upper part of the mantle, so as to support it by the pressure of its weight, whence it was expanded with the lower part of it spread on the ground, in such a manner that the achievement emblazoned on it in dazzling colours was fully stretched before the eye. Behind it, on the right side, stood the squire or page who was appointed to watch it, and on the left stood the standard-bearer, supporting the banner or pennon of his master.

“Advance, ladies, dames, and damosels,” cried the herald in a loud voice, that made the groined roof re-echo; “advance and survey the helmets, crests, and coat-armouries, and see whether thou mayest peraunter descry the bearings of any traitor, malfaitor, or reviler of the ladies; for if so be that such may be discovered by any, she shall touch his crest, and both it and his achievements shall be thrust hence, that he may have no tilting at this tournament. Advance, then, and the herald shall descrive them in succession; and if any other knight or achievement may yet appear this day before sunset, it is hereby reserved to the ladies to exercise their right on him, if they see fitting so to do.”

The herald now led the knights and ladies in procession up the right side of the nave, around the transept, and returned down the left side of the nave; and having thus given them a general view of the whole, he led them around three times more, during which he accurately described the name and titles of each knight to whom the successive crests and achievements belonged. One or two achievements were touched by some of the younger knights, who wished to prove the firmness of their seat, before the day of tournament, by trial in a by-tilting, with some antagonist of their own selection, or against whom they wished to establish the superior charms of their lady-love; but the more experienced warriors, who had already well proved their lances elsewhere, reserved their efforts for the grand day when the tournament was properly to begin.

The ceremony of surveying the crests and coat-armouries being now over, the knights and ladies returned to their steeds, palfreys, and attendants, and the whole were soon again in motion, though not in the order or with the ceremony they had observed in their approach to the lists, and to the Chapel of St. John’s. The procession was now broken up into parties, and the Earl of Moray and his Countess, leading the way with the Earl of Fife, all followed in gay disorder, with a less chastened pace and less formal air. The ladies had freed their knights from their temporary bonds, though they still held them by the mere influence of their radiant eyes. The laughing Jane de Vaux went on in the full enjoyment of her own triumph, and her face reflected the smiles of her merry party, as she cantered joyfully over the Mead after the Earl and Countess of Moray, to partake of a collation spread under a large awning in front of the pavilions on the other side of the river.

Sir Patrick Hepborne’s pleasure in this rural feat was damped by the marked distance with which the Countess of Moray now treated him. He fatigued himself with attempts to account for a conduct so different from the kind and easy reception she had given him at first; and he was still more shocked to observe, that even the Earl himself seemed to have adopted somewhat of the same freezing exterior since he had last parted with him in the court-yard. He tried to persuade himself that it was in a great measure fancy in him, and that in reality it was to be explained by the natural tone of dignity which the day demanded; and with this explanation he was obliged to content himself.

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XLIV. The Italian Armourer—The Knight of Cheviot

“Ha! Signor Andria Martellino, can it be? Do mine eyes deceive me, or is it really thou whom I do thus behold in Scotland?” cried Mortimer Sang, as he entered the temporary shop of an armourer, erected at the back of one end of the lists; “by the mass, I should as soon have looked to see our Holy Father the Pope in these parts, as thee in the Mead of St. John’s.”

The person the squire thus addressed was a tall, thin, shambling, though athletic, black-a-viced looking man, whose very appearance bespoke his long intimacy with ignited charcoal and sulphurous vapours, and whose stooping shoulders argued a life of bending over the anvil, whilst the length, swing, and sinew of his arms betrayed the power with which he might still be expected to assail the stubborn metal. As Sang spoke to him he opened a wide mouth from ear to ear, so that the large gold rings that ornamented their pendulous cartilages almost appeared to issue from the corners of it, and replied with a grin of immediate recognition.

“Eh! Signore Mortimero Sang, how I am verri glad to see dee. Dee be verri vell, I do hope? E il vostro padrone, il Cavaliere?—Eh! il Cavaliere Seer Pietro Hepborne, I hope he is good?—sta bene?—Preet vell, eh?”

“Yes,” replied Sang, “I thank God, he is well; he is here upon the field.”

“Ha, ha!” returned the armourer, “Seer Pietro wid dee here? Ha, I glad to hear dat. I glad to see heem. San Lorenzo, he alvays moss good for me. Sempre, sempre mi fa molto bene. He do me more vell dan all de oder Cavalieri in de leest at Paris; he break more shield, more breast-plate, more helmet of knight, dan all de oder who did joust. Dite mi, Signor Mortimero, dos he vant anyding in my vay? I have moss good armour, all made of right good Milano metal—tutta fabricata nella fabrica mia—all made in my vat dee do call vorksop. Dere, guardate, see vat a preet show. Aha!” continued he, as he opened a door that led from the temporary workshop, where his assistant workmen were labouring at the forge, into an inner place, where there was a grand display of armour, and weapons of all sorts and sizes, ready for immediate use; “dou mayest see I can feet il Cavaliere Seer Pietro vid anyding dat he may vant in my vay.”

“Nay,” replied Sang, “I do opine that Sir Patrick lacketh nothing in thy way; he is right well supplied with all necessary gear at present.”

“Ah!” said the Italian, “I am verri sorri, verri sorri for dat. I glad to gif him armour for noding at all; he do cause me moss good vid the vicked blows he do give. Ha! it vas vonder to see heem. I do make armour to stand against the blows of de Diavolo heemself—ma, for Seer Pietro—no; he cut troo anyding. I verri glad to arm heem for noding—si, Signor Mortimero, for noding at all.”

“Eh! sayest thou so, Signor Martellino, my master?” exclaimed Sang, with a knowing look; “by the mass, but I am right glad to find thee so liberally disposed, yea, and all the more, too, that thou dost seem to have sike mountance of the very articles I do lack. By St. Baldrid, though Sir Patrick hath no need to put thy generosity to the preve in his own proper person, I shall do my best to pleasure thee, and shall strive so far to overcome my delicacy, and to yield me to thy volunde, as to coart myself to accept of a helmet and a complete suit of plate from thee on gift.”

“Eh, cospetto! no, no, no, Signor Mortimero, mio caro,” hastily replied the Italian starting back, and screwing up his mouth, and shrugging his shoulders; “eh, povero me, quello non poso fare—I not can do dat. Ma, dou not intend vat I do mean. I not do mean dee; but I do mean il Signor Cavaliere Pietro Hepborne, il vostro padrone. It vas heem I do speak about.”

“Nay, I do comprehend thee perfectly,” answered Sang; “but as it is with my master’s money that I must pay for what I may buy from thee, I was in full thought that thou mightest have been filled with jovisaunce thus to discover a mode of showing thy gratitude and regard towards him, by haining his purse, and giving that gratis the which he must otherwise lay out for so largely.”

“Ha! Signor Mortimero caro,” said Andria, “ma non m’intendete ancora; dou not intend vat I do say yet. Il Signor Cavaliere Pietro Hepborne e voi sono du persone; ha! dou and dy master not von man. I do say (figurativamente) dat I moss glad to arm Seer Pietro, because he do vork moss mischief to de arms of de oder knights, so moss dat he more dan pay me by vat I sell to dem, for all vat I mote gif him. He do cut out good vork and good sell for me; ma voi siete vat you call an apprentiss in de joost. I give dee good armour! Ha, ha! it vould be all destroy in one leettel momento, and dou voud do leettel harm to dose dat mote be against dee. Ah-ha! dou voud destroy no von man’s armour but dine own. Ha! dou hast de good coraggio, and de stout leems; ma, per Baccho, dy skeel is not like dat of dy padrone, Seer Pietro.”

“Nay, as to that,” said Sang, laughing good-naturedly, “thou mayest be right enow, Signor Andria; yet meseemed that the stream of thy generosity did run best when thou didst ween that no one thirsted. But I am glad to see thee so well provided with good steel plate, from the which I must now supply myself, sith that thou wilt not be generous; and though they be dear, yet of a truth I do ken that thy goods are ever of the best.”

“Ah-ha! Signor Sang,” answered the Italian, with an air of triumph, “adesso avete ragione—dou art right; la mia armadura è fabricata d’acciajo stupendissimo de Milano—vat dou voud call de best steel of Milano. Dere is not no von as do work in vat dou call steel as do know his trade better; dere is no armajuolo is so good as mine broder and me. Bah! Giacomo dere dost make so moss noise vid his hammaire dat I not see myself speak. Come dis vay, Signor Mortimero, com dis vay—come into dis appartamento, and I make dee see all vat do make thee vonder.”

“Holy St. Andrew, what sort of men dost thou look to meet with in Scotland, when thou dost bring sike armour as that?” cried Sang, as he entered, and pointed to an enormous suit of plate armour that hung at one side of the farther wall of the place; “why that must be intended for a giant.”

“Ha, ha, ha, he! so dou dost vonder already, Signor Sang,” said the Italian; “I did look for dy vonder, but I did not tink so dat I voud see dee vonder for dat; I not tink but dou didst see dat in my store at Paris. I have had him verri long—ma no, I do remember dat ’tis not long since mine broder Giuseppe did bring him from our store at Milano. He and anoder I did sell yesterday morning vas make by mine broder Giuseppe, for de two ends of de store at Milano, for show. Dey look verri preet at de two ends of de appartamento dere, vere we did show de armour for sell. I never tink I sell von or oder, or dat I ever see von man dat mote be big enow to wear dem. But yesterday morning I have de good fortune to meet vid von Polypheme, who did come to me, vid von mout I fear he did eat me up. He did vant armour. Eh, morte, I do tink I did feet him ven none oder von man in Europe have done it but mineself. I make him pay vell; ma, ven you see armourers like de broders Martellini—Andria me, e Giuseppe, mine broder—de first armourers in the vorld?”

“True, true,” replied Sang, “ye are both mighty men-at-arms, and ye seem to know it as well, too; though, from what I know of ye both, ye do ken better how to make a sword than to use it. But come, we lose time. Hand me down that tilting helmet, that cuirass, and those vantbraces and cuisses. Let me see, I say, what thou hast got that may fit me for a turn or two in the lists. I must e’en try what I can do, an ’twere only to hack and destroy some steel-plate to win thy favour, and so screw up thy generosity, that I may earn a gratis suit from thee for my prowess one of these days.”

“Aha! Signor Sang, den must dou joost vid some knight dat vear de armour of dat donner Tedesche at de oder end of de leest,” cried Martellino, with a sarcastic air of triumph; “dat stupid Meenher Eisenfelsenbroken, dat do pretend to make de armour as good as me. Eh, he! quel bericuocolajo! dat do make his breastplate of de bread of de gingaire, his vork vill split more easy; ma, for dat sell by de Martellini, no, dou not break it so fast, caro Signor Sang.”

“Perdie, if I can but meet with that same Polypheme of whom thou didst talk, I will at least try the metal of thy brother Giuseppe’s plate.”

While the squire was in the act of fitting himself with what he wanted, a new customer came into the front shop or forge, where the armourer’s men were working strenuously, with heavy and repeated strokes, at a piece of iron that glowed at that moment on the anvil. It was Rory Spears.

“Hear ye me, lads,” roared he; “will ye haud yer din till I speak?”

The hammers fell thicker and faster, for the men heard him not.

“Dinna ye hear me? Haud yer din. I tell ye, till I effunde three words. Na, the red fiend catch ye, then—devil ane o’ ye will stop. Haud yer din, I tell ye,” shouted Rory, at the very top of his voice; but if it had been like that of ten elephants united, it must have had as little effect as that of a weasel amidst such thunder. The furious grimaces and gesticulations that accompanied it were sufficiently visible, and the iron having now become cold, the men stopped of their own accord, and gave him an opportunity of being heard.

“Ay, by St. Lowry, I thought I should gar ye hear at length. Seest thou here, lad,” continued he, addressing one of the men in particular, and at the same time holding out to him the strange amphibious weapon he usually carried, “seest thou here, my man? my clip-gaud lacketh pointing; try what thou mayest do to sharpen it.”

The man understood not his words, but comprehended his signs, and nodded assent; then pointing to the work they were busy about, he made Rory aware that he must wait until they had finished it.

“Ou, ay, weel-a-weel,” said Rory, “Ise tarry here till thou be’st ready to do the job;” and sitting down on a stool, he began peering about with his eyes in all directions.

The door of the inner apartment being open, he sent many a long look through the doorway, as Mortimer Sang and Andria Martellino crossed and re-crossed his field of vision. The squire at last appeared, fully armed cap-a-pie.

“Ha!” said he, as he strode forth, well contented with himself, “ha! this will do—this will do bravely.”

“Ou, Maister Sang, art thou bound for the lists too,” said Rory Spears.

“Hey, Master Spears, art thou there?” replied the squire. “By’r lackins, I knew thee not at first. Yea, I am going to try my luck. What! be’st thou bent thither alswa with thy gaud-clip?”

“Na, na, not I,” replied Rory. “I hae other fish to fry, I promise thee. I did come here but to get my gaud-clip sharpened. As I did sit yestreen watchin the salmons loupin at the ess, I did espy an otter creeping over the rock; so I threw my gaud at the brute and speared him, but I broke the point on’t, as thou mayest see here. Na, na, I can clip a salmon, or can toss a spear at a rae or red buck i’ the forest, or it may be, at a man in the field; but I kenna about yere galloping and jousting.”

“Signor Martellino, here is thy coin,” said Sang, counting it out to him; “but remember thee thou didst owe me half a broad piece in change the last chevisaunce that did pass between us; I do mean the which thou didst forget to return me in our dealings at Paris, ere thou didst set out for Milan.”

“Ah! signor, non mi recordo niente di quello,” replied Martellino, with a knavish air of pretended forgetfulness.

“Nay, but by St. Bartholomew, thou must remember it,” said Sang sternly. “I higgle never for thy price, but I shall have every penny that is lawfully mine own. It was in paying thee for a morion I had of thee; thou hadst not the change, and thou didst say I should have it next day; but when I did call, thou wert gone to Milan. By St. Barnabas, I will have mine own.”

“Ah! si, Signor Mortimero,” said the Italian, as if suddenly recollecting, and twanging his response obsequiously through his nose, accompanying it at the same time with a profound inclination of his body, “si, avete ragione davvero, I do now remember.”

“’Tis well,” said Sang, “take this then; I shall now go look for Polypheme. Master Spears, I bid thee good day;” and saying so, he walked out of the forge, and, taking the rein of his steed from the groom that attended him, mounted and rode off towards the chapel of St. John’s.

As he approached the gate of the enclosure that surrounded it, he observed a countryman holding two sorry ill-equipped hackneys with one hand, and with the other an enormous heavy long-tailed coarse black waggon-horse, covered with saddle and trappings of no small value; yet, unfit as it seemed for tourney, it bore all the furniture necessary to a steed destined for the lists.

Squire Mortimer dismounted, and, tossing his rein to the groom, hastened into the Chapel, to see what new knight had arrived who could own so unseemly a courser. The crowds who had visited the interior to gaze at the achievements of the chevaliers, were by this time all gone to the lists, and the most perfect stillness reigned within the Chapel. The pages, esquires, and bannermen stood by the heraldic trophies of their respective knights, immovable as statues; and the only sound or motion within the place proceeded from a herald who remained to receive and put up the achievement of any knight who might yet arrive before sunset, and to register his name and titles, and who was at that moment employed in doing these offices for him who called himself the Knight of Cheviot.

This colossal man in armour was standing opposite to the place where his achievement was erecting. On the helmet was a furze bush, with the motto, “I prick full sore;” and the blazon bore on a field-vert, a mountain azure, with the sun’s disc beginning to appear from behind it, or, and the motto, “I shall shine.” The gigantic owner was leaning on a spear, the shaft of which looked liker some taper pine-tree of good growth, than any instrument that mortal might be supposed to wield. The vizor of his bassinet was down, and his face was hid so that no one could judge of it or know it; but the very shadow that he threw over the length of the pavement of the transept, even until it rose against the wall at the farther end of it, was enough to have daunted the boldest heart. Sang stood patiently, with his arms folded, attentively surveying him, and the achievement that was rearing for him; and no sooner was the arrangement of it completed than, clutching up the shaft of his lance short in his hand, he bestowed such a thwack with the butt end of it on one cheek of the tilting helmet of the Knight of Cheviot, that he made it sound through the Chapel like a bell, till all the squires, pages, and bannermen started to hear it.

“Who art thou,” demanded the huge figure in a hollow and indistinct voice—“who art thou who darest to challenge the Knight of Cheviot to tilt before the day of tourney?”

“I am Mortimer Sang, esquire of the body of the renowned Sir Patrick Hepborne, younger of Hailes,” replied he, “and thus may the herald inscribe me, so please him. Achievement have I none at present, but a bold heart and doughty deeds may yet win me a proud one. I do crave the boon of a meeting from thee, mighty Knight of Mountains, so soon as the lists may be free for us.”

“Am I, a knight, obliged to give ear to the challenge of an esquire?” demanded he of Cheviot.

“Sir Knight,” said the herald, “such matchers are not without example, both for jousting and outrance. But to-day and to-morrow are set apart for giving license to all esquires and pages of good report, who have fair reason to hope that they may one day win their spurs, that they may challenge whom they list.”

“I could have wished some nobler antagonist to begin with,” muttered the Knight of Cheviot; “I could have wished that Sir Patrick Hepborne——”

“Dost thou refuse my challenge, then?” demanded Sang, striking the butt end of his lance against the other cheek of the helmet with greater force than before.

The Knight of Cheviot was silent and disturbed for some moments.

“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the herald, “thou mayest not well refuse it, without forfeiting all right to tilting at this tourney.”

“Then will I accept it,” muttered the Knight of Cheviot, after a short silence of seeming hesitation. “What! must it be even now, saidst thou?”

“Ay, truly, as soon as the lists are clear for us,” replied Sang coolly; “for I take it some of them are hot at it by this time. I shall look to meet thee there forthwith, and I shall now hasten thither to secure us our turn.”

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XLV. The Tournament

The Earl of Moray’s sylvan banquet of refreshment was by this time over, the balconies and galleries were already filled with the knights and ladies, and the lists were surrounded by the populace, all eagerly beholding the numerous tilting matches going on between young knights who wished to exercise themselves, and prove each other’s strength of arm, adroitness, and firmness of seat, or between squires or pages, who wished to earn their first harvest of fame. The sport had been as yet but indifferent. Most of those who had ridden against each other were novices, who afforded but a poor specimen of what the Scottish chivalry could do. The English knights, and, above all, the Lord Welles, were sneering to each other at the wretchedness of the exhibition, and every now and then throwing out sarcastic remarks against those who were engaged, whenever the occurrence of any slight piece of awkwardness gave them an opening for doing so. The Scottish knights who were within ear-shot of what dropped from them, were nettled at what they heard; and had not the sacred character of an ambassador compelled them to keep down their emotions, the Lord Welles, or some of his suite, might have been called on to show, in their own persons, what Englishmen could do; but, circumstanced as they were, none of the members of this diplomatic corps had considered it as necessary to put up his blazon in the chapel of St. John.

“Thinkest thou, Courtenay, that there is any chance of men appearing here to-day?” said the Lord Welles, in a voice that showed he little cared who heard him, or what soreness he might occasion. “In my mind those have been but women and boys who have been tilting for our amusement.”

“Depardieux. thou sayest well, my lord,” replied Sir Piers Courtenay, “for such woman’s play and child’s tilting did I never before behold. Our Cheapside shop-boys would make better work on’t with their yard-measures. Then there is no fancy in their armour—a crude and barbarous taste, my Lord—yea, and a clownish and plebeian air about their very persons, too. Trust me, my Lord, I do not rashly venture on the grave and serious accusation I am now about to hazard, when I do declare, solemnly and fervently, that I have not seen one spur of the accurately proper fashion on any knightly heel in these Caledonian wildernesses.”

“Ha, ha, ha. The nicety of thy judgment in such matters, Courtenay, is unquestionable,” said the Lord Welles laughing.

A trumpet now sounded from one of the barriers, and was immediately answered from that at the other end of the lists. The voice of a pursuivant was next heard.

“Oyez! oyez! oyez! The good esquire Mortimer Sang doth call on the gallant Knight of Cheviot to appear to answer his challenge.”

There was some delay for a little time, during which all eyes were thrown towards the barrier, where Mortimer was steadily bestriding a superb chestnut charger, with an ease and grace that might have led the spectators to suppose that the horse and man were but one animal. One of Sir Patrick Hepborne’s pages, well mounted, attended him, to do him the necessary offices of the lists; and although his helmet displayed no crest, and that his arms were plain, and his shield without achievement, yet his whole appearance had something commanding about it, and all were prepossessed in his favour.

“That looks something like a man,” quoth the English knights to each other.

“What a noble-looking presence! If he be only an esquire, of a truth he deserves to be a knight,” went round among the spectators.

“How handsome he is, and how gallant-looking and warlike!” whispered the soft voice of Catherine Spears, who stood behind the Countess of Moray.

The pursuivant from Sang’s barrier now repeated his challenge; a confused murmur soon afterwards arose from that at the opposite end of the lists, and by and by, the huge bulk of the Knight of Cheviot, mounted on his enormous charger, was seen moving like the mountains he took his name from, through an amazed group of wondering heads. The horse and man seemed to have been made for each other, and they looked like the creatures of a creation altogether different from that of this earth, and as if such inhabitants would have required a larger world than ours to have contained them.

“By’r Lady, but yonder comes no child, then,” exclaimed Sir Miles Templeton, one of the English knights, who sat behind the Lord Welles.

“By St. George, ’tis an animated colossal monument,” said the Lord Welles.

“If it be cast down, we cannot choose but have an earth-quake,” cried Sir Piers Courtenay.

“Who or what can he be?” said Sir John Constable.

“We shall doubtless hear anon,” replied the Lord Welles.

“Hath not the brave esquire been rash in selecting so huge a monster for his coup d’essai in the lists?” said the Countess of Moray. “To what knight may he be attached?”

“To me, my noble lady,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne from a place behind, where he had sat unnoticed by the Countess. “Trust me, he will acquit himself well—his heart is as stout as it is true.”

“Sayest thou so, Sir Knight?” said the Countess, turning round and looking at him with some severity. “Then do I give thee joy that thou hast at least one leal heart in thy company.”

“Oh, my lady,” cried the alarmed Katherine Spears, “Squire Mortimer can never stand against yonder terrible giant. What will become of him? Holy St. Andrew protect us, I dare not look!”

“Nay, fear thee not, gentle damsel,” said Sir Patrick, with assumed composure; “though yonder living tower look so big and so threatening, trust me I have no dread for friend Sang. He hath much good thew and muscle packed into reasonable compass, and they are nerved by a heart withal that nothing can danton. Fear ye not for Sang. By St. Baldrid, I begin to feel a stirring interest in this coming shock.”

“May the blessed Virgin guard and aid him!” cried Katherine Spears, half covering her eyes.

The pursuivant at the end of the lists where the Knight of Cheviot appeared, now responded to him who had given forth the challenge.

“Oyez! oyez! oyez! The gallant Knight of Cheviot is here, and ready to answer the darreigne of the good squire, Mortimer Sang.”

“Laissez les aller” cried the herald from the platform under the Royal balcony; the trumpet sounded, and the barriers at both ends of the lists were immediately dropped.

The lists, as was very commonly the case in those times, were double; that is to say, they were divided towards the middle, for about two-fourths of their length, by a longitudinal barrier of wood of about four feet high. This was for the purpose of separating the horses of the combatants from each other, to save them from injury; for each knight, taking a different side of the wooden wall, ran his career close to it, and tilted at his adversary over it, without risk of the steeds meeting in shock, as in the undivided lists.

No sooner were the barriers withdrawn, than Mortimer Sang spurred his courser, sprang forward, and swept along like a whirlwind. The huge animal ridden by the gigantic and ponderous Knight of Cheviot was slow in getting into motion, and came on blowing and snorting, with a heavy lumbering gallop, that shook the very ground. The esquire had already ridden along one-half of the wall of division ere his antagonist had reached a third of the distance. His lance was firmly and truly pointed against the immense body that approached, and every eye was intently watching for the issue of a joust that promised to be unexampled in the annals of chivalry. Both steeds were steadily maintaining the line in which each had started. The enormous tilting-lance of the knight, as it came on, resembled the bolt-sprit of some vessel driven before the wind, and, blunt though it was, the annihilation of the esquire appeared certain to the spectators. The collision was within a few yards of taking place, when, to the astonishment of all, the Knight of Cheviot suddenly dropped his lance, and, seizing the bridle of his charger with both hands, exerted all his strength to pull him aside, and succeeded in making him bolt away from the thrust of his opponent. That it was an intentional effort and no accident was evident to every one. A general hiss, mingled with loud hootings broke, from the balconies and galleries. Mortimer Sang, exasperated at the shameful and cowardly conduct of him on whom he had so sanguinely hoped to prove his prowess, checked the straight course of his horse’s career, and, sweeping around in a narrow circle, ran him at the wooden barrier, and, leaping him desperately over it, rode furiously, lance in rest, against the dastard Knight of Cheviot, who had hardly yet reined up his steed.

Shouts of applause followed this spirited manoeuvre of Sang’s. The base knight heard them, looked around, beheld the esquire coming, and began immediately to fly towards the gates of the lists. “Halt,” cried Mortimer aloud, “halt, thou craven. What! fearest thou a blunt lance? Halt, thou mountain of Cheviot, halt, I say, that I may climb to thine uppermost peak to tweak thee by the nose, that I may pluck thy prickly crest from thy foggy head, and stick it beneath the tail of the draff-horse that beareth thee; halt, coward, that I may forthwith blot out thy rising sun, that thou mayst no more dare to shine.”

But the Knight of Cheviot stayed not to look behind him. His legs played upon the sides of his horse like some piece of powerful machinery, and he spurred off as if the devil had been after him, the animal exhibiting a pace which no one could have believed was in him. The marshalmen would have stopped him in his way to the gate, but to have essayed to arrest the progress of a huge rock, just parted from the summit of some lofty Alp, and spinning along the plain with all the impetus derived from its descent, could not have been a more irrational or more hopeless attempt, or one more pregnant with certain destruction to those who made it. The way was cleared before him; but the gate was shut. Neither horse nor man seemed to regard the obstruction, however; it appeared as if both were influenced by the same blind fear. They ran against it with so great an impetus, that its strong bars and rails yielded before the shock, and were strewed upon the plain. Away flew the fugitive across the Meads, and on Sang urged furiously after him. The shouts from the lists were redoubled. Down rushed crowds of the populace from the scaffolds, and away they poured with a hue and cry after the chase.

The flying giant had much the start of Sang, but the superior speed of the squire’s well-bred courser was fast lessening this advantage. It was in vain that he attempted to double and wheel, for Sang, cutting sharply round, only gained the more on him. He stretched his course straight for the forest, but all saw that he must be speedily overtaken. Sang neared him, and couching his lance, planted himself firmly in his saddle. A single bound of his horse brought him within reach of the knight, and giving him an alert and vigorous push in the rear with his blunt weapon, he threw his unwieldy body forward on his horse’s neck, so that, encumbered by the weight, the animal stumbled a step or two, and then losing his fore legs, rolled himself and hurled his rider forward upon the sod.

Ancient Æsop hath told us of a certain tortoise, that, being carried into the clouds by an eagle, was dropped thence on a rock. It is easy to conceive how the various compartments of the creature’s natural armour must have been rent from each other by the fall. So it was with the Knight of Cheviot. The descent of such a mountain was no light matter. Large as his armour was, its various pieces were far from meeting each other over the immense limbs and joints they should have enclosed; and the leathern latchets which laced them together being somewhat aged, they, and even the rivets, gave way with the shock; and the fastenings of the helmet and of the different plates bursting asunder, and there being no shirt of mail beneath them, the Knight of Cheviot lay sprawling among the ruins of his defences, in a black jerkin and hauselines. The active Sang would have been upon him in a trice, but, filled with astonishment, he reined up his steed and halted to wonder. Nor was superstitious fear altogether without its influence in arresting him in his first intention of seizing the dastard impostor, who had thus disgraced the name of knight, as well as the lists in which he had dared to show himself, and of having him dragged to that summary punishment inflicted on such occasions by the laws of chivalry. His eyes stared with an amazement that was almost incredulous of the reality of what they beheld. He whom he saw struggling on the ground was the wizard, Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick, whom he had once accidentally seen at Norham, and of whose supernatural powers he had then heard enough to fill him now with temporary awe, at this his unexpected appearance. Sang raised his own vizor and rubbed his eyes, and when he saw that it was really the face and figure of the Ancient which he beheld, he for a moment suspected that it was some demoniacal trick of enchantment that had been played him to rob him of the fame he had hoped to earn. Rage got the better of every feeling of superstition.

“Ha!” exclaimed he, “be’st thou wizard or devil, I’ll wrestle with thee;” and flinging himself from his horse, he strode towards the struggling Knight of Cheviot.

But he was a moment too late. Ere he could reach the wizard, the latter had recovered himself sufficiently to scramble to his legs; and just as the squire was about to lay his fangs upon him, he escaped with a sort of shuffling run, that grew as he proceeded into an awkward striding gait that might have done honour to a camelopard; the plates of his armour hanging to his body by frail tags, clattering and jingling as he flew, and spinning off at a tangent from his person, as the thongs successively gave way. The esquire pursued him as fast as he could, but his armour hampered him so much that he had no chance in a race with one who was loosely attired, and who was every moment lessening his weight by getting rid of some part of his steel encumbrances.

“Halt, coward!” cried Sang, puffing and blowing after him. “Ha, by St. Baldrid, ’tis in vain to follow him. An he were the Spirit of the Cheviots himself, who may step thee from one hill-top to another, he could not exert more alacrity of escape. He devoureth whole roods of ground at a stride as he fleeth. By the mass, see him! he courses up yonder bank with his backpiece hanging down behind him, rattling like a canister at the tail of some mongrel hound. Body o’ me, how it got atween his legs; would that it had thrown him down. Ha! now it hath lost its hold of him—and now the red fiend may catch him for me, for there he goes into the forest.”

The squire returned slowly and sullenly to meet his page, who was by this time coming up. The huge dray horse of the Knight of Cheviot having regained his legs, was standing heaving his enormous sides like a stranded whale.

“’Tis a cruel bite, Archibald Lees,” said Mortimer Sang to the page; “’tis a cruel bite, I say, when a man thinketh he hath roused a lion, to find his game turn out but a stinking pole-cat after all. Get thee after the lurdon, and pick up the pieces of his armour, the which did drop from his scoundrel carcase as he fled.”

“Methought, as I chanced to see him casing, that he would turn out to be some such vermin,” replied the page, as he proceeded to obey the squire’s commands.

Sang sat himself down for a little time to recover his wind, comforting himself with the idea that he had at least won a trophy of armour that would be valuable from its very rarity.

“I shall have them hung up in mine own tower,” said he to himself. “As for the horse, he may fetch as much as may repay Sir Patrick for the advance he hath made for the arms I had of Andria Martellino. By mine honour, he hath a body and limbs that might pull a castle after them. He will sell right speedily to a wainman, ay, and that for a noble price too.”

A crowd of the populace now began to approach the place where he was sitting, clamouring as they came along. At their head came Rory Spears, with his fish-clip brandished over his shoulder, and followed by a party of the marshal’s men, bringing along the Italian armourer in custody, whose face exhibited an expression of extreme dismay and trepidation.

“Ay, ay, we shall soon ken whether the rogue speaketh truth or no,” cried Spears indignantly. “He saith, if I mistake him not, that Squire Sang knoweth somewhat of the matter. We shall see what he may hae to say for himsel when he cometh before him. Bring him along here.”

“What turmoil is here, I beseech ye, my masters?” demanded Sang.

“Ah! Signor Mortimero,” cried the Italian, with a deplorable face of terror; “a—a—ah! It is moss joy for me to see dee; I ask dem to bring me to dee—dey no ondairstond me; ah, San Lorenzo!—dey do vant to hang me by de naik—dey do accuse me of de steal.”

“Well,” said Sang, with a gruff laugh, as if the attempt at a joke suited but ill with his present vexation and disappointment at the issue of his combat, “by the mass, methinks thou mayest be well enow content to be accused of steel in Scotland, for there lacketh not in Paris those who did boldly affirm that thou didst employ a much softer metal in thy warlike wares.”

“Pah! no, no, no, signor,” exclaimed Martellino, in extreme distress, “not acciajo, vat dou do call steel van metal—ma, de steal, de rob; dey do accuse me of steal a posse of gold, and as dou art mine verri good friend, I did crave them to bring me to dee.”

“Nay,” said Sang, “that is in truth a more serious matter. An that be made out to be truly the case, thy neck will assuredly be stretched, friend Andria, in spite of all that I may do to help thee. But sith thou hast come to me, I swear that I shall see that thou hast fair play.”

“Oh, Signor Sang, sarai il mio protettore,” exclaimed the Italian, with a gleam of hope in his anxious eyes. “All dat I do vant is de play fair. If dou veelt listen to me, I vill make dee ondairstond dat I no steal.”

“Nay,” said Rory Spears, coming forward, “I have no objection that he should be questioned by Squire Mortimer. St. Lowry forbid that he sudna get justice. Gif he be innocent o’ the coulpe, and can but make his innocence clear, we sall be saved the trouble o’ hooking him up afore the Yearl and his court. It wad be but an evil turn to do a poor foreign deevil, to gar him dree two or three days’ jail, whan he hath done naething that may call for sike a warison. Question him, Maister Sang, question him.”

“If I am thus appointed preliminary judge,” replied Sang, mounting the dray-horse, “I shall get me on my sack here, that I may sit at mine ease, and have mine eye on all that passeth in court. Make way there; clear the way for the prisoner,” continued he, motioning? to the crowd to form a circle round him. “Who hath lost the purse the which he is accused of having taken?” demanded he.

“My wife’s mother, auld Elspeth i’ the burrows town,” replied Rory, and he hastily recapitulated the meagre particulars he had lately given the Earl of Moray.

“Ha!” said Sang, “and who accuseth Andria Martellino of being the thief?”

“Ich do dat, mynheer joodch,” replied a squat, thick-set, broad-faced, heavy-looking German.

“And who mayest thou be, friend?” asked Sang; “and what mayest thou have to effunde that may throw light upon this affair?”

“Mine name ist Hans Eisenfelsenbroken, de grat Yarman, dat mach de armou better nor nobody dat can mach dem so well. Ich dit see de borse in de hond of dis him here mit mine own eyes.”

“A suspicious evidence,” said Sang shaking his head gravely, “a most suspicious evidence; trust me, I shall tell no store by it without strong corroboration. Hath the prisoner yet been searched?”

“Nay, there hath as yet been no time,” replied the marshalmen.

“Let him be forthwith riped, then,” said the esquire.

The marshalmen proceeded to execute his orders, and, to the joy of Rory Spears, they very speedily drew forth from beneath his gaberdine a leathern bag, containing a considerable weight of coin.

“By St. Lowry, but that is my auld mother’s money-bag,” cried Rory Spears, eyeing it from a distance.

“Let me have it,” said Sang; “knowest thou thy mother’s money-bag by any mark?”

“Yea,” replied Spears, readily; “it hath E. S. on the twa lugs of it, and a cross on the braid side.”

“Of a truth, this is the very bag,” said the squire; “the marks are all here.”

“Eh! mine Got, did not Ich tell dee de troot, Mynheer Spears! I do know him to be a tafe. Ha, ha! Er wird be hanged, and Ich werde have all de trade Ich selbst!” cried the rival German armourer, with a joy which he could not contain.

“Silence, fellow, and respect the court,” cried Sang, in a tone of authority. “Canst thou explain how thou hadst this leathern purse, Master Martellino?” continued he. “By St. Andrew, if thou canst not, it will go hard with thee.”

“Ah, si, signor,” replied Martellino, with a face of joy, “de page of dy vorship, de good Signor Lees, he happain to be vid me in my shop at de time after I did sell de great armour to de big gigante, and he did see him give to me de posse of gold dat is dere—van fifty broad piece of gold.”

“That is thy mother’s sum to a tittle,” said Sang, addressing Rory. “But how camest thou to receive so much money from the dastard knave for a suit of armour?” continued he, putting the question to the Italian.

“He did bribe me to give him van of mine vaine horses, dat do carry mine goods,” replied the Italian; “and he did give me de posse and de money and all.”

Archibald Lees vouched for the truth of all this; and some one in the crowd, who had been in Forres during the fire, had remarked the uncouth and gigantic figure as it glided into the old bedrid woman’s house; and having been struck with the strangeness of its appearance, had particularly remembered its passing speedily out again in great haste. Another remembered that the false knight and his two accomplices had lodged in a house of entertainment next door to Elspeth Spears’ house; and it was even supposed by many that they had aided the conflagration, after it was begun by the Wolfe of Badenoch and his party.

All was now clear, and the upright judge proceeded to pronounce his decision.

“Let the money be forthwith told over, and let it, and the bag that holds it, be restored to Master Roderick Spears, as custos thereof for his aged mother. Let the armour, the which hath been gathered piecemeal from the plain, be restored to the rightful owner, Signor Andria Martellino; and let him have our judgment-seat also, sith it doth of right belong to him. I do hereby absolve him from all coulpe. Albeit he is sharp enow in a bargain, verily I believe he would hardly steal. As for thee, Mynheer Eisenfelsenbroken, I shall only say that thy zeal to further justice was rather of the eagerest, and mought have been more creditable to thee had not the culprit, against whom thou wert so ready to witness, been thy rival in trade. Thy conduct will doubtless have its weight with all good men. And now I dissolve the court,” added he, jumping from the dray-horse, and proceeding to mount his own charger, which the page held for him.

The German went grumbling away, disappointed wickedness giving a blacker hue to his swarthy face.

“Ah, Signor Sang,” exclaimed the Italian, coming up to him with tears of gratitude in his eyes; “dou hast been mine good friend; dou hast vin dine armour. Here is de money—here is de price thou deedst pay me. Take it back.”

“What, fellow!” cried Sang, jocularly, putting him by; “what, wouldst thou bribe the hand of justice? Wouldst thou soil that which should be pure? Avoid, I tell thee, avoid;” and, putting spurs to his horse, he rode off towards the lists, followed by the cheers of those who had witnessed the scene.

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XLVI. The English Ambassador and the gallant Lindsay

BY the time Mortimer Sang returned to the lists, he was disappointed to find that he had no chance left of establishing his reputation that night against a worthier antagonist. The Earl of Fife had already dropped his white wand, and orders had been issued for the clearance of the enclosure and shutting the barriers. The heralds had commanded the banners to be furled, and all were now on the move.

The gay groups of chevaliers and ladies returned from the lists in independent parties, some to the Castle, and others to their pavilions on the field, to prepare for joining the general assemblage at the banquet in the Hall of Randolph. The number of guests who met there at the usual hour was much greater than on any of the former occasions, many knights having arrived during the previous evening, or during that day, that they might have their heraldic blazons and trophies put up in the chapel of St. John the Baptist, to give them a right to tilt at the tournament. The Countess of Moray resumed her place beside her lord, at the head of the board. Sir Patrick Hepborne attended the party of the Lady of Dirleton, who, with her lord, showed him an increase of kindness each successive time they met; but when he addressed the Lady Jane de Vaux, she seemed to have put on that frosty and chilling air which had given him so much vexation in the Countess of Moray.

The conversation naturally turned on the exhibition of the day, and was for some time confined to the various private dialogues in which it had sprung up. Praise fell on some few names—Sang’s conduct, and his amusing chase were talked of with commendation of him, and ridicule of his opponent, the impostor Knight of Cheviot, of whose robbery of the old woman’s purse all were now made aware. Some young knights were mentioned with approbation, but the general feeling was, that the exhibition had been poor, and much more was hoped for from to-morrow.

By degrees the hum of voices that prevailed around the festive board began to subside beneath the interest that was gradually excited by a conversation now arising between the Lord of Welles and some of his English knights, on the one hand, and several of the Scottish chevaliers on the other; and, at last, so deep was the silent attention it produced, that every word of it was heard by all present.

“My Lord Earl of Moray,” said the Lord Welles, “I feel much beholden to thee for having persuaded me hither from Scone; for, however tedious and tiresome mought have been the journey, it hath given me an opportunity of satisfying myself and my friends of the unbounded liberality and magnificence of thy hospitality, the which can be surpassed by nothing south of Tweed. But I hope thou wilt take no offence at the plainness of speech and honesty which I use, when I tell thee that had thy Scottish tilting been all the inducement thou hadst to offer me, I mought have as well staid where I was, as I should most assuredly have been but meagrely recompensed for the hardships and deprivations of my long and wearisome pilgrimage through so large a portion of your trackless Scottish forests and wastes.”

“Nay, my Lord Welles,” replied the Earl of Moray, “I care not what may have occasioned me the honour of thy presence at Tarnawa, enow for me is the satisfaction of its enjoyment, enhanced as it is by the gracious reception of what hospitality I may offer thee. Yet of a truth it erketh me to find that thou hast lacked that pleasure in the survey of the exercises of this day’s jousting the which I had hoped to afford thee. Thou knowest that such meetings of arms are but rare with us in Scotland, and we may not look for that expertness the which doth distinguish the tourneys of more southern climes; yet had I hoped that thou mightest have been in some sort amused.”

“Nay, perdie, I said not that I was not amused,” cried the Lord Welles, with a sarcastic leer—“I said not that I was not amused; for amused I certainly was, and that exceedingly too; but amusement is not what I do ever look for in beholding the exercise of the lists. When I do lack amusement, I do hie me to view the tomblesteers, and those who do practise jonglerie; and indeed I did of a truth see many to-day who were very well fitted for shining among a corps of tumblers; and so I could not choose but be amused, yea even unto laughter, as I did witness the ingenious summersaults they performed. Yet looking, as I am ever accustomed to do, for firm sitting and well-addressed lances in the lists, depardieux, I could not but be disappointed that thou hadst nothing better to show me in behalf of Scottish chivalry.”

“Thou knowest, my Lord Welles,” said the Earl calmly, “that these were but the novices in arms, to whom the license of this day and to-morrow is given to exercise themselves withal. Judge not too hastily, I beseech thee, of our Scottish chivalry, of whom thou hast but as yet seen the feeble efforts of the braunchers.”

“I should not wish to judge too hastily,” replied the Lord Welles; “but if the young falcons show such poor courage of flight, parfay, I see not great hope of their ever winging well up to the quarry. If thy youthful knighthood of Scotland show no more bravely, depardieux, there is but little chance of much shining metal or skill being displayed among those who have grown tall under such awkward and unseemly practice.”

“My most excellent Lord,” said Sir Piers Courtenay, following up the speech of his principal, “my most sweet, excellent, and highly-respected Earl of Moray, I must be permitted to add to those remarks, the which it hath pleased the judicious and nicely-observant Lord Welles to effunde, that I did, to my inexpressible astonishment and dismay, yea, and almost to the doubting the accuracy of the observation of mine eyes, perceive, and I hope thou wilt forgive me for thus daring to divulge it, always believing that I do so without meaning offence, and giving me credence for the entertainment of the most perfect respect and consideration for your Lordship; I did verily perceive, I say, several grievous outrages on the established rules for the equipment of men and horses in those who did ride to-day. Three spurs did I observe that were too high set on the heels, by the fourth part of an inch at least; one did I notice of a vile fashion; one bridle-bit was all courbed awry; one dagger was worn nearly, though not quite, an inch too low; divers of the wreaths were ill adjusted on the helmets (the ladies,” bowing round to them as he said so, “will pardon me for adventuring on criticism so nearly affecting them); some of the crests were an inch too high; and, to conclude, there were more than one surcoat ill cut. Now, I do crave thy permission to remark, most potent Earl, that he who doth neglect these highly essential, though minute points of chivalry, cannot be expected to excel in the greater and more obvious.”

“I do hope, my noble Earl of Moray,” said Sir William de Dalzell roguishly—“I do hope that thou wilt exert thy power and thine influence over the young and rising sprigs of Scottish chivalry, that they may arm themselves more en regle; but, that they may strictly and correctly do so, it doth behove thee to hunt out and catch that large ensample of good and well-fashioned English knighthood the which did with such brilliancy grace our Scottish lists this day—he of the Cheviot mountains, I do mean, for I am credibly informed that he is of English fabrication; but I trow it will puzzle thee sore to find a Scot, whether knight, esquire, or page, who can run with him; yet ought he natheless to be hunted out, caught, and exhibited for the amelioration of our salvage nation; yea, and after his death he should be speedily embowelled, embalmed, and stuffed, to be set up as a specimen of the rigid and scrupulous accuracy of chivalric arming practised by English knights, to the securing of the improvement of Scottish taste and the establishment of a purer and more perfect description of it than hath hitherto prevailed in such matters, to the latest generation.”

“Thou dost not call by the glorious name of knight that impostor who assumed the character and name for some villainous purpose, and who had the lion’s skin torn from his scoundrel carcase?” exclaimed the Lord Welles, with a haughty and indignant air.

“It mattereth not whether he were knight or no,” replied Sir William de Dalzell; “of one thing we are all certain, and that is, that he was ane Englishman.”

“And are all Englishmen to be judged by the ensample of such a craven as that? one, too, who was hatched on the very borders of Scotland?” replied the Lord Welles, with a slight expression of anger.

“Nay” said Sir David Lindsay of Glenesk, “nay, my good Lord, not so; but neither are the deeds of all Scottishmen to be judged by the nerveless essays of a few untaught striplings. I do beseech thee to suspend thy decision as to Scottish tilting until our tourney doth commence, and I do give thee leave to call us gnoffes if thou wilt, yea, tomblesteers, if so be thou dost then think we deserve any such opprobrious epithets; but if I mistake not, thou shalt see enow to satisfy thee that thou mayest meet with some in Scotland who may be an overmatch for the best of thine English knights.”

“Parfay, thou goest far, Sir David Lindsay,” said the Lord Welles, with a sneer; “meseems it thou knowest but little of the mettle of English chivauncie, to talk of it so slightingly.”

“Nay, I went not farther than I did intend,” replied the Scottish knight; “I trow I have seen good emptying of saddles in my day, and have encountered knights of all nations, and I am bold to say that were I to choose my champion it should not be from England he should be taken, while we have Scotsmen left to afford me good picking. At present, thanks be to God, we have whole armies of knights, any one of whom, so far from provoking an Englishman’s mirth, will, by the very mention of his name alone, make any southern chevalier look grave.”

“Nay, boast not, Lindsay,” said the gallant Douglas, “we can prove enow by deeds to set us above vaunting.”

“I vaunt not, my Lord Earl of Douglas,” replied Sir David Lindsay; “yet when vaunts are the only weapons used against us, what can a man do?”

“Let words have no place, then,” said the Lord Welles, with considerable eagerness, as well as haughtiness of manner—“let words have no place; and if thou knowest not the chivalry and the valiant deeds of Englishmen, appoint me a day and a place where thou listeth, and, depardieux, thou shalt have experience to thine edification.”

“If it so please thee, then, to waive thy privileges, my Lord,” quickly rejoined Sir David Lindsay; “if so be, I say, that thou wilt condescend to waive thy privileges, and that thou wilt vouchsafe to honour our lists with an exhibition of thy skill and nerve, by St. Andrew I will gladly meet thee to-morrow; yea, or if thou shouldst wish to eschew the encounter in thine own sacred person, of a truth I shall be well contented to take whichsoever of thy companions thou mayest be pleased to assign me. We shall at least be sure that the appearance of one English knight in the lists shall give a zest to the jousting which to-day’s exhibition did so meagrely supply.”

“I do beseech thee, my noble and most fair Lord,” said Sir Piers Courtenay to the Lord Welles—“I do beseech thee, let me be the supremely felicitous knight who may appear under the banner of St. George to combat in honour of England.”

“Nay, Courtenay,” said the Lord Welles, “I can neither resign to thee the right I have obtained to the gallant Sir David Lindsay, nor can I submit to tilt now; but if Sir David will indulge me so far as to name some other time and place, verily, I shall pledge myself to give him the meeting, yea, and that, too, with as much good-will as he can wish for it.”

“By the mass, I care not though thou dost make the meeting in England, or even in London itself,” said Sir David Lindsay. “Let me have a safe-conduct from the English King for myself and party and I will not scruple to ride, yea, even to the farthermost point of thy southern soil in search of an antagonist so desirable.”

“Let it be on London Bridge, then,” said the Lord Welles.

“On London Bridge!” muttered a number of the Scottish knights, as if they thought that it was but hardly liberal in the English noble to close so narrowly with the wide proposal of their champion.

“Yea, on London Bridge, or in thine own garden, if it so listeth thee, my Lord Welles,” replied the staunch Sir David, without attending to the ejaculations of his friends. “Let us not delay to record the conditions.”

“My word is enow for this night, I do trust,” replied the Lord Welles, rising and offering his hand across the table to Sir David Lindsay, who took it in the most friendly manner. “To-morrow we may have the terms properly drawn up at greater leisure.”

“So then, ’tis as it should be,” said the Earl of Moray. “Let a brimming goblet be filled. I drink to the health of the Lord Welles and the health of Sir David Lindsay of Glenesk, and let both names float together in friendly guise on the same mantling mazer.”

This double health was received with loud acclamations by all, and the goblets circulated briskly to do honour to it.

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Chapter XLVII

The Earl of Fife’s Council Meeting—The Challenge between the Scottish and English Knights.

The health had hardly well gone round ere the shrill notes of a bugle were heard, followed by a stir that arose in the court-yard, the noise of which even reached the ears of those in the hall. A messenger had arrived express, and a letter was speedily delivered to the Earl of Fife.

“Ha!” said he, with an air of surprise, as he surveyed the impression of the signet attached to the purple silk in which it was wrapped; and then hastily breaking it open, glanced rapidly over its contents.

All eyes were turned towards him with eager inquiry. An expression of earnest attention to what he read was very visibly marked on his features.

“Your pardon, brother,” said he, starting up at length, after a moment’s thought; “I crave your pardon, and that of this honourable company, but this letter is from my Royal father, and on pressing state affairs. I must of needscost break up the banquet sooner than thy wonted hospitality would authorize me to demand of thee, were the business of a less urgent nature; but we must hold a council straightway to determine how we may best and most speedily fulfil the wishes of His Majesty. I shall wait thy coming in thy private apartment, and shall by and by hope for the attendance of such of the nobles and knights here assembled as may be required to aid our resolves.”

Having said so, the Earl of Fife bowed graciously to the company with such a sweeping, yet particularizing glance, as left each individual in the firm belief that he had been especially distinguished by the great man’s notice; and, putting his hand into his bosom, he moved down the hall with all the appearance of being instantly absorbed in deep reflection.

The Lord Welles and his suite of English knights, darting very significant looks towards one another, sat a few minutes, and then rising, retired in a body. The Countess of Moray, and the rest of the ladies, also soon afterwards left the board, and sought their apartments, and the Earl of Moray instantly broke up the banquet, and hastened to join his brother the Earl of Fife, taking with him the Earl of Douglas and the Earl of Dunbar. Such of the Scottish nobles and knights, however, as conceived that their presence might be required at the expected council, continued to pace the ample pavement in small parties, or to stand grouped together in little knots, all exercising their ingenuity in guessing at the probable cause and nature of so sudden and unlooked-for, and apparently so important a communication. The most prevalent surmise was, that a war with England was to be declared, and the very thought of such a thing gave joy to every manly bosom. Suspicions of the prospect of a rupture between the two countries had begun to be pretty general of late; and the circumstance of bringing down the English ambassadors to Tarnawa, was by some, who affected to be deeper read in such matters than others, interpreted into a fine piece of state policy to keep them out of the way, while preparations were maturing for the more powerful and successful commencement of hostilities on the part of Scotland. All were impatient to know the truth, and when a messenger came to the door of the hall with a roll of names, which he read over, calling on those of the nobles and knights who were named in it, to remain in the hall, and take their places at the board, at the upper end of it, according to their rank, those who were so selected could not well hide their satisfaction, while those who were compelled to withdraw did so with extreme reluctance.

Sir Patrick Hepborne was overjoyed to find that he was to be one of those in whom the Earl of Fife wished to confide. He took his seat at the table with the rest, and the most profound silence succeeded to the sounds of mirth and pleasure which had so lately reigned within the hall. Whatever conjectures might have escaped the lips of those around the board, whilst they mingled carelessly with those who were idly speculating on the probable purport of the King’s message, they now considered the seal of silence imposed on their lips, by their being selected as councillors; and accordingly they sat gazing at each other with grave and solemn looks, calmly awaiting the arrival of the Earl of Fife. Certain faces there were which betrayed something like a consciousness of greater self-importance than the rest, as if they either knew, or would have had others believe that they knew, something more than those around them. But whatever they knew or thought they ventured not to express it.

At length the Earls of Fife, Moray, Douglas, and Dunbar appeared, and took their seats at the upper end of the table. All eyes and ears were fixed in attention; and the Earl of Fife, laying the King’s letter and packet on the table, began to open the business he had to communicate to them.

“My Lords and Gentlemen,” said he, in a tone of voice which, though audible enough to every one of them, was yet too low to have found its way through any of the crannies of the door at the farther end of the hall, “I shall be as brief as possible with you. Ye all know how great is my consideration for you individually, so I trust that I have no need to waste time in assuring ye of my love for ye all, or of the zeal with which I am filled for promoting your respective interests. Highly sensible am I of the great blessing that hath befallen Scotland, in raising up such store of wisdom and valour among her sons, as I do know to exist in the persons of the noble lords and honourable knights by whom I have now the felicity of being surrounded; and I do the more congratulate myself upon this knowledge at the present time, seeing that the wisdom and the valour I have spoken of must now be called forth into important action. For, to withhold the news from you no longer, Scotland is about to be, nay, more probably hath been already invaded—a large army having hovered on the Eastern Marches, threatening the Merse with fire and sword, the which may have ere this been poured out upon them. Your good King, and my Royal father, hath sent this intelligence express from Aberdeen, where he now abideth, at the same time commanding our instant attendance there to counsel and advise him, and to receive his orders for our future conduct. We are, moreover, directed to lead thither with us all the strength of dependants we can muster, and to take such immediate measures as may ensure the instant gathering of those districts which are under the control of each of us respectively. A large force must of needscost be quickly got together; it is therefore highly expedient that our vassals should be forthcoming with as little delay as possible, that they may be ready to unite themselves with the host wheresoever and whensoever it may assemble. Such of us as are wanted at Aberdeen must set forward to-morrow. These, then, are the matters and the commands which my Royal father sends you, and which I, as his organ, have been instructed to convey to you.”

A murmur of applause ran round the table. Broken sentences burst from the respective knights, each shortly but pithily expressing the satisfaction he felt at the prospect of having something more serious than jousting to occupy him.

“I have yet one more communication to make, my Lords and Gentlemen, of which you must be the witnesses, and I need not say that I entreat you to be the silent witnesses of it. I must convey to the Lord Welles intelligence, which I am not without suspicion he hath been for some time anticipating, from his own private knowledge of events. I mean to crave an immediate conference with him here in your presence; but it is my wish that no one whom I have here admitted to my confidence will talk to him, or any of the English knights, either now or afterwards of anything I have mentioned. I have to communicate to the Lord Welles the King’s license for his departure, and I hope I do not ask too much when I beg that I may be left to do so entirely unassisted, and that nothing he or his shall say may provoke ye to speak. Silence will best accord with your dignity. Go, brother, my Lord Earl of Moray, so please thee, and entreat the presence of the Lord Welles among us, with such of his suite as he may list to accompany him.”

The Earl of Moray hastened to obey his brother-in-law, and, during his absence, the Earl of Fife seemed to have retreated into his own thoughts. The knights who sat with him remained in still contemplation of him and of one another. The English envoy was received with dignified decorum.

“My Lord Welles,” said the Earl of Fife to him after he was seated, “I have now to perform a piece of duty to my King, the which, as it regardeth thee, doth particularly erke me. As thou art thyself aware, I have this night received a letter from His Majesty, and I have now to tell thee, that in it I am commanded to inform thee that he will dispense with thy further attendance at his Royal Court. In so far as our personal intercourse hath gone, I have good reason to regret that it is to be discontinued so soon; and the more so that it hath fallen into my hands to snap it. This parchment, which I have now the honour of presenting to thee, doth contain a safe-conduct for thee, and all with thee, to return into thy native country by the shortest possible route. It doleth me much that we are to be so soon reft of thine agreeable society. Yea, the removal of thy presence is most especially galling at such a time, when all was prepared for making the days of thy stay in Scotland as light as mought be. Our coming tourney will be nought without thee.”

“My Lord of Fife, of a truth this is a most sudden and unlooked-for event,” said the Lord Welles, with the appearance, if not with the reality, of surprise on his countenance. “Hath any reason been assigned, the which it may be permitted thee to utter to me?”

“His Majesty’s reasons, my good Lord, are not always given,” replied the Earl of Fife, evasively; “but thou knowest that it is the part of a subject implicitly to obey, without inquiring too curiously into the nature of the wires that may be on the stretch to put him in motion; and I must submit as well as others. Hast thou had no communications lately from thine own court?”

“If thy coming tourney doth ever hold,” said the Lord Welles, altogether avoiding the home question of the Earl of Fife, and glancing curiously into the faces of those around him, “it will suffer little in its pomp or circumstance, I trow, from my departure, where thou hast so great an assemblage of Scottish knights to give lustre to it, but if they should be called away, indeed, by anything connected with my dismissal, it may in that case dwindle, peraunter, and expire of very consumption ere it hath been well born.”

The Lord Welles’s eyes returned from their excursion round the table, without displaying signs of having gathered anything from the firm Scottish countenances they had scanned.

“And when must I of needscost set forward, my Lord?” continued the Lord Welles, addressing the Earl of Fife.

“A party of lances will be in waiting to-morrow morning by sunrise, to guide and protect thee on thy way, and I do believe that thou wilt find that sufficient time hath been given thee in the parchment thou hast, to make the journey easy. Shouldst thou, peradventure, covet the provision of anything that may contribute to thy comfort or expedition, the which I may have the power to procure for thee, I do beseech thee to let me be informed, and it shall be mine especial care that thou mayest be gratified.”

“Nay, my Lord Earl of Fife, I lack nothing,” replied the Lord Welles.

“And now, then, my good Lord, I bid thee good night,” said the Earl of Fife. “Farewell; it will give me joy again to meet with thee as a friend, until when may St. George be with thee.”

“Receive our fullest thanks for all thy gracious courtesy,” replied the Lord Welles.

The Earl of Fife now arose with the Earls Douglas, Moray, and Dunbar, and took his leave, with many condescending protestations. The Lord Welles and his friends loitered a little time after he was gone, and the Scottish knights having by this time risen from the council board, he mingled familiarly among them.

“This dismissal of mine is something of the suddenest,” said he, in a general kind of manner, to a few of them who were clustered together. “Can any umbrage have been taken? Is it possible King Robert can mean to steal a march on His Majesty of England, and cross the Border ere he giveth him warning? or hath he already done so with an English envoy in his territories?”

He paused after each of these short interrogatories, as if in the hope of fishing out a reply from some one, which might instruct him in the extent of the information that had come from the Scottish Monarch; but no one exhibited either the will or the power to gratify him, and he adroitly changed to another subject.

“Ha! Sir David Lindsay,” said he, turning round and addressing that knight, “let us not forget to settle the engagement and darreigne that hath passed between us.”

“Nay, trust me, that shall not I,” replied Sir David Lindsay; “I but waited until thou hadst concluded thy weightier and more pressing affairs, to entreat thee that we may enter into our articles of tilting now. I do hope that nothing may arise to baulk us of our sport.”

“What, I beseech thee, can baulk us?” demanded the Lord Welles slyly, and probably with the hope that he would yet catch what he had been angling for, by throwing this long line, and drawing it so skilfully round.

“Nay, I know not,” replied Sir David Lindsay readily; “thou mightst have repented thee peraunter, and it would have sorely grieved me hadst thou wished to draw thy head from our agreement.”

“Depardieux, thou needest be in no dread of that, Sir David; I am not a man of that kidney, I promise thee,” hastily replied the Lord Welles, in some degree thrown off his guard by the gentle touch which Lindsay had given to his honour; “for whether it be in war or in peace thou shalt have a safe-conduct from King Richard, if I have the influence that I do believe I have; yea, a safe-conduct for thee and thine, that thou mayest on thy part fulfil thy behote. Let us straightway hasten to arrange and register the terms of our meeting.”

“’Tis well thought of,” said Sir David Lindsay; “let us have a clerk to put our mutual challenge in proper style, and distinct and lasting characters, that, each of us having a copy thereof, neither of us may mistake.”

A scrivener was accordingly sent for, and the council board, again ordained to change the service it was destined to, now became a theatre, where the nicest points of chivalry and the minutest rules of tilting were canvassed at greater length and with more eagerness of debate than had been bestowed on the much more important business which had been previously gone through there. The superfine judgment of Sir Piers Courtenay in such matters was singularly pre-eminent; and his auditors were extremely edified by some long and very learned disquisitions with which he was pleased to favour them. At length everything was happily adjusted to the satisfaction of both parties, and written copies of the terms being signed and exchanged between the two principals in the proposed affair, they cordially shook hands and separated, with many chivalric and courteous speeches to each other.

Things were no sooner settled thus, than several Scottish knights pressed forward to entreat Sir David Lindsay that they might be permitted to bear him company when the time should be finally fixed. The first of these was Sir William de Dalzell, and another was Sir Patrick Hepborne. To these, and to Sir John Halyburton, Sir David Lindsay readily promised that places should be preserved, however limited a number the safe-conduct might be granted for; but he declined further promises until he could be sure of fulfilling them. The Scottish knights, who had been all too much interested in what was going forward to permit them to leave the hall until everything was finally adjusted, now hastened to call their esquires, and to make those private preparations for travelling which were not publicly to appear until after the departure of the English envoy and his suite.

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XLVIII. The Departure from the Castle of Tarnawa—The Alarm of War

The morning had not yet dawned when the court-yard of the Castle re-echoed to the tramp of the mettled steeds of the Lord Welles and the English knights, and their numerous retinue. The gay caparisons of the men and horses, and the gaudily embroidered banners they carried, flaunted and fluttered in vain amid the raw, grey, and chilling light that quenched their glittering lustre, and left them but meagrely visible. A body of Scottish lances, commanded by several trusty officers, stood ready to march with them as a guard, and the troop was of such strength as might overawe any undue curiosity they might display, as well as do them honour, or protect them from injury or insolence during their march through Scotland. The Earl of Moray was on foot to do them the parting civilities of a host.

“Forget not London Bridge,” cried a loud voice from the window of a high turret that overlooked the court-yard.

The Lord Welles and his knights were already in their saddles. They twisted their necks with some difficulty, so as to have a view upwards, and there they beheld the hairy bosom and sternly-comic features of Sir William de Dalzell, who, in his chemise and bonnet de nuit, had thrust his head and shoulders forth from a window.

“Fear not,” cried the Lord Welles; “the meeting shall not fail on the side of England.

“Nor of Scotland neither,” replied Dalzell, “if so be that fourfooted beasts can be had to carry our bodies to the muddy banks of thy stinking Thames. I bid thee bon voyage, my Lord, though, by St. Andrew, I envy thee not thine early morning’s march; and so I’ll to my couch, and court the gentle influence of Morpheus for some hour or twain, for contraire to all due course of nature, I see it threatens to snow.”

With these words he threw into the air two large handfuls of feather-downs, and instantly drew himself in. The Lord Welles was half disposed to take the matter up as an insult; but the Earl of Moray, laughing good-humouredly as the artificial snow descended on the group, soon pacified his excited indignation.

“Nay, mind him not, my Lord,” said he—“no one among us minds the jest of Sir William de Dalzell; and if we did, perdie, we should gain little by the trial, for we should only bring more of his humorous conceits on our heads. His wit, how rude soever it may seem, hath no meaning of harm or insult in it.”

The Earl allowed the Lord Welles and his knights to be some time gone ere he began to summon his people about him, and to issue his orders for an immediate march. Sir William de Dalzell was the first of the Scottish knights, his guests, who appeared armed cap-a-pie in the court-yard, where the bustle of the foregoing morning was soon more than renewed. Two or three hundred good men of the Earl’s followers began to assemble, with their horses and arms, in obedience to the summons which had been secretly sent through the population of the district during the night. The rumour of the approaching war spread from mouth to mouth, and rude jokes and laughter followed its propagation, until the joyous clamour, becoming louder and louder, began at last to swell till the welkin was rent with the bursting shouts of the men-at-arms and soldiery, who rejoiced at the prospect of having something more serious than a tourney to do with.

Sir Patrick Hepborne sprang from his couch, and began to busy himself for his departure. As he moved across the floor, his naked foot struck against something that felt like the head of a nail, and was slightly wounded by it. He stooped to ascertain what it was, when, much to his surprise, he discovered a ring, with a beautiful emerald set in it, that had slipped into a crevice between the planks, so as to leave the stone sticking up. He immediately recognized it as having been worn by the page Maurice de Grey. It was of beautifully wrought gold, and, after a more minute examination, he discovered some Gothic characters within its circle, which he read thus—

Change never, But love ever Thine Eleanore de Selby.

At the very name of Eleanore de Selby, Sir Patrick’s heart beat quicker. He had no doubt that the jewel had dropped from the finger of the page, probably the morning he left Tarnawa. He had already resolved to keep it carefully, in remembrance of the boy; but the legend seemed to prove it to have been a gift to Maurice de Grey from his cousin the Lady Eleanore de Selby; and the conviction that it had once been hers, all unworthy as she was, imparted to it a tenfold value, which he in vain attempted to struggle against. It seemed to have appeared miraculously to warn him never to forget her, and he resolved to treasure it as a relic of one who could never be his.

Meanwhile the court-yard resounded with the neighing of steeds and the din of arms, and the trumpets and bugles were heard to strike shrilly on the Castle walls, till its very turrets seemed to thrill with their hoarse clangour. It was chiefly thronged by some of the same knights, and some of the same esquires, pages, lacqueys, and steeds, whose painted surcoats of a thousand dies, whose armour glittering with gold and gems, and whose gorgeous attire and furniture, had reflected the rays of the sunrise of the previous morning. But the new-born orb of this day looked upon them in another guise. Though by no means devoid of splendour, what they now wore was more adapted for use than for ornament, and their very countenances displayed more of the fury of joy, and had put on an air of greater sternness, that sorted strangely with their uncouth jeers and laughter. The number of spearmen, bowmen, pole-axe-men, and men-at-arms of all descriptions, was now much larger; and in addition to this variety of the motley crowd, there were several horse litters in attendance, and numerous batt and sumpter horses loading with the lighter baggage, whilst at the Castle gate appeared a small train of wains and wainmen, who were receiving the heavier articles that were to be transported.

One of the most active men in the midst of the bustle was Rory Spears, who, with a morion on his head, and a back and breast-plate donned instead of his fisherman’s coat, was busily occupied assisting in and superintending the loading of the baggage.

“Father,” said his daughter Katherine to him, as she at last obtained an opportunity of addressing him, whilst at the same time her eyes wandered to the adjacent spot, where Squire Sang was engaged in getting Sir Patrick Hepborne’s party in order; “would I could wend with thee, father!”

“Hey!” exclaimed Rory, turning suddenly round upon her, and at the same time poising a large package on his broad shoulder, and keeping it there with one hand, whilst with the other he brandished his gaud-clip, with singular energy of action; “what ails thee, lass? Is the wench wud, think ye? Wouldst thou to the wars, sayest thou? Na, na, Kate; the camp be nae fit place for sike like as thee, I trow. What, expose thee, with all thy leddy learning and madame ’haviour, to be the hourly butt for the ribald jests of the guards, and the boozing companions of the sultering huts! By my fackins, that would be it indeed. Na, na! stay thee at home, lassie, and look to the Countess, and thy new young leddy; ay, and thy mother Alice, and the auld woman in the Burgh alswa; and when I come back, my winsome grouse-pout, I’ll bring thee some bonny-waully frae the wars. We shall ha’ spulzie to pick and choose amang, I rauckon.” So saying, he threw his right arm, gaud-clip and all, around his daughter’s waist, and kissing her heartily and with much affection, hastened off with his burden.

He was no sooner gone, than Mortimer Sang, seizing one moment from the bustle of his occupation, strode across to where Katherine was standing, gazing in silent, abstracted, and melancholy guise, towards the pile of baggage heaped up on the ground, which her father’s powerful arms had been rapidly diminishing. With the corner of her eye she marked the squire’s approach; but the fulness of her heart told her that she dared not look up, lest it should run over. Sang stood for some moments absorbed in contemplation of her, his eyes rapidly feeding his passion, and his passion slowly filling his eyes.

“Mrs. Katherine,” said he at length, “ahem! Mrs. Katherine. Of a truth, it is a bitter and ill-favoured thing to be compelled to part with those with whom we have been happy. Verily, ’twas but yestre’en that you and I were right blithe together, and by this e’en there will be many miles atween us—ay, and who can tell, for a matter of that, whether it may ever again please Heaven to bring us together for even one such jolly evening—Heigho!”

Katherine could stand this no longer, but giving way to a burst of grief, hid her eyes in her apron, and being too much agitated to speak, and too much shocked at this her involuntary disclosure of her attachment to the squire, she ran off and disappeared into the Castle.

Sang brushed the mists from his eye-lids with the back of his hand, that his eyes might follow the fair vision as it flew. A Gothic doorway received it. He heaved up a sigh, that rose from the bottom of his heart, and again sunk heavily to the abyss whence it was raised, and stood for some moments gazing at the black void that no longer possessed her figure. Again his eyes were dimmed with moisture, again he cleared them, and again he sighed; and casting one look towards his men, who were standing idle in consequence of his absence, and another to the doorway, he seemed to stand fixed between the equal attractions of duty on the one hand and love on the other. A confused and half-smothered laugh roused him from his dream. It proceeded from the troopers and lacqueys of his party, who were all regarding him, and nodding and winking to each other. Stung with an immediate sense of the ludicrous appearance he must have presented his men, the balance of his will was overthrown at once, and he sprang off to rate them for their idleness.

“What ho, my masters, meseems as if ye had lost your main-spring, that ye stand so idle. By the bones of the blessed St. Baldrid, but I will baste your lazy ribs with my lance-shaft, an ye stand staring in that fashion; by all that is good I will make kettle-drums of yere bodies. Ha! I’ll warrant me I shall alter your music, ay, and change these jokes and that laughter of yours into grinnings that shall make your fortunes at e’er a fair in Christendom. Go to, bestir yourselves, knaves.” And following up this with a few well-directed hints of a more substantial description, laid across the shoulders and backs of those whom he conceived to be most deserving of his chastisement, they were all as busy as ants in a moment.

“Master Spears,” said Sang to Rory, as he passed him accidentally, “it erketh me to learn that thou goest not with us.”

“Not ganging with thee!” exclaimed Rory, with an expression of countenance partaking partly of surprise at the question, partly of doubt whether it was put seriously or in joke, and partly of the pleased anticipation of the proud triumph he was about to enjoy when he should have breath to pour forth his answer; “not ganging with thee, Master Sang! By St. Lowry, but I am at a loss to fortake thy meaning. What wouldst thou be at? Dost thou mean to say that I wend not with my Lord the Yearl? If thou dost, by’r lackins, but thou art as sore wide o’ the mark as if thou hadst shot blindfold. I’d have thee to know, Sir Squire,” continued Rory, raising himself up to his full height, sticking his left arm akimbo, and thrusting out his right to its utmost horizontal extent, his hand at the same time resting on the hook of his gaud-clip, the shaft of which was pointed to the earth, “I’d have thee to know, my most worthy friend, Master Mortimer, and be it known to thee, with all the due submission and respect the which I do bear thee, that thy master, Sir Patrick, mought no more take the field withouten thee, than my master, the noble Yearl of Moray, would get into his saddle till he saw me at his back. Trust me, though I cannot ride tilting as thou dost, nor loup barriers, nor gallop after runaway Gogs, Magogs, and Goliaths of Gath, in armour, as thou mayest, I can push as good a thrust with a lance, when I take a grup o’t in real yearnest, against a chield that may be ettling to do me the like favour, as I can yerk out this same gaud-clip i’ my hand here, again a rae or ane otter beast. Na, na—the Yearl gang to the wars withouten me! No possible.”

“Nay, as to its being possible, Master Spears,” replied Sang, folding his arms across his breast with a waggish air, “trust me, I can assure thee of the fact, seeing I did hear the Earl say to his esquire that thou wert to tarry at Tarnawa, to wait on a young English damsel, who might lack thy protection for a certain journey she hath in contemplation.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Spears, who had stood in utter dismay as Sang was speaking; “art thou sickerly assured of what thou sayest, Squire Mortimer? My faith, things be come to ane queer pass indeed, sin’ they are gawin to transmew rough Rory Spears into a squire of dames. They will, nae doot, make a tire-woman of him ere it be lang. But, by my troth, I ken mair aboot mewing of hawks than mutching of maidens, and there is no sweet essence, oil, or unguent to me like the guff o’ a wolf, a tod, or a brock. Aweel-aweel, the Yearl’s wull sail be my wull; but this I will say, though it may be I should not, that if ever it gaed contraire to the grain wi’ me to do his bidding, by St. Lowry, now is the very time. But what maun be maun be—that’s a’ I can say till’t.” So shouldering his gaud-clip, he slowly and sullenly retired into the Castle, his utter disappointment and mortification being but ill concealed by his drooping head, and his hair that hung loose about his face from under his morion.

Rory sought his Lord, and, notwithstanding the bustle of business in which the Earl was immersed, he succeeded in obtaining an interview with him, when, to his indescribable horror, he discovered that all that Sang had told him was correct. His grudge at his daughter’s present service now grew into a dislike to her whom she served, who, besides her crime of being an Englishwoman, no light one in his eyes, had also to answer for his present humiliation. The Earl paid him some handsome compliments on his fidelity, his good conduct, and his valour, the possession of which qualities had occasioned his selection as the person to be left at Tarnawa, to be in readiness for the honourable and delicate piece of duty which might be perchance required of him. But even these high commendations from the quarter most valued by him were insufficient to make amends for the mortification he felt at his disappointment, nor could they season the proposed duty so as to make it palatable to him.

“Aweel-aweel, my Lord Yearl of Moray, thy wull sall be my wull,” was all that his Lordship could extract from Rory Spears.

After Mortimer Sang had arranged everything about the baggage of his party, and got the men and horses in proper order for the march, he took the opportunity of stealing away from them for a few moments, with the hope of obtaining a sight of Katherine Spears, whom he now discovered to be, even more than he had ever supposed, the ruling magnet of his heart. He found her drowned in tears.

“Fair Katherine,” said he as he approached her with the utmost delicacy and tenderness, “why art thou thus grief-by-woxen? Knowest thou not that thy father tarrieth with thee at Tarnawa? Dost thou not already know that he goeth not with the host?”

“Yea, Sir Squire,” sobbed Katherine, hastily drying her eyes at the sound of his voice, and vainly endeavouring to wipe away all traces of her sorrow; “yea, I did so learn this morning from my lady.”

“For whom grievest thou, then, fair maiden?” demanded Sang. “Surely thou canst not be so oppressed at thoughts of the Earl’s departure?”

“Nay, as to that, no,” replied the artless girl. “It may be I shall partake in the woe of my Lady Countess. But I weep not for him. Nay, I weep not for any one now.”

Mrs. Katherine spoke the truth. She certainly did not weep at that particular moment, but the exertion it cost her to restrain her tears becoming much more than she was equal to, their accumulation was too powerful to be withstood, and, overwhelming every dam and barrier that maidenly prudence and propriety had raised to confine them, they burst forth more violently than ever, and poor Katherine sobbed aloud as if her heart would have broken. If there were still any remains of resolution about that of the squire, it melted at once like the snow-wreath that lies in the direct course of some wide and resistless deluge of waters, which, as it is dissolved, mingles itself with and swells the very flood that creates its dissolution. He blubbered like an infant.

“Lovely Katherine,” said he, sitting down beside her, and taking her hand with the utmost respect and tenderness—“most beauteous Mrs. Spears—my loveliest of all damsels, be composed, be comforted, I beseech thee; my dearest Katherine, my love, my only love, be composed and tell me—ah, tell, I entreat thee, whether I have any share in these precious drops? Tell me thou weepest for my departure, and those liquid diamonds that fall on my hand will be more prized by me than the purest gems that ever came from the East. Tell me but that I shall carry thy heart with me when I go, and I will leave thee mine in exchange for it, and swear on the honour and faith of a trusty esquire, to be thine, and thine only, for ever. What is glory, what is renown, what is the exalted rank of knighthood itself, without the possession of her we love? Say but thou wilt love me, sweet Katherine, and, when the war is at an end, I will return to claim thy hand, were it from the uttermost part of the earth. Say, do my hopes deceive me, or am I in very truth happy in being beloved by thee?”

Katherine’s paroxysm of grief had been partially arrested, almost from the moment that Squire Mortimer had taken her hand so kindly, and begun to speak. She quickly became more composed as he went on; her cheeks became suffused with blushes, and showed beneath her tears like roses after a shower; smiles soon afterwards came to play over them like the sunbeams over the fresh and fragrant flowers; and, by the time that Mr. Sang had finished, the maiden’s confusion, rather than her indistinct murmurs, gave the esquire all the satisfaction he could have wished. They swore eternal fidelity to each other, and, after a short and sweet conversation, and an exchange of some little love-tokens had taken place between them, they separated, to attend to their respective avocations.

By this time all was in order for the march. Already had several of the nobles and knights departed independently from the Castle; and those who remained, being of the Earl’s kinsmen or connexions, were to guide their motions by his. He resolved to begin his journey immediately, being anxious to accomplish several miles of way ere the sun was yet risen to the height of his fury. The trumpets sounded; the clangour stirred up the hearts of both men and steeds, and they expressed their joy by stunning shouts and repeated neighings. But their shrill brazen voices were a death-knell to the departing joy of many a soft bosom that sighed within the Castle, and to none more than to that of Katherine Spears. Her nerves were subjected to no fresh trial of resolution, for the esquire’s absence from his party, at the moment of starting, would have been inadmissible.

The trumpet brayed aloud, for the third time, its harsh summons, and the court-yard rang as the mailed horsemen leaped into their steel-cased saddles. The Countess of Moray was on the terrace with her maidens, waving many a sighing farewell to her gallant lord. The Earl gave the word, and, in company with his brothers-in-law the Earls of Fife and Caithness, his brother the Earl of Dunbar, the Earl of Douglas, Sir David Lindsay, Sir John Halyburton, the Lord of Dirleton, Sir Patrick Hepborne, and others, he rode forth at the Castle gate, followed by the whole column of march.

The troops which he headed were but a small portion of those whose attendance he could command as vassals, being only such horsemen as were ever ready to assemble at a moment’s notice, to attend him on any sudden emergency. They now served him as a guard of honour in his journey to the King, and the charge of summoning and mustering the great body of his feudal force, and of despatching them under their proper officers, to join him where he might afterwards direct, was left to his Countess to carry into effect. The cavalcade filed off with a noise like thunder through the gateway, and part of them forming upon the natural glacis beyond, halted until the train of baggage wains had fallen into the line immediately in rear of the horse litters, in which the ladies travelled, and then they closed into the rear of the line of march. The whole moved on slowly through the little hamlet, now silent and deserted, except by its weeping women, its old men, and its children, and then wound into the depth of the forest. An opening among the trees gave them again a view of Tarnawa, and many was the head that turned involuntarily round to look once more at its grey walls, some of them, perhaps, though they little thought so, for the last time.

Sir Patrick lifted up his eyes, raised his beaver, and turned them towards the Castle. He beheld a bevy of white figures grouped together on a bartizan, and white scarfs or handkerchiefs were waving. He smiled in secret as the imagination crossed him that the motion of these was like that which had flashed upon his eyes from the keep of Norham. But his fancy had dreamt so, and the vision having been once engendered, continued to haunt him as he rode at the head of his small troop.

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Chapter XLIX

The Lord of Dirleton’s Tale—The Bishop of Moray and his Clergy.

The Earl of Moray led him and his little force through the Meads of St. John. That scene, lately so gay, was now considerably changed. Most of the pavilions on the hither meadow had been struck, and the knights who had occupied them had already left the ground with their people, whilst others waited to join the line of march. The temporary bridge was there to afford them a passage; but the demolition of the lists had been already begun under the superintendence of the pursuivants, and others of the heralds, to whom the property of the materials was an acknowledged perquisite. The inhabitants of the little town of tents and temporary huts were in humming motion, like a hive of bees that are about to swarm. All were preparing to depart with lamentations, their occupation being gone with the tournament that had assembled them; and pack-horses, and wains, and rude carts without wheels, that were dragged along the ground on the pointed extremities of the shafts projecting behind, were loaded with the utmost expedition.

The street of the burgh presented a different picture. Thither the news of the approaching war had not yet reached, and the townsmen rested with blackened hands and faces from their melancholy work of clearing out the burnt rubbish from the foundations of their houses, to gaze, and wonder, and speculate on the armed force. Loud were the cheers with which they greeted the Earl of Moray, and they were not tired with these manifestations of their gratitude to their generous lord until they had accompanied him for a considerable way beyond the eastern end of the town. At the distance of some five or six miles from Forres the Earl halted his men, just where the half-wooded and half-cultivated country gave place to a bare heath of considerable extent, and where the gentle breeze was permitted to come cool and unbroken against their throbbing temples, after they were relieved from the thraldom of their bassinets and morions; whilst the oaks that fringed the moor, and straggled into it in groups and single trees, enabled them to find sufficient shade from a now oppressive sun, to eat their morning’s meal in comfort.

A pavilion was pitched for the reception of the nobles, knights, and ladies, and, after partaking of the refreshment that was provided under it, they wandered forth in parties to waste the time beneath the trees, until the horses should have been fed, and everything prepared for continuing the march. Sir Patrick Hepborne, having fallen into conversation with De Vaux, the old Lord of Dirleton, wandered slowly with him to a clump of trees at some distance, and they sat down together on an old oak that had fallen by natural decay from the little grove of gigantic trees that threw a shade over it. The place was sufficiently retired to promise security from interruption, and Hepborne longed much to obtain from his companion the distressing history to which he and his lady had alluded on the evening of their first meeting at Tarnawa. He felt it difficult, however, to hint at a subject of which he already knew enough to satisfy him, that it could not fail to be productive of painful emotions to his father’s old friend, and he would have left it untouched had not accident led to it.

“That blasted moor, where tree grows not,” observed the Lord of Dirleton, “and where, as thou see’st, the stunted heath itself can hardly find food for life, amid the barren sand of which its soil is composed, was cursed into sterility by the infernal caldron of the weird-hags who, by their hellish incantations, did raise a poisonous marsh-fire to mislead Macbeth; and did so drag him down from the path of honour and virtue, to perish in a sea of crimes his soul would once have shuddered at. See’st thou yonder huge cairn of stones? Some men say that it marks the very spot where the foul crones first met him, as, with his associate Banquo, he did return victorious from the overthrow of the Danes, who did invade Fife, and whose bravest leaders he sent to eternal repose in St. Colme’s Isle; it was there, I say, that tradition reporteth they did appear to him, when, with the flattering tongue of the great Tempter, they did salute him Thane of Glammis and of Cawdor, and alswa King hereafter.”

“Tell me, I pray thee,” said Sir Patrick, “what make these soldiers who do so crowd towards the cairn? Methinks some of them on horseback, and some of them on foot, are riding and running full tilt around it, as if in frolicsome chase of each other.”

The Lord of Dirleton was silent for some moments. He sighed, and, much to Sir Patrick’s surprise, tears came into his eyes. He was deeply affected for some moments.

“Thou must of needscost marvel, Sir Knight,” said he at length, “to see me so much moved by a question the which is so simple in itself, and the which did fall so naturally from thee. But thy wonder will cease anon. Be it known to thee, that these men do run and ride in that manner, in compliance with a well-received belief, that to surround the cairn with three times three circuits, securely buys the happiness of him who doth so, for the space of three times three months. Peraunter thy marvel will now be enhanced, why I should have wept at the notice of a practice so apparently harmless; but that thine astonishment may forthwith cease, I shall haste me to tell thee the cause of these tears. I am not sorry that I have been led thus accidentally to the subject, sith I did well intend me to effund into thine ear, at first fitting time, the circumstances of that bereavement of the which, when I did once before obscurely hint to thee, thou didst then seem to wish to hear more.”

The Lord of Dirleton paused, as if to recollect himself, and, after an effort to master certain feelings that agitated him, he began his narrative—

“It was about three months after the Lady of Dirleton had happily given birth to her first daughter, that I left her and her baby in full health, and soon afterwards travelled northward into these parts, with mine early friend, John Dunbar, Earl of Moray. We had been at Lithgow together, at the proclamation of King Robert, and I had yielded to my Lord’s wishes, to bear him company for some few days at his Castle of Tarnawa. After a short sojournance in his hospitable hall, I reached this spot on my way homewards, and chancing to halt here, as we do now, I was told of the virtues of the Witch’s Cairn. Bethinking me that it was good to secure nine months of happiness at so easy a price, I spurred my horse into a gallop, and began to course around it at full speed.

“I had already encircled it twice three times, and had begun the seventh round, when my horse was suddenly scared by the appearance of a haggard female figure that arose from among the docks and clot leaves in the middle of the heap, and glared fearfully at me. The animal started so unexpectedly aside that he threw me from the saddle, and I lay stunned by the severity of the fall. When my senses returned to me, I found myself in the hands of my people, who were busied about me under a tree. Convinced that it was some supernatural thing that had so strangely crossed me, and put a period to mine attempt to work against fate, I did eagerly demand of those about me what had become of the unsightly witch. All agreed that she had limped slowly away before their eyes until lost in the neighbouring wood; one or two there were who did ween her to be no other than some ancient shepherdess or nerthes-woman, who, wearied with watch, mought liggen her down to rest there, and who had been frayed from her sleep by the sounding tramp of my horse’s gallop; but the rest were of my mind, that she was verily some evil witch, whose blasted form and eyne boded some dire malure.

“Sore oppressed with the belief of approaching calamity, I did hie me back to mine own Castle of Dirleton, with a far heavier heart than I had left it, dreading drearily as I went that I should learn some dismal tidings when I should reach thither. But all was well; and as things went not in anywise awry for some time, I began to laugh in secret at my own apprehensions. Prosperity favoured me, indeed, in a somewhat unusual manner. For six months was I blessed by a train of good luck so unusual, that hardly a day passed without some happy or favourable occurrence; but this was the very cause of awakening new fears in me. If, said I, reasoning with myself—if the six withershin circles round the Witch’s Cairn have had any influence in producing this marvellous coil of good fortune, what will happen when the spell-thread is unwound to the end, where it was so mysteriously snapped? This seventh moon must be pregnant with some dire affliction.

“I trembled for its approach. It began—several days of it had already stolen away—all was well, and I did again blush for my fears; but, alas! they were too soon realised. One evening Sarah, the nurse of our infant, was amissing with her charge. It grew late, and the Lady Dirleton became frantic with the most cruel apprehensions. She insisted on accompanying me out to search for the nurse and her babe. The alarm spread, and not only the domestics but the whole vassals, largely sharing in our affliction, turned out to aid us. All our efforts were in vain, for a dark and stormy night came on; and on that wide plain that stretcheth between the Castle and the sea, there was greater risk of the seekers losing themselves than chance of their finding the woman and the babe. The Lady Dirleton recklessly wandered until she was so sore toil-spent that she was carried to the Castle almost insensible. I did still continue my search in despair, in defiance of whirlwinds of sand and red glaring flashes of lightning. Faint and distant screams were heard by times ymeint with the blast. We followed in the direction they went in, as well as the mirkness of the night might permit us to do. Sometimes they would bring us down towards the shore of the sea, where they were lost amidst the thunders of its waves rolling furiously in on the beach. Anon we did hear them retreating inland, and we were led by them, in a zig-zag course, hither and thither across the plain, in idle pursuit. ‘The child! the babe!—ha, the murderer!—ha, blood, blood, blood!—murder, murder!—the child, the child!’ were the fearful words we caught from time to time, ymingled with wild unearthly cries. Still we followed, and we shouted by times; but our shouts were unheeded, albeit they must natheless have been heard by the person whose voice reached our ears so strongly.

“At length, after a harrassing night of fruitless following, the voice died away from us, and we groped wearily and hopelessly about until day did gloomily dawn upon us. We again wandered down towards the shore, and there descried a female figure, with torn garments and dishevelled hair, running and leaping about with wild and irrational action among the sand-heaps by the sea side. I thought of the hag of the Witch’s Cairn, and my blood curdled within me.

“For some time we followed the figure, but almost with as little success as we had before done in the darkness of night. At length, by making a circuit around her, we came close upon her, where she had seated herself on the top of a benty hillock. It was Sarah, the nurse of our child. She rose wildly, by fits and starts, and waved her arms high in the air, and gave streaming to the wind the infant’s sky-blue mantle, the which was red with blood-stains. Her eyes were fixed in vacancy, and she regarded us not as we approached her; but she screamed and shrieked unintelligibly; and again she laughed loud and horribly at intervals. We rushed upon her, and then it was we discovered that reason had been reft from her. Her eyes glared wildly around on us all, but she knew no one, and no syllable could now be extracted from her. It was too clear, alas! that she had murdered mine infant in the sudden frenzy that had seized her!”

“Blessed Virgin, protect us!” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, horror-struck with the Lord of Dirleton’s story.

“She was the daughter of an old and much attached domestic,” continued de Vaux, “and she herself, devoted to us as a daughter, loved the infant as her own. Nothing but madness could have driven her to do a deed so horrible. Where she had disposed of the body of the poor innocent we could never discover, though our search for it was unceasing for some days. As for the wretched Sarah, whom God had so visited as to make her no longer accountable for her actions, she was brought back into the Castle, and put under that needful restraint to the which she was subjected for many years thereafter. When she came to be examined more narrowly, some one discovered a dreadful gash on her right hand, as if given by a dagger, a circumstance the which did add to the heap of mystery the truth was buried under, and engendered full many a vague thought and idle surmise. I gave mine orders that some one should be for ever on the watch by Sarah, night and day, to catch up anything she might utter in her ravings, that might chance to illuminate the darkness that hung over this heart-breaking calamity. But albeit her voice was rarely silent for a moment, being unceasingly poured forth in elritch screams of laughter when she was in her wildest fits, or in piteous moaning and waymenting when she was low, yet did she rarely mould it into words of meaning. Full oft would she take up in her arms the mantle, the which she had never parted withal, and hush it with sad lullaby, as if the child had been within it; and more than once, when thus employed, she was seen to clasp it in agony to her bosom, to look wildly on vacancy, and to stretch forth her arm, as if dreading the approach of some one, and fleeing into the darksome corner of her cell, she was heard to yell out, ‘Murderer!—ha! the babe, the babe!—help, murder!—blood, blood!—my babe!’—and then she would lay open the mantle, and gazing into it with frenzy, would increase her screams to the very cracking of her voice, as if she had but that moment discovered that the infant was gone.

“Thou mayest right well conceive, Sir Patrick,” continued the Lord of Dirleton, after a pause, during which he yielded to the emotions so powerfully excited by this recapitulation of the circumstances of this so terrible affliction which had befallen him—“thou mayest easily imagine, I say, what a deep, nay, fathomless tide of sorrow poured over the souls of the Lady Dirleton and me. We loathed the very air of the scene tainted by this dreadful tragedy. Anxious to escape from it, we hastened abroad, and strove, by mixing in the society of a new world, to blunt the pangs we suffered from the very souvenance of our home. I need say no more, I wis, but to crave thy good pardon, Sir Patrick, for drawing so hugely on thy patience by this long narration, the which, I do natheless opine, hath not been altogether uninteresting to thee, sith I have observed that thou hast, more than once, showed signs of thy friendly sympathy for our misfortune.”

“In truth, my Lord, I am deeply affected by thy strange and melancholy history,” replied Hepborne. “But what, I pray thee, hath become of Sarah, thy child’s nurse, on whom so much mystery doth hang?”

“After many years of confinement, Sarah’s wudness did become more tranquil; it seemed as if it was gradually worn out by its own fury. Then did succeed the mantling and stagnant calmness of idiocy—and seeing that she was no longer harmful, she was, by slow degrees, permitted greater license, until at last she was suffered to go about at the freedom of her own will. But will she seemed to have none. Supported by the Lady Dirleton’s charity, and tended by her order, she wandered to and fro in the neighbourhood of the Castle, like a living clod, hardly ever exhibiting even a consciousness of existence.”

“And dost thou believe, my Lord,” demanded Hepborne, “that the wudness of this poor afflicted wretch did verily work this sad malure to thee? Or didst thou never entertain aught of suspicion of crime against any who were more accountable for their deeds?”

“Ay,” replied the Lord of Dirleton, after a pause; “ay, we had suspicions—horrible suspicions. My brother John, that is my half-brother, for he was the son of my father by a woman of low birth and infamous character, who, by sacrifice of virtue and afterwards by her cunning, didst circumvent my father, then an old man, and did induce him to patch up a marriage with her. After the death of my father she would fain have kept the same place she had done during his life; but as I had just then married me I could not insult my wife by the introduction to her notice of a woman so notourly infamous. I natheless did what in prudence I might for my brother, then a young man of some eighteen or twenty winters. I took him under mine own roof, where I in vain endeavoured to bring down his naturally haughty and unbending temper, and to restrain the violence of his passions. I had shown him an elder brother’s kindness from very boyhood, and methought his heart did love me. But his wicked and infamous mother, stung with the disgrace of being refused admittance within our gates, so worked upon his young mind that she taught him to regard me rather as an enemy than as a benefactor. Forgetful of the anxiety I did ever display for the advancement of his fortunes and the improvement of his mind, he became impatient of reproof, and ever and anon he was guilty of the most gross and offensive insults to me, and yet more so to the Lady Dirleton, against whom his mother’s hatred was more particularly inflamed. Such ungrateful behaviour did naturally beget much unhappy brawling, and high and bitter words often passed between us. At length his daring arose to such a height that he presumed to usher in his impure dam among the noble and honourable guests who assembled to witness the ceremonial baptism of our infant. O’ermastered by rage at the moment, and boiling with indignation, I forgot myself so far as to give him a blow; and I did hound both of them straightway forth with ignominious reproach from my walls. I saw not John ever again, yet I had good cause to fear that he——But hold! my wife and daughter approach; and, hark! the trumpets do sound for the march.”

As the Earls of Moray, Fife, Dunbar, and Douglas, who led the line, were breaking through the oak forest through which they travelled for some time after leaving the halting-place, the proud towers of Elgin rose before them, and the tinkling of many a bell from its various convents and churches told them that its inhabitants were already aware of their approach. Soon afterwards the long train of a procession was seen winding down from the entrance of the town, and as they drew nearer they descried at the head of it the venerable Alexander Barr, bishop of the diocese. He was accompanied by his twenty-two canons secular, and various other members and servants of the Cathedral; and after him came a body of Black Dominican Monks, followed by the Grey Franciscan Friars, all marching in pairs. Ere the warlike body of nobles, and knights, and men-at-arms had reached the bridge, the procession had halted to receive them. The Bishop, in his episcopal robes, sat, patiently waiting them, on a well-fed milk-white palfrey, of sober and staid disposition, suited to his master’s habits. The Earl of Moray hastened to dismount, and would have run to assist the Prelate from his horse. But there was no pride in the old man, and seeing the Earl’s intention, he quitted his saddle with an agility hardly to be looked for from one of his years, and, hastening to meet his embrace, bestowed his willing benediction on him, as well as on the Earls of Fife, Dunbar, and Douglas, and those who followed them.

“My Lord Bishop,” said the Earl of Fife, “verily I did scarcely look for this good countenance and gentle demeanour from thee, seeing how I am sykered to him who hath wrought the Church so much foul wrong. But thou well knowest——”

“Talk not of these matters, my Lord Earl of Fife, I beseech thee,” cried the Bishop, interrupting him; “talk not of these matters now. We shall have ample leisure to discuss these painful themes ere the hour of couchee. Mount, I beseech thee, and let me now do what honour I may to the son of my King, and to his noble brothers-in-law, the gallant Earls of Douglas and of Moray, by escorting them to the Royal Castle. Thy messengers, my Lord,” continued he, turning to Earl Moray, “did out-run my tardy hospitality; for ere I gathered tidings of thy coming, or could bestir myself to make fitting provision for thy reception, and for the banqueting of these nobles, knights, and ladies, thy preparations at the Castle were already largely advanced, else had I assuredly claimed thee and all as my guests.”

“Of a truth, we are rather too potent a company to harass thee withal,” replied the Earl of Moray; “and, as Constable of the Royal Castle here, it would ill become me to shrink from the fulfilment of its hospitality. Let us mount, then, and hie us thither.”

All being again in their saddles, those composing the procession turned their faces towards the town, and began to move slowly onwards. The black crosses on the humble white gowns of the Dominicans or Black Friars, and the grey gown and cowl of the Franciscans—their meek and world-contemning countenances—their bare feet, the soft tread of which gave forth no sound—the humble banner of St. Giles, the tutelary saint of the town, who was represented in his pastoral habit, holding a book in his right hand, and a staff in his left, with the motto, “Sic itur ad astra,” were all calculated to lead the mind far above the pomps of this vain world, and were strangely contrasted with the fierce and haughty looks of the warriors—their glittering armour—their nodding plumes—the yell of the bugles—and the proudly-blazoned surcoats, and shields, and banners, and pennons, which flared against the declining sun, as if their glory had been made to endure even beyond that of the blessed luminary itself.

They wound up the steep hill to the Castle, and there the religious orders halted in two lines, facing each other, until the gaudy war-pageant had passed inwards, with all its crashing clangour of instruments, and all its flash and glitter. The holy brethren then moved away in silence, disappearing in succession, like the waves that follow the foaming surges raised on the bosom of a lone lake by the fall of some mountain crag.

But there was one monk of the order of St. Francis there who staid not with his brethren to gaze with lack-lustre eye on the ranks of the warriors as they rode by. Deep excitation seemed suddenly to be awakened in him by some passing object. With an agitated air, he shrouded himself up in his grey cowl, and tightening his girdle of ropes about his loins, he mingled with the ranks of riders, and glided into the Castle.

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Chapter L

The Mystery of the Lady Beatrice—Arrival of the Nobles and Men-at-Arms at Aberdeen.

The banquet, though sufficiently splendid, was tempered by moderation, and the guests broke up at an early hour, for the Bishop took an opportunity of signifying his wish to hold private council with the Earls of Fife, Moray, Douglas, and Dunbar, and one or two of the other nobles and knights whom he named. The hint was accordingly taken, and the accommodation of the Castle being too confined for a company so numerous, the Bishop of Moray consigned to the care of his canons the duty of providing fit lodging for such as might be compelled to go into the town. Though the apartments in the houses of these churchmen were small, yet were they most luxuriously furnished for the times to which this history refers.

As De Vaux, the Lord of Dirleton, was one of the few whom the Bishop requested to aid him with his advice, the former remained for some time at the Castle. His lady and daughter were therefore consigned to the care of a rosy-faced, tun-bellied canon, who was ready with his attendants to escort them to his antique mansion. As his lacqueys lighted them along under the covered arcades lining both sides of the streets, his gay smiles and gallant air sorted but indifferently with the solemn religious grandeur that was everywhere spread over this ancient episcopal town.

The subject of conference between the Bishop and the nobles was the late outrages of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The good Bishop was himself incapable of seeking vengeance, in as far as he as a mere man was concerned. But he was zealous for the interests of that religion and of that Church of which he was the minister; and being firmly resolved that neither should be insulted with impunity, he stated to the Lords and Knights his determination to go with them to Aberdeen, and to lay the matter before the King. To such a step no objection could be urged by those who heard him, and accordingly, after some conversation on other matters, which continued to a pretty late hour, the party broke up.

As the Lord of Dirleton was leaving the Castle, with the intention of finding his way to the house of the canon, whither his lady and the Lady Jane de Vaux had gone before him, he was suddenly addressed by some one from behind, who, in a distinct but hollow tone, whispered in his ear—

“Wouldst thou know aught of the fate of thy first-born daughter?”

“Ha! what canst thou tell me?” cried De Vaux, turning round with inconceivable eagerness, and addressing a Franciscan monk who stood behind him shrouded up in his cowl; “speak, I beseech thee, holy man, what hast thou to tell of my first-born daughter?”

“Dismiss thine attendants,” replied the Franciscan calmly, “and follow me to the church of Greyfriars; there shalt thou learn all that I have to tell.”

“Get thee to thy lodgings,” cried the Lord of Dirleton to his people, “and leave me with this holy monk. I would have converse with him alone.”

“My Lord,” replied his esquire, “it were safer methinks to have thy people about thee; treachery hath many disguises—there may be danger.”

“Talk not to me of danger,” cried De Vaux; “leave me, as I do command thee.”

The esquire bowed, and retired with the valets and lacqueys who had waited. The monk, who had stood aloof abiding his determination, now moved away, and the Lord of Dirleton followed him. The streets were deserted and silent, and the Franciscan staid not to speak, but glided so quickly along as to defy all attempts at conversation on the part of the knight who followed him. After threading through some narrow lanes and uncouth passages, the Lord of Dirleton was led by his guide to the door of the church of the Greyfriars, to which the monk applied a large key that hung at his girdle, and after letting himself and the knight in, he again locked it carefully behind him. The interior of the holy place was dimly illuminated by the few lamps that were burning here and there before some of the shrines, but the gloomy light was not even sufficient to dissipate the shadows that hung beneath the arch of the groined roof.

“Speak, quickly speak, father—in charity speak, and satisfy my anxiety,” cried the old Lord of Dirleton, panting with the eagerness of expectation, combined with the breathlessness of exertion. “What knowest thou of the fate of my child?—Is she alive?—In mercy speak!”

The Franciscan shot a glance at De Vaux from under his cowl, and then strode slowly up the nave of the Church until he came opposite to a shrine dedicated to an image of the Virgin. There he halted, and leaning against its iron screen with his back to the lamps, dropped his head on his bosom, and seemed lost in thought for some moments.

“Oh, speak,” cried the Lord of Dirleton, following him—“Speak—does my child live? my child Beatrice?”

“Thy child liveth not,” murmured the monk, in a deep sepulchral tone; “’tis of her death I would tell thee.”

“Alas, alas! I did indeed fear so,” cried the Lord of Dirleton, deeply affected. “I had indeed ceased to hope that she might be yet alive. Yet even to know her fate were something amid the sad obscurity which hath so long oppressed us. What canst thou tell me of her, holy father?”

“Thou hadst a brother,” said the Franciscan, slowly and solemnly.

“Alas! I had. I had indeed a brother,” cried De Vaux. “Then are my fears but too just. It was he then who reft me of mine infant. Oh, wretch, wretch, how couldst thou be so cruel!”

“It was he,” cried the monk, with a peculiar energy of manner, whilst his eyes glared strangely from beneath his cowl as he spake; “it was thy brother, who, in revenge for the blow he received from thine hand, tore thine infant daughter from her nurse, and fled with her.”

“Then may God in His infinite mercy forgive him!” cried De Vaux, clasping his hands together with strong agitation of manner; and, dropping on his knees before the shrine of the Virgin, he buried his face in his mantle, and gave way to his emotions.

“What! canst thou in truth forgive him, then?” cried the monk; “canst thou in sincerity pray for his forgiveness in Heaven? Wouldst thou not rather seek revenge against him—revenge, the which may ere long be put within thy power—revenge, to which even I might peradventure help thee?”

“And dost thou, the servant of Christ—thou who shouldst be the messenger of peace—dost thou become a tempter?” cried De Vaux, looking upwards at the monk with astonishment; “dost thou counsel revenge?—dost thou become a pander to the most malignant of human passions, so as to offer thyself to be the instrument who shall drag up my sinful, yet perchance ere this, repentant brother, to dree my vengeance?”

“’Tis well,” replied the Franciscan coolly; “I did so speak but to prove thy virtue, the which I do find to be great. Forgiveness is the badge of our Christian faith, which it well becometh thee to wear; and thou hast the jewel of its highest perfection, sith thou canst bring thy mind to forgive him who was the murderer of thy first-born child.”

“The murderer of my child!” cried the wretched De Vaux, starting from his knees, and pacing the church, wringing his hands. “Were my worst fears true, then? was my innocent infant, my smiling cherub, was my Beatrice murdered? The few words thou didst let fall had overpowered my first suspicions, and had already engendered hopes that my brother’s violence had at least stopped short of a crime so horrible. Murdered, saidst thou? Oh, most foul, most foul! He whom I did love and cherish from boyhood as my son—yea, loved as the issue of my own loins—in whose nurture I so interested myself, and on whom I did propose to bestow large possessions—What, the flesh of mine own father to murder my helpless babe!”

“Thy forgiveness is indeed of most marvellous and unexampled excellence,” cried the Franciscan in a whining tone, the true meaning of which could hardly be interpreted; “wouldst thou, then, that thy brother should be brought before thee, that he may receive full pardon at thy hands for the cruel coulpe he hath committed against thee?”

“Nay, nay, nay,” cried the wretched Lord of Dirleton with rapid utterance, “let me not see him—let me not see him. I loved the sight of him once as the darling son of mine aged father—let me not see him now as the murderer of my child. The taking of the life of my brother cannot restore that of which he did bereave my Beatrice. As I hope for mercy from on high, so do I forgive him. Let him then live and repent; let him do voluntary penance, that his soul may yet meet with mercy at Heaven’s high tribunal; but let me not see him. Had he only robbed me of my child, I mought peraunter have been able to have yielded him my forgiveness face to face; yea, and moreover to have extinguished all animosity by weeping a flood of tears upon his bosom; for verily I am but as a lone and bruised reed, and a brother’s returning love were a healing balm worth the purchasing. But the murderer of my child—oh, horrible!—let me not see him.”

The Franciscan drew his cowl more completely over his face, and stood for some moments with his head averted, as if to hide those emotions to which De Vaux’s agitation had given rise. Starting suddenly from the position he had taken, he sprang forward a pace or two towards the Lord of Dirleton, and then halted suddenly ere he reached him. De Vaux, wrapped up in his own thoughts, was unconscious of the movement of the monk. He threw himself again on his knees before the shrine of the Virgin, and began offering up sincere but incoherent and unconnected petitions, at one time for the forgiveness of his own sins, at another for the soul of his murdered daughter, and again for mercy and pardon from Heaven for the crimes of his brother. The Franciscan, with his arms crossed over his breast, stood with his body gently bent over the pious supplicant, absorbed in contemplation of him, and deeply moved by the spectacle. A footstep was heard—the Lord of Dirleton’s ear caught it too at length, and he arose hastily; but the Franciscan friar with whom he had been holding converse was gone.

“Father,” said the knight eagerly to a brother of the convent who now approached him from an inner door, “tell me, I pray thee, who was he of thine order who passed from me but now?”

“Venerable warrior,” replied the monk with an air of surprise, “in truth, I saw no one. May the blessing of St. Francis be with thee. Peraunter thine orisons hath induced our Blessed Lady to send some saint miraculously to comfort thee. Nay, perhaps St. Francis himself may have been sent by the Holy Virgin to reward thy piety for thus seeking her shrine at such an hour. Leave me something in charity for our poor convent, and her blessing, as alswa that of St. Francis, will assuredly cleave to thee.”

“Hath not one of thy brethren loitered in the streets until now?” demanded the Lord of Dirleton.

“Nay,” replied the monk, “I this moment left the dormitory, where they are all asleep. Trust me, they are not given to wander in the streets at such an hour as this; and no one else could come hither, seeing that the door of our church is carefully locked at night.”

The Lord of Dirleton was lost in thought for some moments; but, recollecting himself, he gave gold to the begging friar, who received it meekly. He then craved the monk’s guidance to the house of the canon, where his lady and daughter were lodged; and the holy man, taking a key from his girdle, unfastened the door of the church, and De Vaux silently followed him, ruminating as he went on the mysterious interview he had had, as well as on the sad story of his murdered daughter, the whole of his affliction for whom had been so strangely and so strongly brought back upon him.

In the morning, the march of the nobles, knights, and men-at-arms was swelled by the presence of the Bishop of Moray, attended by a large party of his churchmen and followers. The whole body reached the ancient city of Aberdeen early on the fourth day, and Sir Patrick Hepborne had reason to be fully satisfied with the gracious reception he met with from King Robert. He was gladdened by a happy meeting with his father, and with his friend Assueton, who had come to attend on His Majesty.

“How fareth thine excellent mother, Assueton?” demanded Hepborne jocularly; “thou hast doubtless ere this had enough of her good society, as well as of thy home.”

“Nay, of a truth, my dearest bel ami,” replied his friend, “parfay my conscience doth sorely smite me in that quarter. Verily, I have not yet seen mine excellent mother. Day after day have I been about to hie me to her, to receive her blessing; but something untoward hath ever arisen to detain me; and just as I was about to accomplish mine intent, I was hurried away hither by the King’s command. Perdie, I did never before think that I could have complained of the sudden outbreak of war; yet do I confess that I did in good earnest begrudge this unlooked-for call most bitterly.”

“And hath love or filial affection the most to do in exciting thy complaint, thinkest thou?” demanded Hepborne.

“Um! somewhat of both, perhaps,” replied Assueton gravely. “By St. Andrew, but I am an altered man, Hepborne. Nay, smile not; or rather, if it so pleaseth thee, smile as thou mayest list, for certes I am now case-hardened against thy raillery.”

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