LI. King Robert at Aberdeen—Duncan MacErchar again…

LI. King Robert at Aberdeen—Duncan MacErchar again

The evening was beautiful, when the loyal inhabitants of Aberdeen, who, by their King’s temporary residence among them, were rendered eagerly alive to every little movement regarding him, began to be aware that something was in contemplation, from observing a slender guard of spearmen marching forth from the Castle, and forming in single files at about a yard between each, so as to enclose an extended oblong space on the upper part of the street. The populace began to crowd towards the barrier of spears, in expectation of something interesting, and soon formed a dense mass everywhere behind it. The houses overlooking the spot began to be filled with guests, too, who were glad to claim acquaintance with their inmates, for the sake of procuring places at the windows, which were all of them quickly occupied, as well as every one of those antique and curiously applied outer stairs and whimsical projections that characterized the city architecture of the period.

Idle speculation became rapidly busy among the anxious gazers. All hoped they were to see the King, yet few thought the hope well founded; for the infirmities of age had so beset His Majesty that he was but little equal to undergo the labour of the parade attendant on his elevated rank, far less to endure public exhibitions of his person.

All doubt was soon put to an end, however. A distant flourish of trumpets was heard, and martial music followed, swelling and growing upon the ear as it slowly approached from the innermost recesses of the Castle. It burst forth with shriller clangour, and the performers presently issued from the Castle, preceding a grand procession of nobles, knights, and ladies, habited in the most magnificent dresses, followed by a small body of guards, in the midst of whom there was a splendid litter, having the Royal Arms, surmounted by the Crown of Scotland, placed over its velvet canopy. It was borne by twelve esquires, in the richest Royal liveries. Murmurs of self-congratulation and joyful greeting began to run around the assemblage of people; but when the litter was set down in the middle of the open space, and Robert II., their beloved monarch, the observer of justice, whose ears were ever open to the complaints of his meanest subjects, and of whom it was even commonly said that he never spoke word that he performed not—when the good King of Scotland was assisted forth from his conveyance, deafening shouts rent the air, and were prolonged unceasingly, till the lungs of the shouters waxed weary from their exertions.

The reason of the monarch thus taking the air before his people, was to give confidence to the good citizens of Aberdeen, amidst the exaggerated rumours of invasion, by showing himself so surrounded by his dauntless barons.

The infirm old King, plainly habited in a purple velvet mantle, lined with fur, and purple silk nether garments, with grey woollen hose, folded amply over them, for the comfort of his frail limbs, leaning upon his son the Earl of Fife, and partly supported by his much-favoured son-in-law, the Earl of Moray, took his broad hat and plume with dignity from his head, and, showing his long snowy hair, bowed gracefully around to the people, and then began to walk slowly backwards and forwards, aiding himself partly with his son’s arm and partly with a cane, now stopping to converse familiarly with some of the ladies, or of the many nobles and knights by whom he was attended, or halting occasionally, as if suddenly interested in some person or thing he noticed among the crowd, and then again resuming his walk with all the marks of being perfectly at home among his people. The show, if show it might be called, went not on silently, for ever and anon the enthusiasm of the vulgar getting the better of their awe for majesty, their voices again rose to heaven in one universal and startling peal. The gallant groups of nobles and knights, who, by their numerous attendance on the King, gave strength to the throne in the eyes of the people, were also hailed with gratifying applause; and even some of the more renowned leaders among them were singled out and lauded by the plaudits of the spectators. Among these the Douglas was most prominently distinguished, and the good John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, had his ample share.

How important do the smallest, the most pitifully trifling circumstances of a King’s actions appear in the eyes of his people! All those of his nobles or knights to whom Robert chanced particularly to extend his Royal attention, were it but for a minute, were noted by the shrewd observation of the Aberdonienses as among the favoured of the Court, and many a plan was hatched by individuals among the spectators for winning their patronage. Not a movement of His Majesty, not a turn, not a look, escaped remark, and the mightiest results were augured from signs the most insignificant.

It happened that Sir Patrick Hepborne was standing with his father not far from the lower extremity of the open space, when the King came up to them. He had particularly noticed both of them before; and the acclamations of the people, who knew the deeds of the elder knight, and already loved the younger for his father’s sake, showed how much their hearts beat in unison with this mark of their Sovereign’s approbation. But now the King had something more to say to Sir Patrick the elder than merely to honour him in the eyes of the people, with an appearance of familiarity. He really wanted his advice with regard to the proposed armament, and to have his private opinion of certain matters ere the council should sit. With monarchs, opportunities of private conference with those they would speak to, are difficult to be commanded without remark; their actions, and the actions of those about them, are watched too closely to permit them to be approached without begetting speculation. A politic King is therefore obliged to catch at and avail himself of moments for business which are perhaps but ill suited for it; and it is often in the most crowded assemblage that they run the smallest risk of suspicion of being engaged in anything serious. Robert, leaning on his two attendants, stood unusually long in conference with the Hepbornes. The fatigue and pain which he suffered in his limbs, by being detained in the standing posture for so great a length of time, was sufficiently manifest from the uneasy lifting and shifting of his feet, though his countenance, full of fire and animation when he spoke himself, and earnestly fixed in attention to what Sir Patrick Hepborne said to him in return, had no expression in it that might have led the spectator to believe that it was at all connected with the frail and vexed limbs that supported it, but which it seemed to have altogether forgotten in the intensity of the interest of the subject under discussion.

While the personages of this group were thus engaged, a considerable movement in that part of the crowd near them, followed by some struggling and a good many high words, suddenly attracted their notice. A momentary expression of anxiety, if not of fear, crossed the wan features of royalty. The Earl of Moray and the two Hepbornes showed by their motions that they were determined to secure the King’s safety at the risk of their own lives; for, with resolute countenances, they laid their hands on their swords, and stepped between him and the point from which the danger, if there was any, must come, and to which their eyes were directed. The Earl of Fife acted independently. He made a wheel, which was difficult to be explained, but halted and fronted by the side of his father again, immediately in rear of the Earl of Moray and his two companions. The crowd, within a few yards of them, still continued to heave to and fro as if in labour, and at last a bulky figure appeared in the ancient Highland costume, and worming his way forward to the line of guards, immediately endeavoured to force a passage through between two of them. The two soldiers joined their spears to each other, and each of them grasped a butt and a point the more effectually to bar his progress. Undismayed by this their resolution, he in an instant put a hand on a shoulder of each of them, and raised himself up with the determined intention of hoisting himself over the obstruction. This action of his, however, was immediately met by a simultaneous and equally decisive movement on the part of the two guards. Just as he had succeeded in throwing one leg over the impediment, they, by a well-concerted effort, lifted him vigorously up, and horsed him upon the shafts of the coupled spears, amid the laughter of the surrounding populace. After some moments of rueful balancing upon his uneasy and ticklish saddle, during which he seemed to hang in dreadful doubt on which side he was to fall, his large body at last overbalanced itself, and he rolled inwards towards the feet of the King, and those who were standing with him. The whole was the work of a moment.

A loud murmur, mingled with the shrieks of “Treason—traitorie!” arose among the anxious people; and all bodies, heads, and eyes were bent towards the scene of action, in dread lest something tragical should follow. The two guards pressed forward to transfix the unceremonious intruder with their spears as he lay on the ground.

“Back,” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger, bestriding his body like a Colossus; “back, I say, this man must not be hurt; he means no evil; I will answer for him with my life.”

“Secure him at least, Sir Patrick,” cried the Earl of Fife.

“My Lord, I will be his security,” replied Sir Patrick. “He is a good and loyal subject, and nothing need be apprehended from him.”

“Is he not mad?” demanded Fife, with some anxiety. “Methinks his eye rolls somewhat wildly. By the mass, I like not his look overmuch.”

“Be assured, my Lord, I well know the man,” replied Sir Patrick, stooping to assist him to rise.

“Out fie!” cried Duncan MacErchar, who now stood before them, smoothing down his quelt, and blowing the dust with great care off a new suit of coarse home-spun tartan, that, with his rough raw-hide sandals, suited but ill with the splendid sword and baldrick that hung on him, and the richly-jewelled brooch that fastened his plaid; “Och, oich! Sir Patrick—ou ay, ou ay—troth, she be’s right glad to see her honour again. Uve, uve, ye loons,” continued he, addressing the two soldiers who had made so powerful a resistance to his entrance, “an she had kend that ye were going to give her sike an ill-faur’d ride as yon, and sike an ugly fling at the end o’t, by St. Giles, but she would have crackit yere filthy crowns one again others like two rotten eggs. But, oich, is she weel?” cried he, again turning eagerly towards Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger. “Troth she did hear of the gatherin’, and so she e’en came down here to see if King Roberts was for the fechts. And oich, she was glad to see her honours again, and the ould mans Sir Patricks yonder; but, uve, uve, she has had a sore tuilzie to get at her.”

“I rejoice to see thee, Master MacErchar,” said Hepborne, hastily waving him away, under the strong impression of the necessity of ridding the King’s presence of him, without a moment’s delay; “but the present time and place ill befitteth for such recognition. Retire then, I do beseech thee, and seek me on some other occasion. Thou mayest ask at the Castle gate for mine esquire Mortimer Sang, whom thou knowest; he will bring thee to me at such time as may be convenient for me.”

“Uve, uve!” cried Duncan MacErchar, the warm sparkle gradually forsaking his eye, as Hepborne spoke, leaving him much abashed with a reception, for the coldness of which he had been little prepared; “oit, oit—ou ay—surely—troth she’ll do that. She’s not going to plague her honour’s honour a moment. She’s yede her ways hame again to her nain glen as fast as her legs can carry her. That she will—surely, surely. But, by the blessed mass, had she but kend that she sould be any hinderance to her honour, she sould not have yalt so far to fartigue her with a sight of her. But she did bid her be sure to claim ken o’ her in ony place, and before ony body.”

“Yea, I did so,” replied Hepborne, vexed to see that he still remained in the King’s presence, and rather provoked at his boldness, not being aware that poor Duncan was perfectly ignorant that one of the four persons before him was His Majesty—“I did indeed bid thee do so; but verily I looked not for thine audacious approach before such eyes.”

“And fat was Duncan MacErchar to mind fat other lord-bodies might be standing by, when her father, the noble Sir Patrick Hepborne, and at whose back she used to fight, was before her eyne?” replied the Highlander, a little out of temper. “Uve, uve!—surely, surely, Sir Patrick Hepborne, that did lead her on to the fechts, is mokell more to her than ony lord o’ them a’—ay, than King Robert himsel, gin she were here, as she’s in yon braw box yonder. Sure she did ken hersel the bonny Earl John Dunbar there, right brave and worthy knight; and feggs she kens that she’s not the noblemans that will scorn a poor man. And as for that pretty gentleman, and that douce discreet auld carle in the purple silken hauselines and the grey hose, they may be as good as him peraunter, but surely, surely, they cannot be better. Na, troth, but they must be mokell waur than him, an they would be for clapping their hands on the mouth o’ a poor man’s gratitudes. But surely, surely,” added he, “he be sorry sorry to have angered her honours.”

“Thou dost altogether mistake in this matter, Duncan,” said Sir Patrick the younger, much distressed to perceive the mutual misunderstanding that existed—“thou dost altogether mistake; I am not offended.”

“Hoot, toot—ay, ay—ou ay—sure,” replied Duncan, with a whimsical look of good-natured sarcasm in his countenance. “Troth, she doth see that she’s not, neither the one nor the others, the same mans here, on the crowns o’ the causey o’ Aberdeen, that she was in the glen o’ the Dee yonder. Hup up!—Troth, she did take a grup of her hands yonder, ay, and she did moreover drink out of the same cup with her, and a proud mans she did make Duncan MacErchar hersels. But, uve, uve!—she’s with her neighbour lords and knights noo, and sike a ragged goat o’ the hills as her nainsel is no to be noticed amang so many braw frisking sheep, with fine woo on their backs. But sith that she did make Duncan proud, troth she’ll show her pride. Fient a bit o’ her will force her nainsel to the kens o’ mortal mans; so here’s her bonny sword and braw baudrick,” continued he, as he tried to take them off, “here’s the sword and the baudrick she bore so lightly, but the which hae grown of the sudden over heavy for her backs. But the poor Sir Page’s bonny brooch—oh ay! she’ll keep it right sickerly, as it was kindly and gratefully gi’en.”

“Nay, Duncan, keep the sword and baldrick, I beseech thee, and seek for mine esquire to-night,” said Hepborne, much annoyed.

“Hoof, uve, no,” replied the Highlander testily. “Sith she careth not to notice poor Duncan MacErchar before her father the ould mans (the Virgin’s blessing be upon her!) and the good Earl of Moray, and that pretty gentlemans, and yon discreet, well-natured, laughing auld carle in the grey hose and the purple hauselines yonder, troth she’ll no seek to trouble her esquire. So here’s her sword and baudrick, and she’s yede her ways hame again.”

“Nay, Duncan, I’ll none of them,” cried Hepborne, putting them back with the back of his hand. “Thou art strangely mistaken here. Trust me, mine is not the heart that can use an old friend, yea, and above all, one that did save my very life, with the coldness that thou dost fancy. But thou art now in the presence of——.” He stopped, and would have added “of the King;” but at that moment His Majesty, who had richly enjoyed the scene as far as it had already gone, gave him such a look as at once showed him it was not his pleasure that it should be so speedily terminated. He went on then differently. “But thou art now in the presence of certain lords, with whom I am deeply engaged in discussing divers matters of most grave and weighty import, and deeply affecting the wellbeing of our country and the glory of our King; and of a truth I well know that thou dost love both over much to suffer thine own feelings to let, hinder, or do them prejudice in the smallest jot. Thou canst not take offence that I did seem to neglect thee for matters of such moment. By the honour of a knight I will take thee, brave preserver of my life, by the hand,” continued he, seizing MacErchar with great cordiality, “I will take thy hand, I say, in the presence of the whole world, yea, an it were in the presence of King Robert himself. And as for drinking from the same cup with thee, what, have I not drank with thee of the sacred cup of thy hospitality, and thinkest thou I would refuse to drink with thee again? By St. Andrew, though rarely given to vinolence, I would rather swill gallons with thee than that thou shouldst deem me deficient in the smallest hair’s-breadth of gratitude to thee for the potent service thou didst render me at the Shelter Stone of Loch Avon. Put on thy baldrick, man, yea, and the sword also, and think not for a moment that I could have been so base as to slight thee.”

“Oich, oich!—oot, oot!—uve, uve!—fool she was—fool she was, surely,” cried Duncan, at once completely subdued, and very much put out of countenance by these unequivocal expressions of Hepborne’s honest and sincere regard for him. “Oit, oit! troth she was foolish, foolish; na, she’ll keep the sword, ay, and the bonny baudrick—ay, ay, ou ay, she’ll keep them noo till she dies. Uve, uve, she’s sore foolish, sore foolish. Oich, oich, will her honour Sir Patrick pardons her? Troth, she’s sore ashamed.”

“Pardon thee,” said Sir Patrick the younger, again shaking MacErchar heartily by the hand—“pardon thee, saidst thou? By St. Baldrid, but I do like thee the better, friend Duncan, for the proper pride and feeling thou didst show. Thy pride is the pride of an honest heart, and had I, in good verity, been the very paltry and ungenerous knight that appearances did at first lead thee to imagine me to be, by the Rood, but I should have right well merited thy sovereign despisal.”

“Oich, oich,” said Duncan, his eyes running over with the stream of kindly affections that now burst from his heart, and quite confused by his powerful emotions, “she’s over goods—she’s over foolish—out fie, surely, surely, she’s over goods. God bless her honour. But troth, she’ll no be tarrying langer noo to disturb her honour’s honour more at this times; and, ou ay, she’ll come surely to good Squire Mortimer’s at night, to see if her honour’s leisure may serve for seeing her.”

“Nay, nay,” said Hepborne, after consulting the King’s countenance by a glance, to gather his pleasure, “thou shalt not go now. We had nearly done with our parlance, and the renewal of it at this time mattereth not a jot; so sith that thou art here, my brave defender, perdie, thou shalt stay until I introduce thee to my father. Father,” continued he, turning to Sir Patrick the elder, “this is a brave soldier who hath fought for his King in many a stark stoure with thee. I do beseech thee to permit him opportunity to speak to thee, and peraunter thou wilt all the more readily do so, when I tell thee that he did save my life from the murderous blows of an assassin, the which had well nigh amortised me, by despatching the foul traitor with a single thrust of his spear.”

“To hear that thou hast saved the life of my beloved son,” replied Sir Patrick, advancing and taking MacErchar by the hand, “were in itself enow to coart me to recognise thee as my benefactor, though I had never seen thee before. But well do I remember thy brave deeds, my worthy fellow-soldier.”

“Oich, oich,” cried Duncan, dropping on his knees, and embracing those of Sir Patrick, but altogether unable to express his feelings, “oich, oich—surely, surely—fat can she say?—foolish, foolish—hoot, toot—ower big rewards for her—ooch—ower good, surely—hoit, oit, Duncan will die hersel for the good Sir Patrick—ay, or for ony flesh o’ hers—och-hone—uve, uve, she cannot speak.”

“Yet did I never hear mortal tongue more eloquent,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne the elder, “sith that its very want of utterance doth show forth the honest and kindly metal of the heart. But by St. Andrew, I do know the heart to be bold as well as kind, seeing I forget not the actions of this heroic mountaineer in the field. Where all are brave, verily ’tis not an easy task to gain an overtopping height of glory; and yet less is it easy in the lower ranks of war, where the individuals stand thicker. Natheless, and maugre all these obstacles to fame, did this man’s deeds in battle so tower above all others, that, humble as he was, I often noted them—yea, and he should have been rewarded too, had I not weaned that he was killed in doing the very feat for the which I would have done him instant and signal honour. What came of thee,” continued Sir Patrick, addressing MacErchar, who had by this time risen to his legs, “what came of thee, my valiant mountaineer, after thou didst so gallantly save those engineer-men and their engine, when basely abandoned by the French auxiliaries, at the siege of Roxburgh, whose retreat thou didst cover against a host of the enemy by thy single targe and sword, until others were shamed into their duty by thy glorious ensample?”

“Oich, oich—he, he, he!—a bonny tuilzie that,” cried Duncan, laughing heartily, “a bonny tuilzie; troth, she was but roughly handled yon time. Of a truth, noble Sir Patrick, she did get sike an ill-favoured clewer from a chield with a mokell mace, that she was laid sprawling on the plain; and syne, poo! out ower her body did the English loons come flying after our men, in sike wicked fashion, that the very breath was trampled out o’ her bodys.”

“But how didst thou ’scape with life after all?” demanded Sir Patrick the elder.

“Troth, after they had all trotted over her, the wind just came back again into her bodys,” replied MacErchar; “and so she got up till her legs, and shook hersel, and scratched her lugs, that were singing as loud as twenty throstle-birds; when back came the villains, running like furies before our men, and whirled her away wi’ them, or ever she kend, into the town. There she lay prisoners for mony a days, till she broke their jails, and made her way to the Highlands. But troth, she took her spulzie wi’ her, for she had hidden that afore, and kend whare to find it again.”

“Of a truth, the deed was one of the most desperate I did ever behold,” said Sir Patrick the elder, recurring to MacErchar’s action to which he had alluded. “He planted himself against a host, and seemed doomed to certain destruction. ’Tis a marvel that he is alive.”

Whilst Sir Patrick Hepborne and the Earl of Moray, who also remembered him, were holding some further conference with MacErchar, Sir Patrick the younger approached the King, and privately begged a boon of his Majesty, the particulars of which he specified to him.

“’Tis granted, Sir Patrick,” whispered the King; “but let it be asked of us aloud, that such part of the populace who may have been listening to what hath passed, may have their minds filled also with the wholesome ensample of their King rewarding virtue.”

In obedience to Robert’s command, Hepborne knelt before him, and addressed him in a loud and distinct voice.

“My liege, I do humbly beg a boon at thy Royal hands.”

“Speak forth thy volunde, Sir Patrick Hepborne,” replied the King; “there are few names in our kingdom the which may call for more ready attention from King Robert than that the which hath ever been heard shouted in the front of his armies, and in the midst of the ranks of his discomfited enemies.”

“The boon I do earnestly crave of your Majesty is, that you will be graciously pleased to bestow upon this gallant soldier, Duncan MacErchar, a commission in thy Royal Guard.”

“He hath it,” replied the King, “he hath it cheerfully at thy request, Sir Patrick; and by the faith of a King, it doth right well pleasure us thus to exercise the happiest part of our Royal power—I do mean that of rewarding loyal bravery such as this man hath so proved himself to possess; yea, and no time so fitting, methinks, for the exercise of this power; for when war is beginning, we should show our people that we do know to reward those who do well and truly serve us.”

“Kneel down, kneel down, I say, before Robert King of Scotland,” said the Earl of Moray, slapping the astonished MacErchar upon the back, as he stood bereft of all sensation on discovering in whose presence he had been standing and prating so much. He obeyed mechanically, whilst a shout arose from that part of the crowd who had heard all that had passed, and was caught up gradually by those farther off, who cheered upon trust long ere the story could spread among them. The King moved away; but still Duncan remained petrified upon his knees, with his hands clasped, his eyes thrown up, and his mouth open, until Sir Patrick the younger showed himself his best friend by awaking him from his trance and leading him away, amidst the ceaseless shouts of the mob.

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LII. The Wolfe of Badenoch at Aberdeen—Father and Son

Duncan MacErchar’s intellect was so much confused by the unexpected discovery that he had been standing and talking before his King, a being whom he had always conceived to be something more than man, and whose image had floated like a spirit before his misty eyes, that it was some time ere Sir Patrick Hepborne could make him comprehend the good fortune that had befallen him. He then inquired eagerly into the nature and advantages of the situation which had been so graciously bestowed upon him by His Majesty; and finding that he was to be an officer in that corps of stipendiaries who were always on Royal duty, with the best possible pay and perquisites, and superb clothing, he asked Hepborne, with some degree of earnestness, what became of the corps during the time of war.

“They never go to war, unless when the King appears in the field in person,” replied Sir Patrick; “and of that I well wot there is but little chance during this reign.”

“Uve, uve,” cried MacErchar, with a look that showed he was but half satisfied; “and is she never to see the English loons again? Sure, sure, of what use will be the pay and the harness, an she must liggen at home while tothers folks be at the wars? And is she never to have the good luck to fight at the back of the good Sir Patrick again! Oich, oich, she would like full weel to see her down, and ane Englishman cleavin’ her skull, and her nainsel wi’ a pike in the body o’ the chield—oich, hoich! it would be braw sport. Sure, she would rather fight for Sir Patrick, yea, and albeit she got nothing but cuffs and scarts for her pains, than sit wi’ her thumbs across serving a king himsel, though she got goupins of gold for her idleness. Troth, she would die for Sir Patrick.”

“And wouldst thou sacrifice the honour, yea, and the weighty emolument of a commission in the King’s Guards, with all the fair promise of advancement the which it doth hold forth to thee, for the mere gratification of a chivalric self-devotion to my father?” demanded Hepborne, desirous to try him.

“Out ay—surely, surely, she would do that; and little wonder o’ her, too, she would think it,” replied MacErchar.

“Wouldst thou, then, that I do resign thy commission to the King, and that I do obtain for thee a lance among my father’s spears?” asked Hepborne.

“Oich, oich!” cried MacErchar, rubbing his hands, and with his eyes sparkling with delight; “surely her honour is ower good—ower good, surely. But if her honour will do that same, oich, oich! Duncan MacErchar will be happy—oop, oop, happy. Troth, she will dance itsel for joy. Oit, she may need look for no more till she dies; God be good unto her soul then! Oich, will her honour do this for her?” demanded Duncan eagerly of Hepborne, and in his more than usual keenness, taking the knight’s hand, and squeezing it powerfully; “will her honour do but this for her?”

“Verily, I shall at least do for thee what I can,” replied Hepborne, heartily shaking his hand; “albeit so honourable a gift from thy King may not be lightly rejected. Yet will I do what I may for thee. Let me find thee with mine esquire to-morrow morning; thou shalt then hear the result of mine application to the King.”

Hepborne was as good as his word. He craved an audience of the King, and, being admitted to his couchee, the good monarch was pleased with the singularly disinterested wish of the Highlander, and immediately signified his gracious pleasure that MacErchar should retain the commission in his Guards, whilst he should be permitted to follow the banner of Sir Patrick Hepborne to the wars. The old knight, who happened to be present, was much touched by Duncan’s devotion to him, and very gladly admitted him among his followers, so that every wish of MacErchar’s heart was more than gratified.

As Sir Patrick Hepborne was quitting the Royal apartments, and as he was passing through a small vestibule feebly illumined by a single lamp, he was almost jostled by a tall figure, who, enveloped in an ample mantle, was striding hastily forward towards the door of the room whence he had issued, the metal of his harness clanging as he moved.

“Ha! Sir Patrick Hepborne,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, for it was he—“by the blessed bones of my grandfather, but thou art right far ben already in the old man’s favour, that I do thus meet thee ishing forth from his chamber at an hour like this; but thou art more welcome, peraunter, than his son the Earl of Buchan—Is the King alone?”

“By this time I do ween that he is, my Lord; for, as I left him, the Earl of Fife, the Earl of Moray, and my father, who had been in conference with him, were preparing to take their leave by another door, and the King was about to retire into his bed-chamber, with the gentlemen in waiting on his person.”

“Ha!” said the Wolfe—“John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, saidst thou?—By my word, but he seemeth to be eternally buzzing about the King, ay, and he doth buzz in his ear too, I warrant me. Hast thou seen or heard aught of the Bishop of Moray being here?”

“The Bishop of Moray had an audience of His Majesty this very day, on his arrival,” replied Hepborne; “and if I mistake not, he did take his leave, and hath already departed on his homeward journey.”

“Ha! ’tis well,” replied the Wolfe hoarsely, and gnashing his teeth as he said so. “Good night, Sir Patrick, I may, or I may not, see thee in Aberdeen at this time, for I know not whether I may, or may not, ride hence again anon.” So saying, he passed hastily towards the door leading to the King’s private chamber, to reach which he had several apartments to pass through.

The aged Robert, tired by the unusual fatigue he had that day undergone, was alike glad to get rid of business and of his privy councillors. Retiring into his bed-chamber, and laying aside the dignity of his high estate, his two attendants assisted him to put on his robe-de-chambre, and he immediately descended to the more humble level of a mere man, to which even the greatest and most heroic potentate is reduced by the operations of his valet. His legs had been already relieved from those rolls of woollen which had been employed to cherish and to support them during the day; and being seated in an easy chair of large dimensions, among ample crimson cushions, his pale countenance showed yet more wan and withered under the dark purple velvet cap he wore, from beneath which his white hair curled over his shoulders. Though his eyes were weak and bleared, their full and undimmed pupils beamed mildly, like the stars of a summer twilight. He had just inserted his limbs knee-deep into a warm foot-bath, which one of his people had placed before his chair, when a loud tap was heard at the door.

“Ha!” said the King, starting, “get thee to the door, Vallance, and see who may knock so late. By the sound, we should opine that either rudeness or haste were there.”

Vallance did as he was ordered, and, on opening the door, the Wolfe of Badenoch stepped into the apartment, and made a hasty and careless obeisance before his father. The old King’s feeble frame shook from head to foot with nervous agitation when he beheld him.

“Son Alexander, is it thou?” demanded Robert with astonishment. “We looked not to have our sacred privacy disturbed at so unseemly an hour, yea, and still less by thee, whose head, we did ween, was shrouded by shame in the darkness of thine own disgrace, or rather buried, as we had vainly hoped, amid the dust and ashes of ane humble repentance. What bringeth thee hither?—what hath”——He stopped, for he remembered that they were not alone. “Vallance, and you, Seyton, retire. Wait without in the vestibule; we would be private. What hath brought thee hither, son Alexander?” repeated he, after the door was shut upon them. “I wot thou art but a rare guest at our Court, and methinks that, infected as thou art at this present time, thou art but little fitted for its air.”

Naturally violent and ferocious as was the Wolfe of Badenoch, he now stood before his father and his King, a presence in which he never found himself without being in a certain degree subdued by the combination of awe, early inspired into his mind by this twofold claim on his respect, and to which he had been too long accustomed, to find it easy to rid himself of it. The grim Earl moved forward some steps towards the chair where His Majesty was seated, and again louting him low, he repeated the obeisance which the venerable form of his parent and Sovereign commanded.

“My liege-father,” said he at length, “I do come to pay mine humble duty to your grace, and——”

“Nay, methinks thou shouldst have bethought thee of humbling thy fierce pride before another throne than ours, ere thou didst adventure to wend thee hither,” interrupted the King with indignation. “It would have well become thee to have bowed in humble contrition before the episcopal chair of our Right Reverend Bishop of Moray, yea, to have licked the very dust before his feet. Then, with his absolution on thy sinful head, mightest thou have approached the holy altar of God, and the shrine of the Virgin, in penitence and prayer; and after these, and all other purifications, we mought have been again well pleased to have seen our reclaimed son mingling with the nobles of our Court.”

“I do see that the Bishop of Moray hath outrode me,” said the Wolfe of Badenoch, his eye kindling, and his cheek darkly reddening, the flame of his internal ire being rendered more furious by the very exertions he was making to keep down all external symptoms of it. “The Bishop hath already effunded his tale in the Royal ear; but yet do I hope that thou wilt hesitate to condemn me, yea, even on the Bishop’s saying, without hearing what I may have to declare in mine own defence.”

“Son Alexander,” said the old King mildly, and at the same time slowly shaking his head as he spoke, “we do fear much that thou canst have but little to tell that may undermine what the soothfast Bishop, Alexander Barr, hath possessed us of.”

“He hath been with thee, then, my liege-father?” said the Wolfe, in a voice of eager inquiry, and at the same time biting his nether lip.

“Yea, the godly Bishop of Moray hath been with us this very day,” replied the King. “He hath harrowed up our soul with the doleful tale of the brenning of our good burgh of Forres—of the great devastation of men’s dwellings, goods, and mœubles, the which thy fury hath created—the sacrilege of the which thou hast been guilty in reducing God’s house and altar to ashes, as also the house of his minister—the wicked and as yet unestimated sacrifice of the lives of our loving subjects, the which thou hast occasioned.”

“As God is my judge, my liege,” replied the Earl impatiently, “as God is my judge, there was not a life lost—credit me, not one life. The hour of the night was early when the deed was done; yea, it was done openly enough, so that there was little chance of mortal tarrying to be food for the devouring flames. Trust me, my liege-father, I did secretly send to certify myself, as I can now truly do thee, on the honour of a knight, that not a life was lost.”

“Nay, in truth, it must be confessed that the Bishop spake only from hearsay as to this head of charge against thee,” replied the King, “and, of a truth, thou hast lightened our mind of a right grievous part of its burden by thy solemn denial of this cruel part of the accusation against thee. Verily, it was to my soul like the hair-shirt to the back that hath been seamed by the lash of penance, to think that flesh of ours could have done such wanton murder on innocent and inoffensive burghers. But yet, what shall we say to thy brenning of God’s holy house—of the gratification of thy blind and brutal thirst of vengeance even by the destruction of his altars, and of the images of his saints?”

“Nay, mine intent was not against the Church,” replied the Wolfe, “but rage reft me of reason, and I deny not that it was with mine own hand that I did fire it; yet was it soon extinguished, and the choir only hath suffered. But,” continued he, as he turned the subject with increasing irritation, “but had not an excommunication gone forth so rashly against me, yea, and poured out alswa by him who hath ever been mine enemy, the flood of my vengeance had not flowed; and if it had swept all before it, by the Rood, but Bishop Barr himself must bear the coulpe of what evil it may have wrought.”

“Speak not so horribly, son Alexander,” said the King, with emotion. “Thine impious words do shock mine ear. Lay not blame to Bishop Barr for at last hurling upon thee the tardy vengeance of the Episcopal chair, which thine accumulated insults did loudly call for, long ere his long-suffering temper did permit him to employ them. Didst thou not outrageously and sacrilegiously ravish and usurp the lands of the Church in Badenoch? and didst thou not refuse to restore them to the righteous possession of our holy Mother when called on so to do?”

“Yea,” replied the Wolfe of Badenoch, waxing more angry, and less scrupulous in his manner of speaking, as well as in his choice of terms, as his father thus began to approach nearer to the source of all his heart-burnings with the Bishop—“yea, I did indeed seize these lands, but, by the mass, it was not against the Church that I did war in so doing, but against mine insidious enemy, Alexander Barr, who did feed himself fat upon their revenues. And well I wot hath he worked for my vengeance. Hath he not poisoned thine ear against me?—hath he not been ever my torment?—hath he not been eternally meddling with my domestic, with my most private affairs?—hath he not sported with my most tender feelings?—hath he not done all that in him lay to rend the ties of my dearest affections?”

“Ah, there, there again hast thou touched a chord the which doth ever vibrate to our shame,” replied the King, deeply distressed by the remembrance of the subject which the Wolfe had awakened. “That disgraceful connection with thy leman Mariota Athyn—’tis that which hath poisoned the source of all thine actings, and that hath thereby transmewed the sweet waters of our life into bitterness and gall. Did we not write to thee with our own hand, urging thee to repentance, and beseeching thee to dismiss thy sinful and impure mate, and cleave to thy lawful wife, Euphame, Countess of Ross? and——”

“Nay, my liege-father, I wot this is too old a wound to be ripped up now,” interrupted the Wolfe of Badenoch, beginning to wax more and more ireful; “ha! by the Rood, but ’tis sore to bear—cruelly sore. I did come hither to complain of the evil usage, of the disgrace, of the insults which this upstart priest hath thrown on me, hoping for a father’s lenient interpretation of mine actings; yea, and that some salve might have been put to the rankling sores this carrion hath wrought on me; but the croaking raven hath been here before me—he hath already sung his hoarse and evil-omened song in thine ear, and all that I may now say cannot purge it of the poison with which it has been filled. By my trusty burly-brand, but thou hast forgotten the mettle of thy son Alexander.”

“Oh dole, dole, dole!” cried the old King, clasping his hands in bitter affliction at the obstinacy shown by his son; “what can be done with a heart which beareth itself so proudly, which refuseth to listen to the voice of reason, which despiseth a father’s counsels, and which resolveth to abide in its wickedness.”

“Wickedness!” replied the Wolfe fiercely, and enchafing more and more as he went on; “by the holy Rood, but I do think that the word is ill applied. Meseems that to throw her off who hath borne me five lusty chields, and who hath stuck to me through sun and wete, would savour more of wickedness than to continue her under the shadow of my protection. Ha! by my beard, but the voice of reason—ha, ha, ha!—is like to be as much with me in this case as against me. Thank God, I have reason—yea, and excellent reason too—full, vigorous, and perfect reason—whilst thou hast thine, old man, far upon the wane. Whatsoever mountaunce of reason thou mayest have once had, by Heaven, thou dost now begin to dote. Yet what was thy reason in like matters when it was at the best? Didst thou not thyself live a like light life in thy youthhood, and dost thou school me for having followed thine example?”

“Oh, dole, dole!—oh, woe for my sins!” cried the old man, agonized by his son’s intemperate accusation of him; “’tis bitter, I wot, to bear the reproach of a wicked and undutiful son. O, alas for my sins! yet sure, if I have had any, as the blessed Virgin knoweth, I do humbly confess them, and may her holy influence cleanse me from them; if I have had sins, surely I have dreed a right sore penance for them in having thee as an everlasting scourge to my spirit. God, doubtless, gave thee to me for the gracious purpose that thou mightest be as bitter ligne-aloes to purge away the disease of my soul; and may He sanctify the purposes of mine affliction! But what art thou, sinful wretch that thou art, who wouldst thus cast blame on thy father, yea, and ignominy on thyself? If I sinned in that matter, did I not awaken from my sin and repent me? did I not do all that mortal could do to salve the misery I had begotten? did I not——. But thou art a cruel and barbarous wretch, a disgrace and infamy to thy father—a diseased, polluted, and festering limb, the which should be cut off and buried out of sight.”

“Old dotard,” cried the Wolfe, his fury now getting completely the better of him, “talk not thus—I—I—I—ha!—provoke me not—thou hadst better——”

“Get thee to thy home,” replied the King; “turn thy vile strumpet forth, and, above all, humble thyself in penitence before the good Bishop Barr, who, godly man, hath been unwearied in his pious endeavours to reclaim thee from thy sinful and polluted life. Lick the dust from the very shoes of the saintly Bishop of Moray; in his Christian mercy he may forgive thee, and thou mayest then hope for restoration to our Royal favour; but if thou dost not this, by the word of a King, I will have thee thrown into prison, and there thou shalt liggen until thou shalt have made reparation to God and man for all thine impurities and all thine outrages and sacrileges.”

“Ha!” cried the enraged Earl of Buchan, half drawing his dagger, and then returning it violently into its sheath, and pressing it hard down, as if to make it immovable there were the only security against his using it; whilst, at the same time, he began to pace the apartment in a furious manner; “ha! what! confine the eagle of the mountain to a sparrow’s cage? chain down the Wolfe of Badenoch to some walthsome den? threaten thy son so, and all for an accursed, prating, papelarde priest? Old man,” said he, suddenly halting opposite to his father, and putting a daring hand rudely on each shoulder of His Majesty, while his eyes glared on him as if passion had altogether mastered his reason—“old dotard carle that thou art, art thou not now within my grasp? art not thine attendants beyond call? is not the puny spark of life that feebly brens in that wintry frame now within the will of these hands? What doth hinder that I should put thee beyond the power of executing thy weak threats?—what doth hinder me to——”

He stopped ere he had uttered this impious parricidal thought more plainly. The old man blenched or quailed not; nay, even the agitation which he had before exhibited—an agitation which had been the result of anger and vexation, but not of fear—was calmed by the idea of approaching death; and, pitying his son more than himself, he sat immovable like some waxen figure, his mild eyes calmly and steadily fixed upon the red and starting orbs of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The group might have been copied for the subject of the martyrdom of a saint.

“’Tis the hand of God that hindereth thee, son Alexander,” said the aged Monarch, slowly and distinctly.

The ferocious Wolfe could not withstand the saint-like look of his venerable father. The devil that had taken possession of Lord Badenoch’s heart was expelled by the beam of Heaven that shot from the eyes of the good King Robert. Those of his son fell abashed before them, and the succeeding moment saw the hard, stern, and savage Earl on his bended knees, yea, and weeping before the parent of whom his ungovernable rage might have made him the murderer. There was a silence of a minute.

“Forgive me, forgive me, father. I knew not what I did; I was reft of my reason,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, groaning with deep agony and shame.

“Son Alexander,” said the King firmly, yet as if struggling to keep down these emotions of tenderness for his son which his sudden and unexpected contrition had excited; “Son Alexander, albeit the consideration that the outrage was done by the hand of a son against a father doth rather aggravate the coulpe of the subject against the King, yet as it doth regard our own Royal person alone, we may be permitted to allow the indulgent affection of the parent to assuage the otherwise rigorous justice of the Monarch. So far as this may go, then, do we forgive thee.”

The Wolfe remained on the ground, deeply affected, with his head buried within his mantle.

“But as for what the duty of a Sovereign doth demand of us,” continued Robert, “in punishing these malfaitours who do flagrantly sin against the laws of our realm, and those, above all, who do sacrilegious outrage against our holy religion and Church, be assured that our hand will be as strong and swift in its vengeance on thee as on any other; nor shall these thy tears make more impression on us than thine ungovernable fury did now appal us. Doubt not but thou shalt feel the full weight of our Royal displeasure, yea, and thou shalt dree such punishment as befits the crimes thou hast committed against God and man, unless thou dost straightway seek the footstool of the injured Bishop of Moray. Nay, start not away, but hear us; for thou shalt suffer for thy crime, unless thou dost straightway seek the injured Bishop’s footstool, and, bowing thy head in the dust before it, submit thee to what penance he in his great mercy and wisdom may hold to be sufficient expiation for thy wickedness.”

The Wolfe of Badenoch started up and again began to pace the room in a frenzy; and as Robert went on he became more and more agitated by passion, gnashing his teeth from time to time, and setting them against each other, as if afraid to permit himself the use of speech, and with his arms rolled up tight into his mantle, as if he dreaded to trust them at liberty.

“Nay, never frown and fret, son Alexander,” continued the King. “By St. Andrew, ’tis well for thee that thou didst come to us thus in secret, for hadst thou but had the daring to appear before us when surrounded by the Lords of our Court, verily our respect for justice must of needscost have coarted us to order thee to be forthwith seized and subjected to strict durance. As it is, thou mayest yede thee hence for this time, that thou mayest yet have some space left thee to make thy peace with the holy Bishop Barr; for without his pardon, trust me, thou canst never have ours. And we do earnestly counsel thee to hasten to avail thyself of this merciful delay of our Sovereign vengeance, for an thou dost not speedily receive full absolution from the godly prelate whom thou hast so grievously offended, by the word of a King I swear that thou shalt liggen thee in prison till thou diest.”

The Wolfe of Badenoch heard no more. He relieved his hands in a hurried manner from the thraldom in which he had imprisoned them—halted in his walk, and glared fiercely at the King—groped again at the handle of his dagger—threw up his arms in the air with frenzied action—dashed his clenched fists against his head—and then rushed from the Royal presence with a fury which was rendered sufficiently evident by the clanging of the various doors through which he retreated.

The King folded his hands, groaned with deep agony, looked up to Heaven, uttered a short petition to the Virgin to have mercy on the disordered and polluted soul of his unhappy son, and to beseech her to shed a holy and healing influence over it that might beget a sincere repentance; and then giving way to all the feelings of a father, he burst into tears, which he in vain attempted to hide from the attendants, who soon afterwards appeared.

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Chapter LIII

The English Lady’s Departure from Tarnawa Castle—The Crafty Son of the Wolfe of Badenoch.

It was more than a week after the departure of the Earl of Moray and his friends from Tarnawa that Rory Spears was ordered to attend the Countess of Moray to receive her instructions for the duty his master had left him at home to fulfil. He was called into the room, where the lady in whose service he was to be employed was sitting veiled; but the Countess had not more than time to open the matter to him when she was interrupted by a message from her nephew, Sir Andrew Stewart, who, with very opposite feelings to those of Rory, had found some plausible excuse for not going with the Knights to Aberdeen, and now craved a short audience of the Countess. The English lady arose and retired into the recess of a window, where Katherine Spears was plying her needle, and Sir Andrew was admitted.

“My gracious aunt,” said he, “I crave thy pardon for pressing my unbidden services; but, I beseech thee, let me not be deprived of the highest privilege that belongs to knighthood; I mean that of being the prop and stay of beauty in distress. Thou knowest that I have some half dozen spears here. Be it my pleasing task, I entreat thee, to protect the lady through those difficulties and dangers that may beset her path. Trust me, she shall pass unscathed while I am with her.”

“I am utterly astonished, nevoy,” replied the Countess; “how, I pray thee, art thou possessed of the secret that any such emprise may be in hand?”

“Nay, it mattereth but little, I trow, how I know that, my noble aunt,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart with a careless smile; “but, what may be to thee some deal more strange, peraunter, I do know the lady too.—Madam,” said he, gliding gently past his aunt, and going up to the window, “I have only to tell thee that we have met at Lochyndorbe, to convince thee that I do not err; yet be not alarmed at what I have said; trust me, thou shalt find that I have over much delicacy and knightly courtesy about me rudely to withdraw the veil in which thou hast been pleased to shroud thyself. I come but to offer thee mine escort, and I do fondly hope thou wilt not refuse me the gratification of shielding and defending thee with this arm, amid the many perils that may environ thee in thy travel between Tarnawa and Norham.”

“’Tis gallantly spoken of thee, nevoy,” replied the Countess; “and albeit I do hope that danger there may be none in this our own country of Scotland, seeing, I have reason to believe, that the tide of war hath already been turned from us; yet will it give me joy to be certiorated of the safety of this sweet lady, who will doubtless most cheerfully accept thy proffered courtesy.”

The lady readily made her acknowledgements to Sir Andrew, and gladly availed herself of his protection. Katherine Spears, who was to accompany her as a female companion on the journey, was rejoiced, like all young persons, at the prospect of so speedily seeing a little of the world, especially as her father was to be with her, and she was going in the service of a lady to whom she was already so much attached. But old Rory, who had been standing aloof during the conversation, showed by his countenance that he was ill satisfied with the arrangement which had been made, as well as with every one about him. He turned on his heel to leave the place, brandishing his gaud-clip, and followed by a brace of large wolf-dogs in couples, and began slowly descending the stairs, letting down first one-half of his ponderous person and then the other in succession, each step he took bringing out a humph, as a break to the continuity of his audible grumble.

“Ay, by St. Lowry, wha wad hae thought it, humph—wha wad hae thought that Rory Spears, humph—the Yearl’s henchman, as a body mought say, umph—that Rory Spears, that mought be ca’d as necessar till his back as the hound to his heel, or the falcon to his wrist, humph—that Rory Spears, I say, suld hae been left behind at sike a time as this, umph—like a crazy old destrier, or ane crackit targe, humph—and to be turned ower to be the plaything to a silly bit lassie, umph—and an Englisher quean, too, mair’s the wonder, hugh!—Ay, and to make matters better, she hirsels me off, too, like ane auld pair o’ boots, to put faith in that kestrel, Sir Andrew Stewart, humph—a kite frae an ill nest, umph—ay, and ane that she’ll aiblins find is no that ower mukel to trust till, maugre a’ his havers, umph!—Weel, I maun e’en do the Yearl’s wull, and his leddy’s wull; but, troth, I sall gie mysel no unnecessar trouble wi’ the lass, umph—aboon a’, sith she hath chosen her ain champion, hugh!—And that foolish glaikit thing Kate, too, umph,—she’s smiling and smirking, when it wad better set her to be greetin’, hugh!—Och sirs, sirs, it’s a queer warld this. Whiew, whiew, Brand—whiew, whiew, Oscar,” cried he, whistling to his hounds, as he gained the area of the Castle-yard; “come awa, my bairns, ye hae mair sense than half o’ human fouk.”

Next morning the beautiful milk-white palfrey, that had been the gift of Sir Patrick Hepborne to his page Maurice de Grey, stood ready caparisoned in the court-yard, along with those of the party who were to form the escort. The lady recognised him as she descended from the terrace, leaning on the arm of Sir Andrew Stewart, and her eyes ran over at sight of the noble animal. She stopped to caress him silently ere she mounted him, her heart being too full to permit her to trust her voice in speaking to him. As Sir Andrew Stewart aided her to rise into her saddle, the generous steed neighed a joyous acknowledgment of the precious burden he was entrusted with. The lady waved her hand to the Countess, who streamed her scarf from a window, in visible token of the prayers she was putting up for her safety; and the cavalcade rode slowly forth, the beauteous eyes of the Englishwoman so dimmed with tears that she saw not aught that was around her. She felt as if, in leaving Tarnawa, the last tie that had bound her heart to the object of its tenderest affections were dissolved, and it seemed to wither within her. She drew her mantle over her head and gave way to her feelings, so that even Sir Andrew Stewart saw that, to break in upon her by conversation, would have been an intrusion too displeasing to be risked by him. He therefore continued to ride by her side in silence; and the example of the knight and lady spreading its influence over the party, not a word was heard among the riders.

The lady at last felt that common courtesy required her to exert herself to control her feelings, and with some difficulty she began to enter into conversation with Sir Andrew Stewart, who rode at her side. She was now able to reconnoitre her attendants, which she had not had strength or spirits to do before. Before her rode the minstrel, Adam of Gordon, who no sooner saw that the lady had given his tongue license by breaking the silence she had maintained, than he began to employ the innocent artillery of an old man’s gallantry on the dimpling charms of the lovely Katherine Spears, who, by her merry replies, and her peals of laughter, showed that she enjoyed the well-turned compliments and high-flown speeches of the courteous and fair-spoken bard. Next came the spearmen, and a couple of lacqueys, and one or two other attendants; and last of all, wrapped up in a new fishing-garb of more than ordinarily capacious dimensions, with an otter-skin cap on his head, and his gaud-clip in his hand, rode Rory Spears, sulky and silent, on a strong, active little horse, whose ragged coat, here hanging down in shreds, and there pulled off bare to the skin, showed that he had been just rescued from the briers, brambles, and black thorns of the forest, which had been waging war against his sides for many a day. Rory was followed by a single wolf-hound, and his whole accoutrements were so far from being fitted for the important duty of convoy, to which he had been appointed, that it almost seemed as if he had purposely resolved it should be so from pure spite against his employment.

“Be’st thou for the hunts, Master Spears?” cried the wife of a publican, one of the Earl’s dependants, whom curiosity hurried to her door to gaze at the travellers as they passed.

“Na, na, Meggy Muirhead,” cried Rory, checking his horse for an instant. “The hunts, quotha! pretty hunts, truly. But hast thou e’er a stoup o’ yill at hand? for thou must know I am bent on a lang and tedisome journey—yea, and I do jalouse a right thirsty and throat-guisening travel, gif I may guess from the dry husk that my craig hath already been afflicted withal?”

“Thou shanny want a drap o’ yill, Master Spears,” cried Maggy Muirhead, who ran in and brought out a large wooden stoup, that, as she swung it on her head, foamed over the brim with generous nut-brown, by which she hoped to extract some information from Rory; “and where mayest thou be ganging, I pray thee? to join the Yearl maybe at the wars, I’se warrant?”

“Wars,” cried Rory, “wars! Gie me the stoup, woman.” And dropping his reins, and sticking the shaft of his gaud-clip into his enormous boot, he stretched out both hands towards the double-handed stoup, and relieving mine hostess’ head of the weight, he applied its laughing brim to his lips, and slowly drained it so effectually that she had no occasion to replace it there. “Haugh; wars, saidst thou, Mistress Muirhead?” cried Rory again, as he held out the empty vessel, one handle of which the hostess now easily received upon a couple of her fingers, and kept swinging about as he was speaking—“wars! look at me, am I girded for the wars, thinkest thou? Na, I’ve e’en taen on to be tirewoman to yon black-e’ed Englisher leddy, and I’m to get a kirtle, and a coif, and a trotcosy, ere long. What thinkest thou of that, Mistress Muirhead?”

“Preserve me, the Virgin have a care o’ us a’!” cried Mistress Muirhead in wonder, as Rory rode away; “wha ever heard tell o’ sike a thing? The man’s gaun clean wud, I rauckon.”

Sir Andrew Stewart was unremitting in his attention to the lady, and all his speeches and actions were so cunningly tempered with delicacy, that she neither had the power nor the will to conceal her satisfaction at his treatment of her. He inwardly congratulated himself on the advance he supposed he was making in her good opinion, and with some consummate art began to pave the way for a declaration of the violent passion he had secretly cherished for her, and gradually drawing nearer and nearer to her bridle rein as they rode, whispered the warm language of love in her ear in sentences that grew more and more tender at every step they advanced. Being occupied with her own thoughts, she had the appearance without the reality of listening to all he said, and the enamoured knight, interpreting her silence into a tacit approval, seized the first favourable opportunity of addressing her in plainer language.

“Most angelic lady,” said he to her, as he sat beside her alone under an oak, where they had halted for rest and refreshment, “why shouldst thou undertake this tedious journey? Why shouldst thou leave Scotland, where thou mightst be made happy? To permit beauty so divine, and excellence so rare, to quit the Caledonian soil, would be a foul disgrace to the gallantry of its chivalry. Deign, I beseech thee, to listen to my ardent vows; let me be thy faithful knight. The love thou hast kindled in this bosom is unquenchable. Oh, let me——”

“Talk not thus besottedly, Sir Knight,” replied the lady, interrupting him hastily and rather sternly; “I may not honestly listen to any such. Gallantry may peraunter come with good grace enow from thy lips, but permit not thyself license with me, whose heart doth already belong to another, and who can allow these words of thine no harbour. I shall ever be grateful to thee for this thy courteous convoy, but I can never return thy love. Stir not then the idle theme again.”

“Nay, loveliest of thy sex,” said the silky Sir Andrew Stewart with strange ardour, “to keep thy heart for one who hath so vilely entreated thee, and that after thou didst sacrifice all to yield thee to his service, were neither just to thyself nor to me. Let me occupy that place in thy heart, so unworthily filled by one whose very bearing towards thee (rather that of a master than of a lover) did sufficiently betray how much those matchless charms had ceased to please his palled appetite. Let me then——”

“Sir Andrew Stewart,” replied the lady with astonishment, mingled with a dignified expression of resentment, “I know not what falsehood may have conspired to conjure up so much unseemly boldness in thee; for I cannot believe that thou, a knight of good report, couldst thus have ventured to insult me, unless on some false credence. What though my love hath been misplaced? My heart can never change. Urge not, then, again a theme that must ever rouse my indignation.”

A cloud passed across the smooth brow of Sir Andrew Stewart as he received this resolute rejection of his passion, but it speedily disappeared.

“Forgive me, beauteous lady,” said he, after a pause, “mine unhappy passion hath indeed mastered my better reason. Kill me not with thy frowns, but lay my fault to the account of these thy stirring charms. Sith that I dare not hope for more advancement, I shall still be the humblest of thy slaves, for to cease to love thee were impossible.”

After this decided repulse, Sir Andrew Stewart confined his attentions to those of mere courtesy. Towards evening, they began to descend into a narrow glen, watered by a clear river. The hills arose on both sides lumpish and vast, and the dense fir forest that covered them rendered the scene as gloomy as imagination could fancy. As they picked their way down the steep paths of the forest, they caught occasional glimpses of the lone tower of a little stronghold that stood on a small green mound, washed by the river on one side, and divided from the abrupt base of the mountain by a natural ravine, that bore the appearance of having been rendered more defensible by art.

“Behold the termination of our journey of this day,” said Sir Andrew Stewart to his lady. “Thine accommodation, beauteous damsel, will be but poor; yet, even such as thou mayest find it, it may be welcome after the fatigue thou hast endured.”

They reached the bottom, and, crossing the ravine by a frail wooden bridge, climbed a short ascent that led them to the entrance of the little fortalice, that wore the appearance of having been lately demolished in some feudal broil; for the massive iron gate of the court-yard lay upon its side, half buried among the weeds. Many of the outhouses, too, were roofless, and bore recent marks of having been partly consumed by fire.

“Alister MacCraw,” said Sir Andrew Stewart to an old man who came crawling forth from the low entrance at the sound of the bugle, “so thine old dwelling yet standeth safe, I see. I trust it may afford us some better harbour than those roofless barns and byres do show?”

“In troth, not mokell better, Sir Andrew Stewart,” replied the old man; “but stone vauts wunna brenn like thaken roof. Troth, ’tis mokell wonders that the Yearl o’ Buchan wouldna gar mend them up, and put some stout loons to guard them, sith he doth use to lodge here when he doth travel between Buchan and Badenoch; an yon bit gavels were mended, an yon bit breach in the wa’, yonder, and——”

“Nay, Alister, spare thy counsel for my father’s ear,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart impatiently, “and forthwith proceed to house us as best thou mayest. Let us see how this lady may be bestowed.”

“Thou knowest there be no great choice of chambers,” replied the old man, with a certain leering chuckle, which the lady could not understand.

MacCraw had reason for what he said, for the simple plan of the building was of three storeys. That on the ground floor contained one large vaulted kitchen, occupied by the old man, with two small dark chambers. A stair, ascending from a central passage, running directly from the outer door, led to a room occupying the whole of the second floor of the building, from a farther angle of which a small stair wound up, within a hanging turret, to a single apartment in the uppermost storey.

The lady was ushered by Sir Andrew Stewart into the kitchen, where MacCraw busied himself in renovating the embers on the hearth, and soon afterwards in preparing some refreshment. The knight spoke little and abstractedly, and rising at last, he mumbled something about orders he had to give, and abruptly left the place.

“Erick MacCormick,” said he to his esquire, “I would speak with thee apart.”

The esquire followed his master without the walls. “Erick,” said Sir Andrew again, when he judged that they were beyond all risk of being overheard, “I did try to move the lady to give ear to my love, but she hath sternly rejected me, yea, and that with signs of no small displeasure. I burn with shame for the blindness with which my passion did hoodwink mine eyes.”

“Hath she indeed refused thee, Sir Knight?” demanded the esquire. “By the mass, but with such as she is I would use smaller ceremony, as a preface to mine own gratification.”

“Ay, if we could without detection, Erick,” replied Sir Andrew.

“This is a fitting place, meseems,” said the esquire.

“’Tis as thou sayest, a fitting place, good Erick,” replied Sir Andrew; “but albeit I may put sicker trust in thee, yea, and peraunter in most of mine own men, yet were it vain to hope that I might effect my purpose without being detected by one of her followers.”

“Fear not, Sir Knight,” said the esquire; “I trow we are strong enough to eat them both up.”

“Nay, nay—that is not what I mean,” replied Sir Andrew; “but thou knowest, Erick, that I do put value on character and reputation. I have hitherto passed as a miracle of virtue, as a rare exception in the lawless family to the which I belong; nay, even in the ear of my grandfather the King hath my praise been sounded, and my name standeth in godly odour with the very Bishop of Moray himself. I must not sillily wreck the vessel of my fortunes, while ’tis blown on by gales so favouring.”

“In sooth, it were vain to hope to have thine actions pass withouten the remark of her followers,” replied the esquire.

“Her followers!” said Sir Andrew. “I would not adventure aught with her, unless I were secure that none but the most faithful of mine own instruments should have cause even to guess at my share in the matter. Were but that sly fox, Rory Spears, out of the way, methinks we might contrive to throw dust in the eyes of the maid and the minstrel.”

“If Spears be all the hindrance thou seest,” replied MacCormick, “I beseech thee be not afraid of him. By St. Antony, but he cares not the value of a cross-bow bolt for her of whom he hath charge. I have had much talk with him by the way, and I will pledge my life that thou shalt win him to thy purpose with as much ease as thou mayest lure thy best reclaimed falcon. The old allounde is sore offended at being left behind by his master the Earl, to attend upon a damsel; yea, and the damosel herself, too, seemeth to have done little to have overcome the disgust he hath taken at his employment. Trust me, Sir Knight, never hungry trout was more ready to swallow baited hook than old Rory Spears will be to pouch a good bribe, that may be the means of ridding him of so troublesome and vexatious a duty.”

“Art thou sicker in thy man?” demanded Sir Andrew Stewart, stopping short, after taking a turn or two in silent thought, with his arms folded across his breast.

“Nay, he did so effunde his ill humour to me by the way, that I will venture my life for him,” replied the squire.

“Seek him out straightway, and bring him hither,” said the knight.

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LIV. Sir Andrew’s Deep-laid Plot—An Unexpected Arrival

MacCormick proceeded in quest of Spears, and Sir Andrew Stewart continued to pace backwards and forwards upon the green sward outside the rampart wall, pondering how he might best open the negotiation. It was already dark; and, villain as he was, he felt thankful that it was so, for he had ever been accustomed to set so much value on outward reputation, that he was ashamed to lift the veil, even to him whom he was about to make an accomplice in his crimes. Footsteps were at last heard approaching softly, and Rory and MacCormick saluted him.

“Master Spears,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, “this is a troublesome task the Earl hath imposed on thee.”

“Task!” replied Rory, in a gruff ill-humoured tone; “I carena mokell how dour his tasks be, so he be present himsel for to see me fulfil them; but to cast his trusty servant frae his back—me, wha used to be tied, as I mought say, till his horse’s curpin, and to tak a parcel o’ young loons to the wars wi’ him, is enew to break ane auld crazy heart like mine.”

“’Tis indeed a bitter reproach on thee, Rory,” said Sir Andrew, “and but little amended by the service thou art put upon. But what doth hinder thee to return? Surely I may save thee all this long and painful journey. My protection, methinks, may suffice for the lady.”

“Na, na,” replied Rory impatiently, being secretly nettled at the cheap rate at which his services were apparently held by the man he despised; “na, na—thy protection, Sir Andrew Stewart, that is to say, the protection o’ thy stout lances yonder, may be a’ weel enew; but I maun not at no rate be kend to slight the wull o’ my lord the Yearl; and to leave the lass, and gang back afore the journey be weel begood—hoot, that wadna do at a’.”

“Thou sayest true, Rory,” replied Sir Andrew; “but thou knowest I have ever been a friend to thee, and I would fain do thee a good turn on this occasion. Methinks I have hit on a scheme for saving thee thy pains and travel, preserving thy good character for fidelity to the Earl, and, finally, putting a purse of gold into thy pouch.”

“Ay!” replied Rory, in a tone of surprise. “By St. Lowry, an’ thou canst make a’ that good, thou wilt work marvels, Sir Andrew.”

“Nay, ’twill need no conjurer,” said Sir Andrew Stewart. “Keep thou but out of the way this night, and see that thou dost keep the old minstrel with thee. Thou canst not sleep in the lady’s chamber, thou knowest, therefore it is but natural to leave the entire charge of her to me, who am to spend the night in MacCraw’s kitchen. And then—d’ye mark me—if the lady should chance to disappear during the night, no one knowing how, the blame must of needscost fall on me alone. Thou mayest then yede thee back with thy daughter to the Countess to-morrow to tell the tale; nay, peraunter, I may go with thee to make all matters smooth, by the confession of my careless watch; and so thou shalt hie thee after the Earl, and may yet join his standard in the field. Dost thou comprehend me now, friend Rory?”

Rory stood silently pondering over the tempting proposal. Sir Andrew Stewart drew forth the purse of gold, and the broad pieces chinked against each other as he dangled it in his hand. Their music was most seducing.

“Give me the purse,” said Rory at length.

“’Tis thine,” cried the overjoyed Sir Andrew Stewart; “I know thee to be faithful, and I fear me not but that thou wilt earn it.”

“I will do my best to deserve it,” replied Rory.

“Quick, then, to thy duty,” said Sir Andrew Stewart. “Be it thine to see that no one may approach the tower who might disturb our plans.”

“The safety of my daughter Kate must be secured to me,” said Rory.

“I am answerable for it,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart. “If I can so arrange it, she shall be committed to thine own care; but if I should be defeated in this matter, she shall sleep in the highest chamber, where she may be out of the way. But, happen what will, her safety shall be mine especial care.”

The conference being thus ended, Sir Andrew Stewart returned to partake of the meal which MacCraw had by this time prepared. A manifest change had taken place in his manner. His conversation was gay and sprightly, and he was so entertaining that the lady sat listening to him for some time after supper. At length the fatigue she had undergone began to overcome her, and she signified her wish to retire to rest. Katherine Spears, who had been out and in more than once during the meal, now lifted a lamp to light her mistress upstairs to the principal apartment in the tower, which was destined to receive her.

“Katherine,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, carelessly, after having paid his parting evening compliments, “when thou hast done with thine attendance on thy lady, MacCraw will show thee the way to where thy father is lodged, where a bed hath been prepared for thee also.”

“Nay, Sir Knight,” replied Katherine, with uncommon energy, “I will at no rate quit the tower, though I should sit up all night by this fire.”

“That as thou mayest list, my maiden,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, with the same tone he had already spoken in; “I did but wish to give thee the best harbour the place might yield. But now I think on’t, the high chamber may do well enow for thee after all. Here—drink thy lady’s health in the remnant of her wine-cup, ere thou goest.”

Katherine did so, and then tripped up stairs before her mistress. She no sooner found herself fairly within the door of the lady’s apartment, than she shut it behind her, and began to look eagerly for the bolt, and she exhibited no small dismay when she saw that it had been recently removed. Trembling with agitation, she then conducted the lady with a hurried step towards a pallet-bed, which had been prepared for her in one corner of the place, and seating her on the blankets—

“Oh, my lady, my lady,” whispered she, half breathless with alarm, “I fear that some foul treachery may be designed against thee. Whilst thou didst sit at thy meal I didst step me up hither to see thy couch prepared, and as I returned through the lower passage, I overheard certain voices in the little vault to the right—‘When is it to be done?’ said one. ‘It must not be until late in the night,’ replied another, ‘for we must be sure that she sleeps.’ ‘Ay, and her Abigail alswa,’ said the first man. ‘Nay, I trust that she will be without the tower, for she would spoil all,’ said the other. Just then as I was listening, the outer door of the tower was slowly opened, and my father’s head slowly appeared. He drew back when he saw me. I ran out to him. ‘Help, help, father,’ said I to him in a whisper, ‘or the lady will surely be the victim of treachery.’”

“And thy father,” said the lady, stretching eagerly towards her damsel—“what did thy father say?”

“He laughed at me, lady,” replied Katherine, hesitating—“he laughed at my fears.”

“But what were his words?—give me his very words, I entreat thee,” anxiously demanded the lady.

“His words, lady,” replied Katherine—“his words were but those of a bold man, who scorneth the fears of a weak woman. Trust me, he must be faithful, lady.”

“Ay, Katherine, but his words—what were his very words?” asked the lady, with the same eagerness of manner.

“Nay, indeed, they were naught, lady,” replied Katherine, “but thou shalt have them as they did drop from his very mouth. ‘Tush! foolish quean,’ said he in a tone of displeasure at what he did suppose to be my silly apprehension; ‘where sould there be treachery, thinkest thou? But an there sould, tell thy lady that Rory Spears is ane auld fusionless doited dolt-head, as unfit for stoure and strife as for war-stratagem. What did cause his being left behind his lord the Yearl, but superannuation? The silly coof, Sir Andrew Stewart, guse though he be, is mair to be lippened till than Rory Spears. But get thee in, lass, and tend on thy mistress;’ and so saying he opened the door of the tower, and shuffled me by the shoulder into the kitchen where thou didst sit at supper. In vain did I try to catch thine eye after I entered. But oh, sweet lady, believe not that my father can be traitor to thee.”

“His words have spoken him to be anything rather than my protector,” replied the lady, pale with alarm at what her maid had told her. “But,” added she, with a forced smile, “thou hast redeemed his sin by nobly resolving to share my danger, when thou hadst the opportunity of escaping from it. As it is, I must prepare me for the worst. I have still a dagger, and weak as is mine arm, it shall do bloody work ere I do yield to such villainy; yet, after all, thou mayest have mistaken the words thou didst hear. Let us trust to God and the Holy Virgin, then, and, above all things, let us put up special prayers for protection from Her, who is purity itself.”

The lady and her maiden knelt down together, and joined in earnest devotion, that was only damped at times as fancy led them to imagine they heard a soft tread on the stair, or a suppressed breathing at the door of the chamber. When their orisons were ended, they sat silent for some time. All was already quiet below, and an unaccountable and perfectly uncontrollable sleep, that seemed to bid defiance even to their apprehensions, was stealing insidiously upon them. Just at this moment Katherine Spears uttered a short and faint scream, and had nearly swooned away. The lady started up in a frenzy of alarm, and drew her dagger, when, much to her astonishment as well as to her relief, she perceived the large wolf-hound that had followed Rory Spears, which, having unceremoniously put his cold nose into Katherine’s well-known hand, had produced the damsel’s sudden panic. The lady and her attendant viewed the unexpected appearance of this mute defender as an especial interposition procured for them by their prayers. But the scream, though scarcely audible, might have been heard below, and they listened in quaking dread. All continued quiet underneath them. But, as they still listened, they distinctly heard a heavy footstep cautiously planted, but, to their utter amazement, it came from above downwards. The lady grasped her dagger more firmly, and wound up her determination to use it, if need should demand it. The steps still came stealing down the turret stair that communicated with the uppermost apartment, and at last the bulky form of Rory Spears, gaud-clip and all, appeared before them.

“Heaven be praised!” murmured Katherine, as she sprang to meet her father. “By what miracle of Heaven’s mercy art thou here?”

The lady stood aloof with her dagger clenched, still doubtful of his errand.

“And what for needs ye ask?” said Rory to his daughter, with a certain archness of expression quite his own. “Hath not my Lord the Yearl o’ Moray made a tirewoman o’ me? and was Rory Spears ever kend to be backward at his Lord’s bidding? Verily, it behoveth me not to desert mine occupation. So I am here to do my new mistress’s wark, I promise thee.”

“May Heaven grant that thou mayest not have something more cruel to do to-night than attend on dames,” said Katherine Spears; “yet verily thy coming is most providential, for assuredly we are sore beset with treachery.”

“Ay, ay, I ken a’ that,” replied Rory; “and troth it was the very thoughts o’ a bicker that pat the pet out o’ me, and wiled me hither. But stap ye baith yere ways up the stair there, and liggen ye down quietly, and leave me here to deal with whomsoever may come.”

“He is true to thee, after all, lady,” said Katherine with exultation.

“I rejoice to see that he is faithful,” replied the lady; “may St. Andrew reward him! Already are my fears banished, but irresistible sleep oppresses me. I feel as if I had swallowed some potent drug. I cannot keep my head up.”

“Nay, Katherine nods too,” said Rory; “by the mass, some sleepy potion must have been mingled with your wine. Let me help ye both upstairs; ay, there ye may rest in quiet,” said he, as he set down the lamp and was preparing to leave them, “and I’se leave Oscar with ye as a guard, for the loon had nae business here, and wi’ me he might spoil sport;” and saying so, he tied up the dog beside them, and ere he had done which both were in a profound sleep.

Having returned to the apartment below, Rory threw himself down on the bed, and huddled himself up in the blankets, with his inseparable companion the gaud-clip by his side, and there he lay patiently to watch the event, until, the fire falling low on the hearth, the darkness and his own drowsiness overcame his vigilance, and he fell into deep oblivion.

He had not lain long in this state when the door slowly opened, and the head of Sir Andrew Stewart appeared. Over it there was a lamp, which he held up in his hand, so as to throw a glimmer of light into the farther corner of the place. He paused for a moment, and seeing the form of a figure within the blankets, and observing that all was quiet, he withdrew the lamp.

“She sleeps,” whispered he to his esquire and the two men who were with him; “the potion hath worked as it ought. Approach the bed, yet be cautious; rude carelessness might break her slumbers. Let her not be awakened while she is within earshot of those within the place; ye may be less scrupulous anon. Approach and lift her up in the blanket; her weight can be but as that of an infant in such hands.”

“No sike infant, I wot,” muttered one of the men to the other, as they strained to lift up the blanket with the enormous carcase of Rory Spears in it.

“By the mass, but she is a load for a wain,” said the other.

“Be silent, ye profane clowns,” said Sir Andrew.

“St. Roque, how she doth snore!” said the first, in a lower voice.

“Silence, I say, villains,” said Sir Andrew, “silence, and bear her this way.”

“Hold, hold, Murdoch, the blanket is slipping,” said one; “keep up your end, or we are done with her.”

“Hout, she’s gone,” cried Murdoch, as his end of the blanket slipped altogether, and Rory was rolled on the floor.

Though Rory had slept, his mind had been so fully possessed with the action he had prepared himself to expect, that he had dreamt of nothing else. He was no sooner rudely awakened by the shock of his fall than his mind became full of his duty.

“Ha, villains,” cried he, starting to his legs in a moment, and roaring to the full extent of his rough voice, as he flourished his gaud-clip around him in the dark like a flail; “ha, caitiffs, have I caught ye? What, would ye dare to lay impure hands on the tender form of a lady of sike high degree? By St. Lowry, but I’ll settle ye, knaves.”

All was now confusion. The knight and his instruments sought for the door with a haste that almost defeated their object. Precedence was by no means attended to; and Sir Andrew Stewart, being jostled aside, received a chance blow from Rory’s gaud-clip that prostrated him senseless on the floor. The squire and the two men rushed down stairs, with Rory hard at their heels, and were making towards the door of the tower when it suddenly opened, and a party of horsemen appeared without.

“Halt!” cried a voice like thunder, that instantly arrested the flight of the fugitives, and sent them, crouching like chidden curs, into the kitchen. The light that was there showed the terror and dismay of their countenance, and it also explained the cause, for he who entered was the Wolfe of Badenoch.

“What rabble and uproar is this in the lone peel-tower of Duncriddel?” demanded he. “Ha, Alister MacCraw, what guests be these thou hast got? Ha, Erick MacCormick and my son Andrew’s people! What a murrain hath brought thee here, Master Esquire? Ha—speak. Where is the worthy knight thy master?”

“My Lord—my master, Sir Andrew—my Lord—” replied MacCormick, hesitating from very fear.

“Ha! and Rory Spears too,” continued the Wolfe; “what dost thou make here, old ottercap? Speak, and expound the cause of this uproar, if thou canst.”

“I will, my Lord,” said Rory, “and that in sike short speech as I well ken thou lovest to have a tale dished up to thee. Sir Andrew Stewart, thy son, did covenant wi’ my leddy the Countess o’ Moray, thy sister, to convoy ane Englisher leddy safe frae Tarnawa to Norham, and sure enew he brought her here, being sae muckle o’ the gate; but having no fear o’ God or the Saunts afore his eyne, he did basely try to betray her, just the noo, afore I cam doon the stairs there.”

“Ha, hypocritical villain! cried the Wolfe. “By Saint Barnabas, but I have long had a thought that his affected purity was but a cloak for his incontinence.”

“’Tis all a fabrication,” cried MacCormick, who had now recovered his presence of mind so far as to endeavour to defend his master, though at the expense of truth; “’tis fearful to hear sike wicked falsehoods against thy son Sir Andrew Stewart.”

“My Lord Yearl,” cried Rory, taking Sir Andrew’s purse of gold from his pouch, “an thou believest that I do lie, here is a soothfast witness to what I have uttered.”

“Ha! my son Andrew’s purse, with his cipher on it,” cried the Wolfe, casting a hasty glance at it. “How camest thou by this, Master Spears?”

Rory quickly told the Wolfe of the attempt made by Sir Andrew Stewart to bribe him from his duty, and shortly explained how he had watched his opportunity to creep up stairs unobserved, and to secrete himself in his daughter’s apartment, together with the result.

“Foul shame on the sleeky viper,” cried the Wolfe indignantly, after he had listened to Rory’s abridgement: “But where hath the reptile hidden himself all this while? By my beard, but he shall be punished for this coulpe.” And so saying he seized upon a lamp, and rushing up stairs in a fury, beheld his son stretched on the pavement senseless, with a stream of blood pouring from his temple and cheek, which bore the deep impression of the hooked head of Rory Spears’ gaud-clip.

“Hey, ha!” exclaimed the Wolfe, with a changed aspect, produced by the spectacle which his son presented: “by’r Lady, but Andrew hath got it. Fool that he was, he hath already been paid, I wot, for his wicked device. Ha! the saints grant that he may not be past all leechcraft. Would that thou hadst hit less hard, old man. Though he be but the craven cock-chick of my brood, yet would I not choose to have his green grave to walk over.”

“So please thee, my Lord, it was dark, and I had no choice where to strike,” said Rory, with much simplicity of manner. “But fear not,” added he, after carelessly stooping down to examine the wound, “trust me, ’tis no deadly blow; moreover, ’tis rare that ill weeds do perish by the gateside. I’se warrant me he’ll come to; his breath is going like a blacksmith’s bellows. But is’t not a marvel, after all, to behold how clean I did put my seal upon his chafts, and it sae dark at the time? I’se warrant he’ll bear the mark o’t till’s dying day. Here, MacCormy, help me down the stair wi’ him. Thou and I will carry his worship’s body wi’ mair ease than thou and thy loons wad hae carried mine, I rauckon. But hear ye, lad; give not the lie again to any true man like me, or that brain-pan of thine may lack clampering.”

The Wolfe of Badenoch was relieved by discovering, on examination, that there was good hope of his son’s recovery; and he employed himself and his people in using every means to bring it about. The whole night was spent in this way, but it was only towards morning that Sir Andrew Stewart began to show less equivocal signs of returning life, and even then he still remained in a state of unconsciousness as to what was passing near him. The circumstance of the sleepy potion they had drank accounted for the lady and her damsel having remained undisturbed amid all the confusion that had prevailed. But the Wolfe of Badenoch, having occupied the morning in superintending the preparation of a litter to transport his wounded son to his Castle in Badenoch, when all was ready, became impatient to depart, and desirous to see the lady ere he did so. Rory Spears was accordingly despatched to awake her, and in a short time she and Katherine appeared, with eyes still loaded with the soporiferous drug they had swallowed.

“Ha, what!” cried the Wolfe with astonishment, the moment the lady appeared; “by the beard of my grandfather, but I am petrified. Who could have dreamt that it was thou, my beauteous damosel? By’r Lady, but it is strange, that whether thou dost appear in the hauqueton or in the kirtle thou shouldst still be harnessed by importunate love-suit. But,” continued he, courteously taking her hand and kissing it, “it erketh me sore to think that wrong so foul should have been attempted against thee by a son of mine. Thou hadst a claim for something better at our hands, both for thine own sake and for that of Sir Patrick Hepborne, a knight of whom the remembrance shall ever be grateful to me. Trust me, it giveth me pleasure to behold lealty where tyrant Church hath tied no bands. Thou hast been basely deceived by him who undertook for thine honourable escort to Norham, and albeit I have reasons to think that the proud Priest of Moray hath secretly obtained a power of Royal troops to repossess him in his Badenoch lands, yet shall not this knowledge hinder me from fulfilling for thee that service which my traitor son hath so shamefully abused. I shall be myself thy convoy. Let the croaking carrion-crow of Elgin come if he dares; I have hardy heads, I trow, to meet him, who will fight whether I am there or not. Ha! by my grandfather’s beard, an he had not flown from Aberdeen with the wings of the raven, he mought have been e’en now past giving me trouble.”

“My noble Earl of Buchan, I do give thee thanks for thy kind courtesy,” replied the lady; “but I may in no wise suffer it to lead thee to make sacrifice so great. Trust me, I fear not for the journey whilst I have this good man Rory Spears as mine escort. Under the guardance of one so prudent, brave, and faithful as he has proved himself to be, I should nothing dread to wander over the world.”

“And I wad defend thee, my leddy, frae skaith, were it but frae the tining o’ a single hair o’ thy bonny head, yea, to the last drap o’ bluid in my auld veins,” cried Rory with great enthusiasm, being delighted to observe that his worth was at last fairly appreciated.

“Ha! by my troth, but ’tis bravely spoken in both,” cried the Wolfe. “Depardieux, I shall not venture to interfere where there is so great store of confidence on one side and fidelity on the other. But yet thou must take some pairs of my lances with thee, Rory, for thou art but slenderly backed, me thinks.”

Even this much both the lady and Master Spears were disposed to refuse; but on learning that the mountain range through which they must pass was at that time more than ordinarily infested with wolves, Rory changed his mind, and consented to take four able lances with him, to be returned when he should consider their services no longer necessary.

All being now arranged for the departure of the two parties, the Wolfe of Badenoch became impatient. He courteously assisted the lady to mount her palfrey, and, kissing her hand, bid her a kind adieu. He was about to leap into his own saddle, when he was accosted by Rory Spears.

“My Lord Yearl o’ Buchan, seeing that thy son Sir Andrew, i’ the litter yonder, hath not yet gathered his senses anew to tak the charge o’ his ain cunzie, I here deliver up to thee, his father, this purse o’ gowd he did gi’e me, the which my conscience wull at no rate let me keep, seeing that it wad in nowise let me do that the which was covenanted for the yearning o’t.”

“Nay, by St. Barnabas, honest Rory, but thou shalt keep the purse and the coin,” cried the Wolfe, delighted with Rory’s honesty; “thou hast rightly earned it by thy good service to thy lady. I will be answerable to my son Andrew for this thy well-won guerdon, so make thyself easy on that score.”

“Thanks, most noble Yearl,” cried Rory as he pouched the purse, and mounted his ragged nag to ride after the lady, his countenance shining with glee. “By’r lackins, but this is as good as the plunder of a whole campaign against the Englishers.”

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Chapter LV

Travelling through the Wild Forest—A Dreadful Spectacle—Arrival at the River Tweed.

The English damsel and her attendants travelled slowly by a different route through the wild forest scenery of those mountains with which the reader is already sufficiently familiar. So much of the morning had been expended ere they set out, that the length of their day’s journey was considerably curtailed, and the heaviness that still hung on the eyelids of the lady and Katherine, from the drugged draughts they had swallowed, so overcame them, that they were well contented to look for a place of rest at a much earlier hour in the evening than they would have otherwise done. The information that Rory Spears had gathered about the wolves made him also very ready to halt betimes, that he might have sufficient leisure to fortify the party against any chance of nocturnal attack from these ravenous animals, in a region where no human dwelling was to be expected.

It still wanted nearly two hours of sunset when the cavalcade was winding gently up the narrow bottom of a wild pass, that, like a vast rent or cut in the mountains, divided the chain from its very summit to its base. From the close defile below, the eye could hardly ascend the steep and even slope of the rocky precipices to half their height, so closely did they approach on either hand. The pine forest, though still continuous, began to grow thinner as they advanced, and Rory Spears, like an able leader, was carefully scanning every point where he might hope to discover a strong and convenient position for encampment. At length one of the Earl of Buchan’s troopers, well acquainted with these wilds, showed him the upright face of a tall projecting crag, at a great height above, where there was a small natural cavern, and, accordingly, thither it was resolved that they should ascend.

The ascent was long and arduous, but when they did reach the spot, it was discovered to be admirably fitted for their purpose. The rock rose smooth and perpendicular as a wall, and in the centre of it was the mouth of the cavern, opening from a little level spot of ground in front. Rory began to take immediate measures for their security. Broken wood was collected in abundance, and a semi-circular chain of fires kindled, so as fully to embrace the level ground, and touch the rock on either side of the cavern. Heather beds were prepared for the lady and her damsel under the dry arch of the cliff; and their hasty meal being despatched, they wrapped themselves up in their mantles, and prepared themselves with good-will to sleep off the stupifying effects of the narcotic. Rory meanwhile drew his cavalry within his defences, and having posted and arranged his watches so as to ensure the keeping up of the fires, he sat down with the rest to recreate himself with what store of provisions they had carried along with them.

The lady’s sleep was so very sound for some hours that it bid defiance to all the merriment, the talking, and the music, that successively prevailed without. But at last it yielded to the continued twanging of the minstrel’s harp, and she awaked to hear him sing, with great enthusiasm, the concluding stanzas of some tale, which he had been rhyming to those around him:

If minstrel inspiration wells From yonder star-besprinkled sky, To which my heart so strangely swells, As if it fain would thither fly;

Then on those mountain tops that rise Far, far above the fogs of earth, Thicker and purer from the skies Must fall that dew of heavenly birth.

What marvel, then, my native land, That heaves its breast to kiss high Heaven, Hath fill’d my heart and nerved my hand, And fresher inspiration given?

Then if my heart a spell hath wove More potent than of erst it threw, And ye have wept its tale of love, With rifer tears than once it drew,

Think not thou mayest the song reward With thine accustom’d dearth of praise, It comes from no weak mortal bard— ’Tis Scotland’s spirit claims the lays!

Perfectly refreshed by her slumber, and cheered by the harper’s strains, the lady arose from her couch, and stepped forth from the cavern to join her applause to the rudely-expressed approbation of Rory and his comrades. The air was balmy and refreshing, and she staid to hold converse with the good old minstrel.

“’Tis a beautiful night, Adam,” said she; “see how the moonbeam sleeps on the bosom of yonder little lake far up the pass. How dark do these masses of pine appear when contrasted with the silver light that doth play beyond them on those opposite steeps; how deep and impenetrable is the shadow that hangeth over the bottom far below us, where all is silent save the softened music of the stream murmuring among the rocks. But hark, what yelling sounds are these that come borne on the breeze as it sigheth up the pass?”

“’Tis the distant howling of the wolves, lady,” cried the harper; “methinks the rout cometh this way. An I mistake not, ’tis a ravenous pack of famished beasts that do pursue a deer or some other helpless tenant of the woods. Hark, the sound doth now come full up the bottom of the pass. List, I pray thee, how it doth grow upon the ear.”

“I do hear the galloping of a horse, methinks,” cried Rory Spears, who stood by.

“Holy Virgin, what dreadful screams were these?” cried the lady, starting with affright.

“St. Andrew defend us,” said the minstrel, shrinking at the thought; “it may be some fiend o’ the forest that doth urge his hellish midnight chase through these salvage wilds.”

“Na, na, na,” replied Rory Spears, gravely; “troth, I hae mair fear that it may be some wildered wanderer hunted by a rout o’ thae gaunt and famished wolves. St. Lowry be wi’ us, is’t not awful?”

“Holy St. Cuthbert protect us,” exclaimed the lady, after a pause, and shuddering as she spoke; “that cry, oh, that cry was dreadful; ’twas a shriek of terror unspeakable; fear of an instant, of a most cruel death, could have alone awakened it. Gracious Heaven, have mercy on the wretch who did give it utterance!”

“Hear, hear; holy St. Giles, how he doth cry for help!” said Rory Spears. “Hear again; ’tis awsome. St. Hubert be his aid, for weel I do trow nae mortal man can help him.”

“Oh, say not so,” cried the lady, with agonizing energy; “oh, fly, fly to his rescue; there may yet be time. Fly—save him—save him, and all the gold I possess shall be thine.”

“Nay, lady,” replied Rory, “albeit the very attempt wad be risk enew, yet wud I flee to obey thy wull withouten the bribe o’ thy gowd; and the mair, that it wud be a merciful, a Christian, and a right joyful wark to save a fellow-cretur frae sike ane awsome end. But man’s help in this case is a’thegither vain. Dost thou no perceive that the clatter o’ his horse’s heels is no longer to be heard? nay, even his cries do already return but faintly from far up the pass? And noo, listen—hush—hear hoo fast they do die away; and hark, hark—thou canst hear them nae mair.”

“He hath indeed spurred on with the desperate speed of despair,” said the lady; “but oh, surely thou mayest yet stop or turn his fell pursuers. Oh, fly to the attempt. Nay, I will myself go with thee. Hark, all the echoes of the glen around us are now awakened by their fearful howlings. Quick, quick; let us fly downwards—’tis but a mere step of way.”

“Alas, lady,” replied Rory, “to try to stop the accursed pack were now hopeless as to think to gar the raging winds tarry on the mountain side. These hideous howls do indeed arise from the shades beneath us; but had we the legs and the feet o’ the raebuck, the ravening rout wad be a mile ayont us ere we could reach the bottom. Hark, hoo they hae already swept on. Already the cruel din frae their salvage throats doth become weaker; and noo—hist, hist!—it is lost far up the bosom of the mountains. May the Virgin and the good St. Lawrence defend the puir sinner, for his speed maun be mair than mortal gif he ’scapeth frae the jaws o’ thae gruesome and true-nosed hounds. By my troth, an we hadna taken the due caution we might hae been a supper to them oursels at this precious moment—the Virgin protect us!”

“Oh, ’tis most horrible,” cried the lady, as she rushed into the cavern, her mind distracted, and her feelings harrowed up with the thoughts of the probable fate of the unhappy traveller. She sunk on her knees to implore mercy for him from Heaven, after which she threw herself on her couch; but her repose was unsettled; and when she did sleep it was only to dream of the horrors her fancy had painted.

By the time the sun had begun to gild the tops of the mountains, Rory Spears was in action. The lady arose unrefreshed; and, after she and her attendants had partaken of a slight repast, they were again in motion. Descending by a steep and difficult, though slanting path, they gradually regained the bottom of the pass, and proceeded to trace it upwards in a southern direction. As they obtained a higher elevation the pine trees became thinner, and at length they reached to a little mossy plain, where they almost entirely disappeared. In the middle of this was the small sheet of water which had been rendered so resplendent in the eyes of the lady the night before by the moonbeams. It was a deep inky-looking pool, surrounded by treacherous banks of black turf.

“Is this what distance and moonlight made so bewitchingly beautiful to our eyes?” said the lady to the minstrel.

“Thus it doth ever chance with all our worldly views, lady,” replied the old man. “Hope doth gild that which is yet at a distance, but all is dark and cheerless when the object is reached.”

As they spoke the approach of the party disturbed a flight of kites and ravens, which arose with hoarse screams and croakings from something that lay extended amid the long heath near the water’s edge. It was the skeleton of a horse. The flesh had been so completely eaten from the bones by the wolves that but little was left for the birds of prey. The furniture, half torn off, showed that the creature had had a rider. A few yards farther on a single wolf started away from a broken part of the bog. Rory Spears’ gaud-clip was launched after him with powerful and unerring aim, and its iron head buried in the side of the animal, while at the same moment the quick-eyed Oscar seized the caitiff by the throat, and he was finally despatched by several lances plunged into him at once. They sought the spot whence the gaunt animal had been roused, and their blood was frozen by the horrid spectacle of the half-consumed carcase of a man.

It was of size gigantic; and although the limbs and body had been in a great measure devoured, yet enough of evidence still remained in the rent clothes and in the lacerated features of the face to establish beyond a doubt to the lady and the minstrel, who had known him, that he who had thus perished by so miserable a fate was the wizard Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick.

A leathern purse, with a few gold coins in it, was found in his pouch; and, among other articles of no note, there was a small manuscript book of necromancy, full of cabalistic signs.

The spectacle was too horrible and revolting for the lady to bear. She therefore besought her attendants to cover the wretched remains, and with Katherine Spears retired to some distance until this duty was performed and a huge monumental cairn of stones heaped over them, after which they again proceeded on their way.

The troopers belonging to the Wolfe of Badenoch were sent back as soon as Rory Spears judged they might be spared with safety, and nothing occurred during the remainder of the journey to make him regret having so parted with them. As the party travelled through the fertile Merse they found that which should have been a smiling scene converted into a wilderness of desolation. The storm of England’s wrath had swept over it, and the rifled and devastated fields, the blackened heaps of half-consumed houses and cottages, around which some few human beings were still creeping and shivering, like ghosts unwilling to leave the earthly tenements to which they had been linked in life, brought the horrors of war fresh before them. The aged man and the boy were the only male figures that were mingled with those groups of wailing women that appeared. All who could draw a sword or a bow, or wield a lance, were already on their way to join the Scottish host, their bosoms burning with a thirst of vengeance.

As they were lamenting over the melancholy scene they were passing through—for even the English damosel deplored the ravages committed by her countrymen—their way was crossed by a troop of well-armed and bravely-appointed horsemen, which halted, as if to wait until their party should come up. Rory advanced to reconnoitre.

“Ha, Sir Squire Oliver,” said he to the leader, whom he immediately recognized as belonging to the Lord of Dirleton, “can that in very deed be thee? Whither art thou bound in array so gallant?”

“Master Rory Spears,” replied the squire with a look of surprise—“what, art thou too bound for the host?”

“Nay,” replied Rory, mournfully, “I hae other emprise on hand just at this time. Goest thou thither?”

“Yea,” replied the esquire, “I go with my Lord’s service of lances to join the collected Scottish armies on their way to Jedworth. There will be rare work anon, I ween. Some English horses have been dancing over these fields, I see, but, by’r Lady, the riders shall pay for the sport they have had.”

“Ha, their backs shall be well paid, I warrant me,” cried Rory, flourishing his gaud-clip around his head, while his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

“Nay, fear not,” replied the esquire; “the rogues shall feel the rod, else I am no true man. But St. Andrew be with thee, good Master Rory, I have no further time to bestow.” And as he said so he gave the word to his men to move forward; the bugles sounded, their horses’ heels spurned the ground, and their armour rang as they galloped briskly away, to make up for the time lost in the halt.

The lady and her attendants rode slowly on, but Rory lingered behind, to follow the rapid movement of the warlike files with an anxious eye; and when they wheeled from his view he heaved a sigh so deep that it was heard by the foremost of his own party.

“What aileth thee, Rory?” demanded Adam of Gordon.

“Heard ye not their bugles as they went?” replied Rory to him. “Was not the very routing o’them enew to rouse the spirit o’ a dead destrier, and dost thou ask what aileth me? Is’t not hard to be sae near the Yearl and yet to see as little o’ him or his men as gif they war in ane ither warld? is’t not cruel for a man like me to be keepit back frae the wark that best beseemeth him whan his very heart is in’t?”

“And why shouldst thou be kept back from it, Rory, now that thy duty to the lady is performed?” demanded the harper.

“Dost thou no see Kate yonder?” replied Rory sullenly. “What is to be done with the wench, think ye? Sure I maun e’en yede me back again to convoy the puir lassie safely to her mother.”

“If the care of Katherine be all thy difficulty, Rory,” said the lady eagerly, “thou mayest easily provide for her safety by confiding her to me, on whom thy doing so will moreover be conferring an especial gratification. Let her, I pray thee, abide with me at Norham, whilst thou goest to the wars; and when peace, yea, or truce doth happily come again, thou mayest forthwith reclaim her of me. Let me entreat thee, oppose not my wishes.”

Rory’s rough but warm heart had been long ere this entirely gained by the kindness, condescension, and beauty of the English damosel. He could not have refused her request, whatever difficulties it might have involved; but her present proposal was too congenial with his own wishes, and her offer altogether too tempting to be resisted.

“Troth, my leddy,” replied he, with a tear glistening in his eye, “when we first forgathered at Tarnawa, and when the Yearl tell’d me that I was to be buckled till thy tail, I maun e’en confess I was in a sair cross tune at the news, for thou mayest see it’s no i’ my nature to be governed by women-fouk, and gin the truth maun be tell’d, it was wi’ sair ill-wull I cam wi’ thee. But noo, by St. Lowry, I wad follow thee to the very warld’s end; troth, thou mayest e’en whirl me round and round with thy pirlywinky; and so, though I am no just confidently sicker that what I am doing is a’thegither that the which may be approven by my good dame at hame yonder, yet will I yield me to thy wishes and mine ain. Kate shall wi’ thee to Norham, and I’ll just tak a bit stride after the Yearl to see what he and the lave are a-doing.”

“But thou shalt thyself with me to Norham first, that I may thank thee properly for the protection thou hast afforded me,” said the lady.

“Nay, that may in nowise be, leddy,” replied Rory; “I shall see thee safe to the northern bank of Tweed; but I wot nae Southern stronghold shall see me within its bounds, save as ane enemy, to do it a’ the skaith a foeman can, and that I would fain shun doing to ony place that mought have thy good wishes.”

After some farther travel the broad walls and massive towers of Norham Castle appeared before them, glowing with the slanting rays of the declining sun. A few steps more brought the Tweed in sight, and Rory Spears instantly halted.

“And noo I fear I maun leave thee, my leddy,” said he, with an afflicted countenance, “for yonder’s the Tweed.”

The lady approached him, and, kindly taking his horny hand, gave utterance to the most gratifying expression of her strong sense of the services he had rendered her, and at the same time attempted to force a purse upon him.

“Na, na, my leddy, I’se hae nae gowd frae thee,” said he; “besides, I hae naething ado wi’ gowd whare I’m gaun; I’se get meat, drink, and quarters withouten cunzie, an’ I’m no mista’en.—Na, na,” continued he, as she pressed the purse upon him, “an ye wull hae it sae, keep it for Kate yonder; she may want it, puir thing. May the blessed Virgin be thy protection, my bonnie bit lassie,” said he to Katherine, as he turned about to her and pressed her to his breast.—“Hoot toot, this ’ll no do—ye maunna greet, bairn,” added he, as the tears were breaking over his own eye-lids. “Fear ye na I’ll be back wi’ thee ere lang, an I be spared. By St. Lowry, that’s true, my leddy, ye maun promise me that if onything sould happen to hinder me frae coming back, ye’ll see that somebody conveys her as safe to Tarnawa as I hae brought thee to Norham.”

Katherine sobbed bitterly at the idea which her father had awakened. The lady readily promised him what he wished. Rory again pressed his daughter to his bosom, and, striking the side of his garron two or three successive blows with the shaft of his gaud-clip, he darted off, and was out of sight in a moment.

The lady, accompanied by Katherine Spears and the minstrel, slowly sought the bank of the Tweed. A signal was made for the ferry-boat, and they were wafted into England. At the gates of Norham Castle the lady was speedily known, and its friendly walls received her and her two companions.

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Chapter LVI

Old Acquaintances at the Hostel of Norham Tower—Great Gathering at Jedworth—The Council of War.

It was some days after the lady’s arrival that five horsemen knocked at the gate of the hostel of the Norham Tower. They were clad rather as pilgrims than as warriors, and, arriving by the English side of the river, were judged to have come from the south. Matters had undergone a change since we had last occasion to notice the hall of Norham. Old Kyle had been gathered to his fathers, his buxom wife had wept her fair number of days, and, beginning to recover her spirits by the reflection that she was a well-looking and wealthy widow, her heart was already besieged by numerous lovers. Though under a woman’s government, the police of the Norham Tower was at this moment more strict than usual. The war had made its mistress careful to rid it at an early hour every night of all straggling topers. There were certain privileged customers, indeed, to whom a more liberal license was granted, and of this number was Mr. Thomas Turnberry, the squire equerry.

As two of the strangers, of nobler mien than the rest, entered the common room, they found the esquire in the act of rising from table, with another man in whose company he had been drinking.

“A-well,” said the latter; “I bid thee good e’en, Sir Squire. I’ll warrant thou shalt not find better steeds between Tweed and Tyne than the two I have sold thee.”

“Ay, ay, Master Truckthwaite,” replied Turnberry with a sarcastic smile, “thy word is all well; yet would I rather trust the half of mine own eye than the whole of thy tongue in such matters. Good e’en, good e’en. A precious knave, I wot,” added he, after the man was gone.

“Doth that varlet sell thee good cattle, Sir Squire?” said one of the strangers who had entered.

“Nay, in truth, he is a proper cheat,” replied Turnberry. “But the villain had to do with a man who hath lived all his life in a stable, and one, moreover, who hath sober, steady, habits. Your drunkard hath ever but poor chance in a bargain with your sober man.”

“Most true,” replied the stranger. “Here, tapster; a flagon of Rhynwyn. Wilt thou stay, Sir Squire, and help us to drain it?”

“Rhynwyn!” exclaimed Turnberry; “by St. Cuthbert, but there is music in the very clink of the word. Nay, Sir Pilgrim, I care not an I taste with thee ere I go; I am but a poor drinker, yet hath honest Rhynwyn its charms.”

“Ha,” said Tom, after deeply returning the stranger’s pledge, “this is right wholesome stuff, I promise ye, my masters. ’Tis another guess-liquor than old Mother Rowlandson’s i’ the Castle.”

“Thou art of the Castle, then?” said he who had always spoken. “I drink to the health of thy gallant old captain, Sir Walter de Selby.”

“Thank ye, thank ye,” replied Tom, taking the flagon. “Well, here’s to old Wat. Many is the ride we have had over the Border together; and many is the hard knock we have both ta’en and given, side by side. Trust me, there breathes not a better man. His health, God wot, hath been none of the best of late; so, with thy good leave, Sir Pilgrim, I’ll drink to it again.”

“Hath he not a daughter?” demanded the pilgrim.

“Yea, that he hath,” replied Tom—“an only daughter, whose beauty hath been the talk of all Northumberland.”

“Let us drink to her health, then,” said the pilgrim.

“Here’s to the Lady de Vere, then,” said Turnberry, lifting the flagon to his head to do justice to the health.

“The Lady de Vere!” said the pilgrim who had not yet spoken, betraying an emotion that escaped Tom Turnberry, in the long draught he was taking.

“Ay, the Lady de Vere,” said Tom, taking the flagon from his head. “The Lady Eleanore de Selby is now the Lady de Vere, as we have all heard at the Castle since two or three days have gone by. Sir Walter would have fain had her marry Sir Rafe Piersie, who courted her, but his haughtiness sorted ill with her high and untameable spirit; so she was contrarisome, and ran away with a love of her own choosing some time ago.”

“And who might the lover be who bore away so rich a prize?” demanded the pilgrim.

“Why, one of the Court lordlings, as we now learn, a Sir something de Vere, a kinsman to the King’s favourite, the banished Duke of Ireland. He is but lately come from abroad, it seems, for he is a foreign knight born, and being suspected as coming on some secret mission to the King, it is thought that he will rise high in his good graces. The poor ould soul, Sir Walter, did live in grievous case until these few days bygone, for he knew not until then what had befallen his daughter. But now that he hath learned who his son-in-law is, he hath somewhat raised his head. But fie on me,” added the squire, after a long draught, that enabled him to see the bottom of the flagon, “I must hie me to the Castle; and so good night, and many thanks, my civil masters. Trust me, I shall right willingly bestow a can upon you when ye do come this way again, if ye will but ask for old Thomas Turnberry, the esquire equerry.”

The dialogue between Tom Turnberry and the two strangers had been over for a good hour, when another conversation took place a few steps from the gate of the inn, between Mrs. Kyle and one who considered himself a favourite lover.

“These be plaguy cunning knaves,” said Mrs. Kyle; “they thinks, I’se warrant me, that no one doth know ’em; yet—but I shall say nothing, not I.”

“I dare swear a man would need to be no fool who should strive to deceive thee, Mrs. Kyle,” replied her companion, willing to draw her on a little.

“Me!” replied she; “trust me, the old Fiend himself would not cheat me; for instance, now, that saucy Sang there did no sooner show his face within the four walls o’ the Norham Tower than I did straightway know him through all his disguises; and so, having once nosed him, I did quickly smell out his fellow-esquire, and the two knights their masters.”

“That was clever in thee, i’ faith, Mrs. Kyle,” replied her companion.

“Yea, but my name be not Margaret Kyle an I make no more out by my cleverness,” said the dame. “But mum for that.”

“Nay, thou knowest thou canst not be Margaret Kyle long, my bonny dame,” replied the man.

“Fie thee now,” replied she, “sure it will be long ere I do trust me to men again, after honest Sylvester, my poor dear husband that was.”

“And what didst thou say they were here for?” demanded her companion.

“Ye may trow they are here for no good,” replied the dame. “I’ll warrant me the seizing o’ them will be a right brave turn; but mum again, for he who is to take them this night did say as how none should ken nothing on’t till the stroke should be strucken; yea, and by the same token he did gie me kisses enow to seal up my mouth.”

“And when did Sir Miers tell thee this?” demanded the man.

“Sir Miers!” replied Mrs. Kyle; “laucker-daisey, did I tell thee that it was Sir Miers? St. Mary, I had nae will tae hae done that. Hoot, toot, my lips hae no been half glued.”

“And so thou dost say that Sir Miers is to surround the house to-night, and to take these same strangers?” observed the man.

“Yea, but of a truth I shouldna hae tell’d thee a’ that; may my tongue be blistered for’t,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “for he bid me take especial care, aboon a’ things, to let thee know nought on’t.”

“Nay, Mrs. Kyle,” said the man, “but thou knowest thou dost love me over much to hide anything from me.”

“O ay, for a matter o’ that. I do love thee well enow,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “but Sir Miers hath such pleasant ways with him.”

“Hath he?” replied the man carelessly. “Thou didst say, I think, that the attempt is to be made at midnight, and that thou art to be on the watch to let them in?”

“Nay, then,” said Mrs. Kyle, “I did verily say no sike thing, I wot. What I did say was this, that Sir Miers is to be here an hour after midnight, and that John Hosteler is to let them in.”

“Ay, ay, I see I did mistake thy words,” replied the man. “Why, holy St. Cuthbert, thou wilt get a power of money for thine information.”

“So Sir Miers hath promised me,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “but what doth chiefly season the matter to my stomach is the spicy revenge I shall hae against that flouting knave Sang, and the very thought o’ this doth keenly edge me to aid the gallant Sir Miers in his enterprise; yet, to tell thee the truth, the handsome knight might rauckon on as much service at my hands, yea, or more, when it mought please him bid me.”

“So,” replied her companion; “but come, I will see thee into the house, drink one cup of thine ale with thee, and so speed me to the other end of the village to Sir Miers. Who knows but I may be wanted after all to bear the brunt of this business.”

By this time the two knights and their three attendants were the sole tenants of the common room, and this circumstance, coupled with the disguises they wore, led them to imagine that they ran no risk of discovery.

Robert Lindsay, who was the fifth man, took up a lamp, and sallied forth to look at the horses ere he should seek repose. All was quiet in the court-yard, as well as in the various buildings surrounding it. He entered the stable, but, though there were wain horses enow there belonging to the hostel, he saw, with utter dismay, that the five steeds belonging to his party were gone. He turned to rush out of the stable to tell the knights of this treacherous robbery, when the light of the lamp in his hand flashed on the figure of a man, who was determinedly posted in the doorway, as if resolved to oppose his passage.

“Ralpho Proudfoot!” exclaimed Lindsay in astonishment; and then observing that he was fully armed, and that he carried a lance in his hand, whilst he himself had not even his sword, he gave himself up for lost; but resolving to sell his life as dearly as possible, he wrenched a rung from one of the stalls, and planted himself in a posture of defence.

“Nay, thou needest look for no injury at my hands,” said Proudfoot; “this haughty spirit of mine, the which did once make me thy determined foe because thou wert promoted above me, doth now prompt me not to be outdone by thee in a generous deed. I come to warn thee that an attempt on the liberty, if not on the lives, of thee and those that be with thee, is to be made, within less than an hour hence, by Sir Miers de Willoughby and a strong force. The reward for taking prisoners of sike note, together with the gold to be gotten for their ransom, is the temptation to this enterprise. Lose not a moment then in rousing the knights, and warning them of their danger.”

“But what hath become of our horses?” demanded Lindsay, not yet recovered from his surprise.

“It was I who removed them,” replied Proudfoot. “I took them from the stable, after leaving the hosteller to sleep off the heavy draughts of ale I made him swallow; they stand ready caparisoned under the trees a few yards behind the inn. Quick, bring me to the knights, that I may show them their danger, and teach them how to avoid it; not a moment is to be lost.”

Without farther question, Lindsay led the way to the common room where the knights were lying. They were soon roused, and listened to Proudfoot’s account of the plot against them with considerable surprise; but they hesitated to believe him, and were in doubt what to do.

“Nay, then, Sir Knights,” said Proudfoot, “an ye will hesitate, certain captivity must befall ye. Captivity, did I say? yea, something worse; a base and black thirst of vengeance doth move this treacherous knight against thee, Sir John Assueton. I have reason to know that he hath ever cherished it sith thy last encounter.”

“’Twere better to plant ourselves here, and fight to the death with what weapons we may have about us,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne.

“Right, my friend,” said Sir John Assueton, “we at least know and can be true to one another, and that of itself will give us victory.”

“We shall be prepared for them,” said Mortimer Sang, “and we shall make them fly before us by the very suddenness of our assault.”

“How many De Willoughby spears are of them?” demanded the taciturn Roger Riddel, with extreme composure.

“Some two dozen at the least, I warrant me,” replied Proudfoot, “and all fully appointed.”

“Bring they Norham Castle on their backs?” demanded Riddel again.

“Nay,” replied Proudfoot, “their leader hath kept his scheme to himself, that he may have the greater share of booty and ransom money.”

“But Norham Castle hath ears,” said Riddel again.

“Thou sayest true, friend,” replied Proudfoot. “Were resistance to be made, the din of arms and the noise of the assault would soon bring out the garrison upon ye. Quickly resolve, Sir Knights, for the hour wanes, and they will be here anon. What can ye fear of traiterie from me? Could I not have left ye to fall easy victims to Sir Miers de Willoughby’s snare?”

“So please ye, gallant knights, I will answer with my life for the truth of Ralpho Proudfoot in this matter,” said Lindsay confidently.

“Nay, an ye fear me, ye shall all stand about me,” said Proudfoot; “and if ye do find me a traitor, your five daggers may drink my blood at once.”

The minds of the two knights were at last made up, and they resolved to trust themselves to the guidance of Ralpho Proudfoot. Armed with their daggers alone, they stole silently out in the dark, and were so planted by him behind the gate as to be prepared to rush out when the time for doing so should come. Ralpho Proudfoot cautioned them to keep perfectly quiet. To attempt to escape along the street of the village at that moment would have subjected them to certain observation: they were therefore to wait his signal, and to follow him. He placed himself, as he had said, in the midst of them, and set himself to listen for a sound from the outside.

They had not been long posted, when footsteps were heard approaching very gently. There was then some whispering, and a slight cough. Proudfoot immediately answered it.

“Art there, John?” said a voice in an under tone.

“Yea,” replied Proudfoot, imitating the language of the hosteller, “but they be’s still astir; so when the yate be opened, ye maun rush in like fiends on them, for the hinge do creak, and they will start to their arms wi’ the noise. Are ye a’ ready?”

“We are,” replied the voice without.

“Noo, then, in on them and at them,” cried Proudfoot, throwing the gate wide open, so as to conceal himself and his companions behind it.

In rushed Sir Miers de Willoughby, at the head of a large party of his men; and out went Ralpho Proudfoot, with the two Scottish knights and their attendants. The gate was hastily locked externally; the horses were quickly gained, and mounted in the twinkling of an eye; and Ralpho Proudfoot, who had taken the precaution to have his steed placed with the rest, got to saddle along with them. As they rode past the gate of the hostel of the Norham Tower, the loud voices, and the execrations of Sir Miers de Willoughby and his people, and the shrill screams of Mrs. Kyle, told them that the failure of the plot had been already discovered by the actors in it.

“So,” said Ralpho, in half soliloquy, as he guided the knights down the village street at a canter—“so, thou didst cease to trust me, Sir Miers, me who hath been faithful to thee to the peril of my salvation. By St. Benedict, thou shalt now find that it would have been well for thee to have trusted me still; yea and thou didst tamper with her whom I would have espoused. By the bones of St. Baldrid, but thou mayest mate thee with her now an thou listest, for I am done for ever with her, with thee, and with England, except as a foeman.”

The two knights made the best of their way until they had got beyond the English march, and were fairly on what might be termed Scottish ground. Armed men were still crowding in greater or lesser bodies to Jedworth, where those who had by this time assembled formed a large army. They were encamped on what was then called the High Forest; and thither the two friends were hastening, and were already but a little way from the position of the troops, when Sir Patrick Hepborne halted, and thus addressed his companion—

“Canst thou tell me, Assueton, what may cause the mingled crowd of squires, lacqueys, grooms, and horses, that doth surround the gates of yonder church? Meseems it some convocation, and those varlets do wait the pleasure of some personages of greater note who are within.”

“Thou art right,” replied Assueton; “for to-day was fixed for a council of war to be held within that church, and it would seem that at least some, if not all, of the nobles and knights of the host are already met. Let us hasten thither, I beseech thee. I long to learn what is to be the plan of our warfare.”

“I shall at least meet my father there,” said Sir Patrick listlessly, and as if he cared for little else. “Do thou follow us, Lindsay, to take our horses, and then wait for us, with the esquires, under the spreading oaks of yonder swelling knoll.”

On entering the church the two knights learned that they had arrived just in time for the opening of the business. The Earls of Fife, Douglas, Dunbar, and Moray were there, and indeed all the leading nobles and knights of Scottish chivalry; and the doors being closed, the assembly were soon deeply engaged in the gravest deliberations.

Whilst the council of war was so employed within the church, Mortimer Sang was lying at the root of an aged oak, holding conversation to, rather than with, Roger Riddel. Near them were the horses tethered and feeding, under the eyes of Robert Lindsay, and his old, though newly-recovered comrade, Ralpho Proudfoot, who were earnestly engaged in talking over many a story of their boyhood.

“What dost thou stare at so, friend Riddel?” demanded Sang, who observed his comrade stretching his neck so as to throw his eyes up the trough of a ravine down which stole a little rill, that murmured around the knoll where they were sitting; “what dost thou see, I say, friend Roger, that thou dost so stretch thy neck like a heron, when disturbed in her solitary fishing?”

Roger replied not, but nodded significantly, and pointed with his finger.

“Nay, I see nought,” replied Sang, “save, indeed, a swinking churl, who doth untie and lead away a gallant and bravely caparisoned steed from yonder willow that weepeth over the stream.”

Roger looked grave, and nodded again, and looked as much as to say, “A-well, and dost thou see nothing in that?”

“Nay, now that the knave hath mounted,” said Sang, “he seemeth to ride like one who would make his horse’s speed keep his neck from the halter. By’r Lady, he’s gone already. Is the rogue a thief, thinkest thou, Roger?”

“Notour, I’ll warrant me,” replied Squire Riddel.

“By St. Baldrid, had we but thought of that sooner, we might have frayed the malfaitor, yea, or taken him in the very fact,” said Sang. “But now we are too late to meddle in the matter.”

“We are no thief-takers,” replied Roger Riddel, with great indifference.

“Nay, now I think on’t, he who would hang up his horse so in the Borders may be his own thief-taker for me,” replied Sang; “but look ye, friend Roger,” continued he, after a pause, “who may that stranger be who cometh forth from the crowd armed and spurred, yea, as a squire ought, yet who walketh away as if neither groom nor horse tarried for him? Stay—methinks he cometh this way.”

The stranger looked around him, after getting rid of the embarrassment of the crowd about the church, and then moved quickly towards the knoll where the two esquires were sitting, and, passing quietly under it, without either looking at or speaking to them, made his way up the ravine in the direction of the willow-trees, where the horse had been tethered. The path he followed was so much lower than the ground whence they had observed the actions of the man who took the horse, that the stranger walked smartly on for more than a bow-shot, ere he came within view of the willow-trees. Then it was that he began to betray great confusion. He hastened to the spot whence the horse had been so lately removed, and finding that he was irrecoverably gone, he clasped his hands, looked up to heaven, and seemed to be lost in despair.

“Dost thou mark yonder man who did walk by here alone?” demanded Sang eagerly. “Behold how he doth show signs of distress, that would mark him to be the master of the horse which the thief took. I ween he be no Scottish squire, for he knew no one, and seemed to covet concealment as he did pass us by. An I mistake not, he will prove better worth catching than the thief would have done. Let’s after him, Roger, that we may prove my saying.”

Roger, though slow to speak, was quick to act. The two esquires seized their steeds, and throwing themselves into their saddles, galloped at full speed after the stranger. Startled by the sound of pursuit, he at first made an effort to escape, but, seeing how hotly he was chased, he lost spirit, and, shortening his pace, allowed them to come up with him.

“Whither wouldst thou, comrade? and whence hast thou come? and what dost thou, a spurred esquire, without a horse?” demanded Sang, in a string of interrogations.

“I do but breathe the air here,” replied the man in great confusion. “As for my horse, I do verily believe some villain hath stolen him from those willow trees where I had tied him.”

“But why didst thou tie thy horse in this lone place? and how comest thou thus unattended?” demanded Sang again. “But, hey, holy St. Baldrid, is it thou, my gentle Clerk-Squire Barton? When, I pray thee, didst thou leave the peaceful following of the godly Bishop of Durham, to mell thee with dangerous matters like these thou art now in? By the blessed Rood, it had been well for thee, methinks, an thou couldst but have aped somewhat of the loutish Scot in thy gait, peraunter thou mightest have better escaped remark? So, thou hast become a spy on these our Eastern Marches, hast thou? By the mass, but thou must with us to the conclave. It doth erke me to speak it, mine excellent friend, but, by’r Lady, I do fear me that thou mayest hang for it.”

“Talk not so, Squire Sang,” replied Barton, with a face of alarm. “Trust me, I have seen nought—I know nought. Thou knowest we did drink together in good fellowship at Norham. Let me go, I do beseech thee, and put not an innocent man’s life to peril, seeing that appearances do happen to be so sore against me.”

“Sore against thee, indeed, pot-companion,” said Roger Riddel, portentously shaking his head.

“Yea, appearances are sore against thee, Master Barton,” reechoed Sang. “Verily, we did behold thee as thou didst come forth from yonder church, where thou didst doubtless possess thyself of much important matter that did there transpire, the which it will be by no means convenient that thou shouldst carry in safety to those who may have sent thee hither. Better that thou hadst chanted thirty trentals of masses in the goodly pile of Durham for the soul of thy grandmother, ay, and that fasting, too, than that thou shouldst have set thy foot for a minute’s space of time within yonder church this day.”

“Let me go, good gentlemen, I do beseech ye,” said Barton. “Squire Riddel, hast thou no compassion for me?”

“Much,” replied Roger. “Natheless, thou must with us, Squire Barton.”

“Nay, in truth thou must with us without more ado,” said Sang; “yet make thyself as easy as may be; for, in consideration of our meeting at Norham, I shall do thee all the kindness I may consistent with duty, both now and when thou shalt be sent to the fatal tree, to the which I do fear thy passage will be short and speedy.”

The English esquire shuddered, but he was compelled to submit; and he was accordingly led by his captors to the church, where the council of war was assembled. The news of his capture excited great interest and commotion among the knights; and the Earl of Fife, who presided over their deliberations, had no sooner learned the particulars of his taking than he ordered him into his presence. Barton came, guarded by Mortimer Sang and Roger Riddel. He had put on the best countenance he could, but judging by the working of his features, all his resolution was required to keep it up.

“Bring forward the prisoner,” said the Earl of Fife. “What hast thou to say for thyself, Sir Squire? Thou hast been taken in arms within the Scottish bounds—thou hast been seen of several who did note thine appearance at this our secret meeting—and there be knights here, as well as those worthy esquires who took thee, who can speak to thy name and country. Whence art thou come? and who did send thee hither to espy out our force, and to possess thyself of our schemes?”

“Trusting to the sacred office of my Lord the Bishop of Durham, I came but as a pious traveller to visit certain shrines,” replied Barton. “Being in these parts, I wot it was no marvel in me, the servant of a churchman so dignified, to look into the church, and——”

“Nay, nay—so flimsy a response as this will by no means serve,” interrupted the Earl of Fife, who, though cool, calm, and soft in manner, was in reality much more cruel of heart than his brother the Wolfe of Badenoch himself, albeit devoid of the furious passion so ungovernable in that Earl. “He doth but trifle with our patience. Let a rack be instantly prepared, and let a tree be erected without loss of time, whereon his tortured limbs, whilst their fibres shall yet have hardly ceased to feel, may be hung as tender food for the ravens. His throat shall be squeezed by the hangman’s rope, until all he hath gained by his espial be disgorged or closed up for ever within it.”

Barton shook from head to foot at this terrible sentence, uttered with a mildness and composure that might have suited well with a homily. His face grew deadly pale, despair grappled at his breath, and he gasped as if already under the hands of the executioner. His eyes, restless and protruded, seemed as if anxious to shun the picture of the horrible death that so soon awaited him. His lips moved, but they were dry as ashes, and they gave forth no sound. Sang and Roger Riddel almost regretted that they had been instrumental in bringing the wretch there, though by doing so they had so well served their country. They looked at each other with horror; but in such a presence, and at such a time, Sang was condemned to remain as dumb as Squire Riddel. The good Earl of Moray had more liberty of speech, and he failed not to use it.

“Be not too hasty with him, my Lord,” said he; “he may yet peraunter be brought to give us tidings of the enemy. Let him but give us what information he can, under promise, that if it be found soothfast, he shall have no evil. Meanwhile, after he shall have effunded all that it may concern us to know, let him be delivered into the custody of the Constable of Jedworth, with him to liggen in strict durance, until we shall have certiorated ourselves by our own experience, whether the things which he may tell be true or false, with certification that his life shall be the forfeit of the minutest breach of verity. If he doth refuse these terms, then, in the name of St. Andrew, let him incontinent lose his head.”

A hum of approbation ran around the meeting, and the Earl of Fife, though in secret half-chagrined that he had not had his own will, saw that in this point he must give way to the general voice.

“Thou dost hear thy destiny,” said he to the prisoner; “what is thine election?”

“My Lord, seeing that I have no alternative but to yield me to dire necessity,” answered the English esquire, with an expression of infinite relief in his countenance, “verily, I do most gladly accept your terms. As God is my judge, I shall tell thee all I know, without alteration, addition, or curtailment.”

“Who sent thee hither, then?” demanded the Earl of Fife.

“Being one to whom these Marches be well known, I was chosen by the Lords of Northumberland, and sent hither to learn the state of your enterprise; as alswa to gather which way ye do propose to draw.”

“Where, then, be these English Lords?” demanded the Earl of Douglas.

“Sirs,” replied the captive squire, “sith it behoveth me to say the truth, ye shall surely have it. I be come straight hither from Newcastle, where be Sir Henry Piersie, surnamed Hotspur, from his frequent pricking; and his brother Sir Rafe Piersie, yea, and divers other nobles and knights, flowers of English chivalry, all in readiness to depart thence as soon as they may know that ye have set forward into England; for, hearing of the strength of your host, they do not choose to come to meet you.”

“Why, what number do they repute us at?” demanded the Earl of Moray.

“Sir,” replied the esquire, “it is said how ye be forty thousand men and twelve hundred spears.”

“What then may be their plan?” demanded the Earl of Fife.

“This be their plan, my Lord,” replied the esquire: “If ye do invade England by Carlisle, then will they straightway force a passage for themselves by Dunbar to Edinburgh; and if ye do hold through Northumberland, then will they enter Scotland by the Western Marches.”

As the English esquire Barton was thus delivering himself, the Scottish lords threw significant glances towards each other. Some further questions of less moment were put to him, and after he had answered to all with every appearance of perfect candour—

“Let him be removed into the strict keeping of the Constable of Jedworth,” said the Earl of Fife. “His life and liberty shall be safe, provided his report shall in all things prove true, and for this I do gage my word in name of myself and all these noble lords and knights here present. Should he be found to have spoken falsely in the veriest tittle, he knoweth his fate.”

After the prisoner was withdrawn under the charge of a guard, the Earl of Fife conveyed thanks to the two esquires for having so well fulfilled their duty to Scotland. The assembled lords and knights were overjoyed that the intent of their enemies should have been thus made so surely known to them, and a buzz of congratulation arose.

“This is all well, my Lords,” said the Earl of Fife, after having again procured silence; “but let us now to council, I entreat you, that we may straightway devise how best to avail ourselves of the tidings we have gained. For mine own part I do opine that we should break our host into two armies. Let the most part, together with all our carriage, go by the Cumberland Marches and Carlisle, and let a smaller body draw towards Newcastle-upon-Tyne, to fill up and occupy the attention of the enemy assembled there. I speak under the correction of wiser heads,” continued the Earl, bowing around him with great condescension, so as to excite a burst of approbation from those weaker spirits whom he daily flattered until he made them his staunch partisans—“I speak, I say, under the correction of wiser heads; yet meseems, from those unanimous applauses, my Lords, that you do honour my scheme of warfare with your universal support; and such being the case, I may now say, that whilst I do myself propose to lead the main army by the Western Marches, I shall commit the command of the smaller body to the brave Earls of Douglas, Dunbar, and Moray. For this last service, methinks, three hundred lances, and three thousand crossbows and axemen, may well enow suffice.”

“By St. Andrew, but ’tis a fine thing to know how to keep one’s head safe,” whispered Sir William de Dalzell ironically to Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger; “what thinkest thou of him who shall shoulder ye a catapult to crush a swarm of dung flies, whilst he doth send out others to war on lions and bearded pards with a handful of hazel nuts. Depardieux, he who goeth by Carlisle may march boldly from one end of Cumberland to the other, with a single clump of spears at his back, ay, and take the fattest spoil too; but he who shall march to Newcastle will want all the hardy hearts and well-strung thewes and muscles he can muster around him, and is like after all to get nought but a broken head for his journey. Holy St. Giles, but ’tis well to take care of one’s self.”

By a little management, the opinion of the council of war was easily brought perfectly to coincide with the views of the Earl of Fife. But so great was the name of James Earl of Douglas, that it was in itself a host. The two brothers, George Dunbar Earl of Dunbar and March, and John Dunbar Earl of Moray, too, were so much beloved, that a puissant band of knights voluntarily mustered under their banners. Among these were Sir Patrick Hepborne, his son, and Sir John Assueton. Ere the assembly dissolved, it was determined that the armies should divide, and march on their respective routes early on the ensuing morning; and all was bustle and preparation accordingly.

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LVII. The Scots besieging Newcastle—The Fight on the Walls

The smaller force, under the Douglas, broke up from Jedworth, and set forward in high spirits, cheered by the good countenance and presence of their renowned commander. Their parting shouts were re-echoed from the sides of the surrounding hills, and were replied to with yet louder bursts of acclamation by the large army of which they had been so lately a portion. Their route lay through the wilderness of the forest which at that time covered the country, and they soon lost even the cheers of their departing comrades, that, mellowing by degrees, at last died away among the hollow valleys. On entering Northumberland, the Earl of Douglas allowed little time for pillaging the country, but stretched forward with the utmost expedition, so that he might carry on the war directly into the heart of the Bishoprick of Durham, before his movements could be made known to the Earl of Northumberland, who was at Alnwick, or to his two sons, who were at that moment patiently waiting at Newcastle, with the other English lords, for the return of their spy.

The Douglas was by no means one who could endure to make a mere empty show of invasion, for the purpose of creating a diversion that might smooth the way of his politic brother-in-law the Earl of Fife. His force was small indeed, but he resolved that it should do England as much harm as he could effect with it. Passing the River Tyne, therefore, at some distance above Newcastle, he spread his troops over the fair County of Durham, and began taking an awful, nay, a tenfold revenge, for the miseries which the Merse had so lately endured, at the hands of the English, by carrying devastation far and wide.

The news that the Scots were abroad at last reached Newcastle and Durham, and their numbers being exaggerated, these towns were filled with great consternation. They now learned the tale, indeed, from the evidence of their senses, for the smoke of the continued conflagration, creeping heavily over the country, and, carrying the smell of combustion along with it, poisoned the very air of both these places. Having reached the gates of Durham, the Douglas found them firmly closed against him; so, after skirmishing there for some days, he pushed on, destroying everything in his way, even to the very gates of York, and leaving no town unburnt that was not sufficiently walled to require a regular siege.

Having thus more than made good a chivalric vow with which he had started, that he should see Durham ere he returned, and having already ventured farther into a hostile country than his small force warranted, he returned towards Newcastle, industriously perfecting any destruction that he had before left unfinished; and having re-crossed the Tyne, at the same spot where he had passed it in his way southwards, he set himself down before the town on the side lying towards Scotland. The place was strongly garrisoned, and contained the flower of the chivalry of the counties of York, Durham, and Northumberland; for as soon as it was fully known that the Scots were abroad, and that they had already passed onwards into Yorkshire, a general rising of the country took place, under the influence of Harry Piersie, lately appointed Keeper of the Northumbrian Marches; and orders were even despatched to the governors of Berwick, Norham, and the other fortresses now in rear of the enemy, to join the general muster with what force they could spare without too much weakening their garrisons.

Sir Rafe Piersie had long ceased to think of Eleanore de Selby. His passion was like the summer-storm, violent in character, but short in duration. His father, the haughty old Earl of Northumberland, had heard of it, and had signified his unqualified displeasure that his son should have even thought of a marriage with the daughter of a mere soldier; while his elder brother, the lively and peppery Hotspur, had laughed and railed at him till he became tired of the very name of De Selby. Part of this feeling arose from an honourable cause. His conscience told him that he had permitted his violent temper to make him forget what was due to the courtesy of knighthood, and he now so deeply repented him of his conduct at Norham, where he had so grossly insulted his host, that the scene never occurred to his mind without bringing the blush of shame to his cheek. He longed for an opportunity, where, without debasing himself, he might prove these feelings to Sir Walter; and the issuing of the order for the Border Captains to appear at Newcastle being the first that presented itself, he immediately availed himself of it.

“Brother,” said he to Hotspur, “as for Sir Matthew Redman of Berwick, he is a stout and able Captain, and in his own person a powerful aid. But what wouldst thou, I pray thee, with bringing the old Captain of Norham so far from home?”

“Dost thou fear to meet him, Rafe?” cried Hotspur, with a sarcastic smile; “or wouldst thou rather that I should send for his dark-eyed daughter hither?”

“Nay, nay, brother,” replied Sir Rafe; “but methinks he is of years somewhat beyond the battle-field.”

“Thou mayest do with him as thou listest, brother Rafe,” replied Hotspur, who was too busy to waste time on such a matter; “but we must have his men.”

Armed with Sir Henry Piersie’s authority to do so, Sir Rafe despatched an especial messenger to Sir Walter de Selby, to assure him that it rejoiced him much to be the instrument of procuring his exemption from personal attendance at Newcastle, which to one who had already seen so many fields, must be rather irksome. The messenger found Sir Walter de Selby lately recovered from his bodily malady; for the death of the wizard Ancient and his villainy being now known to him, he again enjoyed comparative peace of mind. But he was much enfeebled by the shocks he had received. He heard the courier to an end; and the moisture in his eye, with the nervous motion in his closed lips, showed how much he was affected by it.

“Am I then deemed to be so old and worthless?” said he, after a pause. “The time was when the Marches, neither East nor West, could have turned out a starker pricker; yet was it kind in Sir Rafe Piersie, after what hath passed between us, and tell him, I beseech thee, that I so felt and received his message. But it shall never be said that I am behind when others are in the field; it shall never be said of old Sir Walter de Selby, who hath worn the hauberk and morion from his cradle, that he was afraid to die in knightly harness. No, no; let Tom Turnberry prepare my war steed; I’ll lead mine own spears to Newcastle. To thee, my good Lieutenant Oglethorpe, do I commit the keeping of old Norham. It is King Richard’s now. See that it hath no other master when I or King Richard demand it of thee.”

With these words, the brave old warrior gave orders for his men to assemble immediately, and mounting, with the aid of his esquires, he rode from the court-yard at the head of his force, on a mettlesome horse, the fiery paces of which but ill suited with his years; as he went, he joined feebly in the parting cheer with which his brave bowmen and lances took leave of their comrades.

It was the daring spirit of chivalry, more than any great hope of taking the town, that induced the gallant Douglas to tarry for two days before Newcastle. The most powerful thirst of heroic adventure then prevailed, and those within the town were as eager to rush beyond their ramparts to meet the assailants, as the Scottish knights were to assault them. Both days, therefore, were occupied in a succession of skirmishes; and it was a remarkable feature of this warfare, that it seemed to be more regulated by the courtesy of the tournament, than guided by the brutal and remorseless rage of battle. No sooner did a body of lances show itself from within the Scottish lines, than another of equal numbers appeared from behind the barriers of the town, prepared to give it a meeting. Spurring from opposite sides, the combatants encountered each other midway, as if they had been in the lists. A desperate shock took place, followed by a melée, in which prodigious feats of arms were done, whilst the English from their walls, and the Scottish troops from their temporary entrenchments, alternately cheered their friends, as one or other side gained the advantage. But, what was most wonderful, everything resembling atrocity appeared to be banished from the field, and mercy and generosity so tempered victory, that it was difficult to say whether the contest was greatest for glory in the skirmish, or for superiority in clemency, and every other noble feeling, after it was over.

On the evening of the first day, the Lord Douglas, to give the troops a breathing, ordered the place to be assaulted by means of scaling ladders, with the hopes of perhaps surprising it by a coup-de-main. The Scottish troops rushed to the walls with their usual hardihood, and Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton were found in the very front of the attack made by the Earl of Moray’s division. Although they were provided with fascines and trusses of straw to throw into the ditch, yet the ladders were in general found to be too short for surmounting the walls. At one place, however, they were successfully applied; and the two knights, followed by their esquires and some few others, gallantly mounted in the teeth of the enemy, and fought their way into the town, driving the English before them; but being unsupported, owing to the failure of the escalade in other quarters, they were unwillingly compelled to retreat, which they and their followers did, bravely fighting with their faces to the enemy. Having gained the spot where they had climbed, the two friends planted themselves side by side firmly in front of it, to cover the retreat of those who were with them, and gallantly kept a whole host of foes at bay, until all who had entered the place with them had descended, except their trusty esquires, and two other individuals whom they had not leisure to note. The ladders had all been broken or thrown down in the confusion except one, and the English so pressed upon the little knot of Scotchmen that it appeared impossible for so many of them to escape.

“One desperate charge at them, Assueton,” cried Hepborne. “Our safety depends on driving them back for a brief space’s breathing. On them, brave Scots!”

The two knights raised a shout, in which they were joined by their fellow-combatants, and with one accord rushed furiously against the dense circle of English. The effect was tremendous. Many were overthrown by the vigorous blows of the knights and their assistants, but more by the press and confusion occasioned by the panic, excited by the belief that they were backed by a fresh assault of troops from without the walls. There was a momentary dispersion of them; but the individuals of the Scottish party were also separated from each other, and as Sir Patrick Hepborne returned to the rallying point, he was grieved to discover his friend Assueton lying wounded and helpless on the ground. He immediately stooped, to endeavour to set him on his legs, but he was unable to support himself.

“Leave me, dear Hepborne,” said Assueton faintly; “thine own safety depends on thy doing so.”

“Leave thee, Assueton!” cried Hepborne with energy; “nay, by St. Baldrid, if I cannot bear thee hence, I will perish with thee. Clasp thine arms round my neck, my friend,” added he, as he lifted him up from the ground, and began carrying him towards the walls. “Be of good cheer, and tighten thy grasp; thou dost thereby lighten my burden.”

As he moved off, the English returned, shouting upon his heels, with Sang sullenly retreating before them.

“Succour, succour, my trusty esquire,” cried Hepborne; “I have a life here to preserve dearer to me a thousand times than mine own.”

Sang came up to him as he reached the top of the only remaining ladder. To the esquire he hastily confided the care of Assueton, and, turning on the foe, again drove them before him, so as to give Sang leisure to descend with his burden; and then hastily returning to the spot where the ladder was, he discovered that it was broken, and saw Sang in the ditch beneath, endeavouring to extricate himself and the wounded knight from the bundles of straw and fascines among which they had fallen. The enemy were fast gathering behind, and he had no alternative. Selecting a place where the heaps in the ditch were highest, he sprang from the wall, and happily alighted almost uninjured.

Whilst he and his squire were busily employed in lifting Sir John Assueton from the ditch, their attention was attracted to the walls above them, where a desperate struggle was going on between two figures distinctly seen against the sky. But it was of short duration.

“Uve, uve! an she wonnot let her go, by St. Giles, but she shall go wi’ her,” cried Duncan MacErchar, who was one of them; and griping his enemy fast, he sprang with him over the battlements.

Duncan had by no means time to be so select in the choice of the spot where he was to alight as Sir Patrick Hepborne had been. But he took care to leap with his antagonist before him, and his doing so was the saving of his life, his fall being broken by the body of the wretch who participated in it, and who was crushed to death against the very bottom of the ditch, whilst Duncan, though stunned, escaped with some considerable bruises, and immediately regaining his legs, assisted Sir Patrick and his esquire to carry off Sir John Assueton to the Scottish camp.

We have already apprised the reader that the brave knights were supported by two other individuals besides their esquires. One of these, it may be guessed, was the brave MacErchar. The other, when the little party was dispersed after their bold onset, unfortunately missed his way in attempting to return to the rallying point, and, being assailed by a crowd of his foes, was compelled to retreat before them, until he was stopped by a wall, under which he took shelter, and prepared himself for a desperate resistance.

“Yield thee, Scot,” cried some of the first who came up to him. “On him—Seize him,” cried a dozen of them at once.

“By St. Lowry, ’tis right well for ye Southrons to cry yield to ane honest Scotchman. But troth, I’ll tell ye it’s easier to say so to ane o’ my country than to gar him do it, and mair, when ye speak to the henchman o’ the Yearl o’ Moray himsel’,” cried Rory Spears; for it was he, no longer clad, indeed, in his fishing coat and otterskin cap, but armed as became the Earl of Moray’s henchman, and wielding a long pole-axe instead of his gaud-clip.

“Take him alive,” cried an officer who was present; “let not his life be taken, as you value your own. If he be of the Earl of Moray’s household, we may be the better for knowing some of his secrets.”

“Troth, ye’ll hae ill taking o’ me without taking my life too, my lads,” said Rory, swinging his pole-axe so cleverly around him that no one was disposed to risk approaching him.

“In on him and take him, his ransom will be great,” cried the officer; and thus encouraged, one or two of the hardiest did venture to attempt to close on him, but they paid dearly for their daring, being prostrated to right and left like so many nine-pins. The rest were so scared that they scrupled to approach him; and he might have kept them off long enough had not a man who had climbed on the wall behind him suddenly dropped down on his shoulders à califourchon, and brought him headlong to the ground.

“Well done, Tom Turnberry,” cried a dozen voices at once, and in an instant Rory was overpowered, and hastily dragged down a stair and thrust into a dark dungeon under the ramparts, where he was left to his own reflections.

“Is there ony ither poor deevil like mysel’ here?” demanded Rory aloud, after he had in some measure recovered his breath; but finding that no one answered, he went to talk to himself. “Na—nae answer. A-weel, Maister Spears, thou art here, art thou, amang the foundations o’ Newcastle? This is seeing merry England wi’ a vengeance. Troth, after a’, if this is to be the upshot, thou mightest as weel hae turned back frae Norham yonder. Thou canst be of nae satisfaction to the Yearl whiles thou art liggen here, I trow. And as to ony mair comfort or consolation in the wars, thou mayest e’en bid them good day, for thou’lt hae nae mair o’ them, I’ll promise thee. By my troth, an thou hadst not seen this day’s fighting, thou mightest hae been as well liggen on the rocks at the Ess. A-weel, a-weel—it is most surprising how a man o’ sense wull gae wrang at times. Hadst thou no been a fool, ye might hae let thae wud chields climb the wa’s o’ Newcastle themlanes, that is, takin’ thy time o’ life into consideration. By holy St. Mary, what wull become o’ poor Kate? Hoot, the Leddy o’ Norham wull surely see her sent safe back to Tarnawa; though in conscience I had rather been her guide mysel. I was a fool to leave the damosel. And then, St. Lawrence protect me, how I wull be missed at hame.” The thought of his daughter, of his wife, and of his home, grappled Rory by the heart, so that he did nothing but sigh for some moments. “A-weel,” continued he at length, “I maun say, after a’, that albeit there is a great pleasure in fighting, it is but a fool-thing for God’s rational creatures to be cutting ane anither’s throats as if they war wild cats or wolf-beasts. What for sould I come a’ the gate frae Findhorn-side to cleave the skull o’ some poor honest deevil o’ the Tyne here, against whom, as I hope for mercy mysel, I hae no decent or wiselike cause o’ quarrel? War is a fool-thing; but I wull say there is some pleasure in’t, after a’.”

“Ay!” said a long yawning voice from a deep recess in the dungeon.

“St. Lowry defend us, wha’s that!” cried Rory.

“One Roger Riddel,” replied the voice.

“What hast thou been doing, that thou hast been so long silent?” demanded Rory.

“Sleeping,” answered Roger.

“Thou art esquire to that brave knight Sir John Assueton, if I err not?” said Rory.

“Thou art right,” replied Roger.

“And how, in the name of St. Andrew, camest thou here?” demanded Rory.

“By being taken,” replied Roger.

“Thou wert on the ramparts with us to the last,” said Rory.

“I was,” replied Roger.

“By St. Giles, but it was a noble escalade, comrade, an we had only been well backed,” cried Spears with enthusiasm.

“Noble,” cried Roger in the same tone.

“Didst thou mark how the knaves fled afore sax o’ us?” cried Rory. “Sax against twa hundred o’ them at least.”

“Nay, three hundred, brother,” replied Roger.

“Ay, faith, that may be,” said Rory; “I’ll no dispute as to that. There might be three, ay, or four hundred o’ them, for I had no great leisure to count them. But this I ken, neebour, that an it hadna been bigget ground, thou and I souldna hae been here.”

“No, that I’ll promise thee,” replied Roger.

“Where art thou, comrade? Gi’es thy hand; we fought like brave chields thegither,” cried Rory in great glee, and groping about for Squire Riddel. “Thou art a prince of brave fellows.”

“And thou art a very king,” replied Roger, shaking him heartily by the hand.

“’Tis a pleasure to meet thee, though it be in this dungeon,” cried Rory. “Would we had but some yill to wet our friendship. St. Lowry grant that we had but a wee sup yill.”

“Ay, would indeed we had a drop of ale,” re-echoed Roger with a deep sigh.

At this moment steps were heard descending, a light glimmered faintly for a moment through a chink beneath the door, and the key being turned, the round, rosy visage of Master Thomas Turnberry, the squire equerry of Norham, appeared within it. He entered, bearing a lamp in his hand, and was followed by an attendant, who carried an enormous pasty, that had been just broken upon, and a huge stoup of ale.

“So!” said Master Turnberry; “put thee down these things, and let the gentlemen eat and drink. Having put a man into captivity by mine own hard riding, I do think it but consistent with charity to see that he starveth not. Yea, and albeit I am but a soberish man myself, yet do I know that there be others who love ale; and having mortal bowels of compassion in me, I have pity for the frailties of my fellow-men.”

“Sir,” said Rory, lifting the vessel with great readiness from the ground, “an thou hadst been St. Lowry himsel, thou couldst not have ministered to my present wants more cheeringly. I drink to thee from the bottom o’ my soul——Hech!” cried he, after having swallowed half the contents of the vessel, with the nicest measurement, and most scrupulous justice to him who was to come after him; “hech, ’tis most invigorating to the very spinal marrow. It must be allowed that ye do brew most excellent nut-brown to the south o’ the Tweed.”

“Excellent, indeed, judging by its good sale,” cried Roger Riddel, looking into the flagon before he put it to his head; then nodding to Master Turnberry, he drained it to the bottom.

“By’r lackins, but ye have good go-downs, my masters,” cried Turnberry, taking the flagon, and raising the bottom of it, so as to show that it was empty, and at the same time betraying some disappointment. “Methinks I could ha’e ta’en a drop of ale myself. But there be more where this came from. See that the gentlemen lack for nothing,” said he, turning to the attendant. “And so, good night, my merry masters.”

It was about the middle of the ensuing day that Rory Spears was sitting indulging in soliloquy, Roger Riddel having retired to the farther part of the vault, where he had thrown himself down, and buried himself among the straw, to sleep away the time.

“I hae sat for days by mysel, as a relay to watch for the deer,” said Rory—“ay, and I hae lien for weeks by my lane, watching the saumonts loupin’, without hearing voice save the water-kelpy roarin’ in the Ess—yet was I never sae tired as I am at this precious moment, sitting in this hole, wi’ a bit chink yonder aboon just enew to let a poor deevil ken that it’s daylight, and that he mought be happy thereout i’ the sun. As for that chield, Roger Riddel there, my ain Oscar would be mair companionable, I wot. He lies rucking and snorting there as composed as if he were in the best hostel in a’ bonny Scotland. As St. Lowry kens, I wad be content to be in its warst, rather than whaur I am. Holy St. Mungo, the chield hath buried himsel like a very mouldiwort; I can see nought but his nose. A-weel, an I could only gie owre thinking o’ Alice, and Kate, and the Yearl o’ Moray, I mought peraunter sleep mysel.”

As he was stretching himself along the bench where he had been sitting, with the resolution of trying the experiment, he was disturbed by a coming step. The door opened, and an officer entered in great seeming haste.

“Thou art a body attendant of the Earl of Moray, art thou not?” said he, glancing at Spears.

“Yea, I am the noble Yearl’s henchman, as I mought say,” replied Rory.

“Doubtless thou knowest well the person of the Lord Douglas?” said the officer.

“Ay, weel do I that,” replied Rory; “and mair, he hath a great good-wull to me, for mony is the time we hae hunted thegither. Is he not my master the Yearl’s brother-in-law?”

“Follow me then without loss of time,” said the officer; “Sir Henry Piersie would have conference with thee.”

Rory said no more, but joyfully obeyed; and the officer, too much occupied with his errand to investigate things closely, and having no suspicion that the place contained two prisoners, tripped up the stair that led from the dungeon, leaving the door open behind him.

Master Roger Riddel was not asleep; he had only dosed, to save himself the trouble of forming replies to the incessant talk which Rory had carried on; on peeping out from his straw after the officer and his fellow-prisoner had left him, and seeing the door of the dungeon wide open, he slowly raised himself up, walked out of the place, and ascended the short winding stair, from the top of which he quietly emerged into the pure air. With the utmost composure, he then struck into one of the lanes that led from the walls, and walked coolly down a street, through crowds of anxious individuals, all of whom were too busily occupied with anticipations of glory or defeat, to notice a man in the attire of a squire, of whom there were many. Following a crowd that was pressing forwards, he reached the gate. There was a muster at the barriers.

“Where are thy weapons, Sir Squire?” demanded a spearman as he passed by.

“Lend me thy lance, good fellow,” said Roger; “I am in haste—here be money to get thee another.”

The man gave him the spear, took the money, and thanked him; and Roger went on. At the gate stood three horses held by a single groom. Roger went boldly up to him.

“Thou waitest thy master, friend?” said he in a tone of inquiry.

“Yea; and what be that to thee?” replied the fellow surlily.

“Because I have got an angel for thee, and I would know if thou be’st the right man,” replied Riddel.

“Give it me straight, then, good master,” said the man, eagerly.

“Nay, that will I not, neither straight nor crooked,” replied Riddel; “that is, not till I know thy master’s name from thee, that I may know whether in very deed thou be’st the man I do look for.”

“’Tis Sir Robert Ogill that be my master,” replied the man.

“Then art thou the very good fellow I would speak with,” said Roger. “Give me that roan as fast as may be, and this angel here is the token thy master Sir Robert sent thee. I ride on business of his to the barrier.”

Without more ado, and without interruption from the groom, he leaped into the saddle, and riding by the guards at a careless pace, got beyond the barriers, and put his horse to speed for the Scottish camp. A shout was raised among a party of spearmen who were forming without, and some dozen or two of them spurred after him; but he had gained so much start of them, and his horse was so good, that he escaped in spite of all their exertions, and got fairly within the lines occupied by his countrymen.

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LVIII. Combat between Douglas and Hotspur—The Fight for the Pennon

As the Earl of Douglas was sitting in his pavilion, in conversation with his chaplain, Richard Lundie, on the second day of his being before Newcastle, a squire in waiting announced to him that one of Lord Moray’s men wished to have a private interview with him.

“Give him entrance speedily,” said the Douglas, “his business may be of moment. He seeth me in private when he seeth me alone with him who knoweth mine inmost soul.”

The squire bowed and retired, and immediately returned to introduce—Rory Spears.

“Rory Spears!” exclaimed the Douglas; “what hath brought thee hither, and what hath my brother of Moray to tell my private ear through thy mouth? Thou art not the messenger he is used to send between us for such affairs. Were it a matter of wood or river craft, indeed, we might both recognize thee as a right trusty and merry ambassador; but at this time we have other game upon our hands. What hath Lord Moray to say?”

“My Lord Yearl o’ Douglas, naebody kens whaur gowd lies till it be howkit out,” replied Rory, with an obeisance. “Albeit that thou and the Yearl o’ Moray, my noble master, have never yet discovered my talents that way, it proveth not that I do lack them. He who is stranger to the soil may chance to divine that, the which he who owneth it hath never dreamt of; and he——”

“What doth all this tend to, Rory Spears?” demanded the Earl of Douglas, interrupting him rather impatiently. “Trust me, though I may have trifled with thee at Tarnawa, this is no time for such idlesse.”

“Bide a wee, my Lord Yearl, bide a wee,” said Rory, with great composure; “call it not trifling till thou art possessed of the value of what I have to effunde unto thee. I was going to tell thee that he who doth own a man like me, ay, or a horse beast, for instance, may ken less o’ his qualifications than he who doth see him but for a gliff.”

“But what hath all this to do with thy message from Moray to me?” cried the Douglas.

“Nought at all, my Lord Yearl,” replied Rory, “for I hae no message frae him. But,” added he, assuming an air of unusual importance, “it hath much to do, I rauckon, with the embassage the which I am at this moment charged with by the Hotspur.”

“The Hotspur—thou charged with a message from the Hotspur!—How can that be? Quick—try not my patience longer; where hast thou encountered the Hotspur?” exclaimed the Douglas eagerly.

Rory proceeded to give the Earl a sketch of the history of his capture, as well as of his being sent for by Sir Harry Piersie.

“He telled me, my Lord Yearl o’ Douglas,” continued he, “that he heard I confessed mysel to be ane esquire o’ the Yearl o’ Moray’s. I didna daur to contradick Hotspur, the mair because I am in a manner the Yearl’s henchman. ‘I hae made yelection o’ thee,’ said he to me, ‘as the fittest man for my job amang a’ the Scottish prisoners in Newcastle. Thou art to bear a message of importance frae me to the gallant Douglas. Tell him Hotspur hath had the renommie o’ his prowess rung in his lugs till the din hath stirred up his inmost soul and made his very heart yearn to encounter sae mokell bravery. Yet hath my evil fortune so willed it,’ quoth he, ‘that though I have sought him unceasing for these two days, yet have I never had the chance to meet him hand to hand.’”

“Nay, and God wot, I have not been wanting in my search after the noble Hotspur,” replied Douglas with energy. “But what said he more?”

“‘Get thee to the Douglas, Sir Squire,’ said he to me. ‘Tell him that I do entreat him, for the love he bears to chivalry, that he may so order his next assault that I may not fail to meet him in person. Be the manner and terms of our encounter of his own fixing, and let him trust to the word of a Piersie for their fulfilment on this side, as I shall to the unbroken faith of a Douglas. Bear this to him, Sir Squire, and take thy liberty and this golden chain for thy guerdon.’”

“Bravo, Harry Hotspur!” cried the Douglas, rising from his seat, whilst his eyes flashed fire from the joyous tumult of his heroic spirit; “bravo, brave heart! trust me thou shalt not lack thy desire. Quick—let me hasten to reply to the gallant Piersie’s challenge with that promptness the which it doth so well merit. My most faithful and attached Lundie,” continued he, addressing his chaplain,—“get thee to the provost, if thou lovest me, and use thy good judgment to choose me out from among our English prisoners one who may be best fitted for being the bearer of mine answer. Let him be an esquire, for we would rather surpass than fall short of Hotspur’s courtesy.”

“Nay, an ye would surpass the courtesy of the gallant Hotspur,” said Rory, who stood by, “ye maun e’en send him a knight, for he did send thee ane esquire,—ay, and ane esquire with a golden chain round his craig.”

“Right,” cried the Douglas in the fulness of his joy—“right, Squire Rory Spears; for esquire thou shalt hereafter be, sith it hath pleased Harry Piersie to make thee so. And if a knight is not to be had, by St. Andrew I’ll make one for the purpose of this embassage.”

“Hear ye, Maister Ritchie Lundie,” cried Rory; “I take thee witness that my Lord the Yearl o’ Douglas hath allowed me the rank the which the noble Hotspur did confer on me when I did act as his ambassador. Let not this escape thy memory”.

“Fear thee not, Rory Spears,” said the Douglas; “I shall myself see that thine honours shall be duly recognized.”

Lundie soon returned with an English esquire, selected from among the prisoners. The Earl of Douglas made Rory repeat over in his presence the message of which he had been the bearer from Hotspur.

“And now, Sir Squire,” said Douglas, “thou hast heard the wish of that gallant leader, the noble Hotspur. Be thou the bearer of mine answer. Tell Sir Harry Piersie that for a man to have oped his eyes at noon-day without beholding the light of heaven would have been as easy as to have had ears without their being filled with the renowned achievements of the flower of English chivalry. The Douglas burns to meet him; and that time may in no wise be lost, but each forthwith have his desire, tell him that the Douglas will be on the field anon with fifty lances. Let Sir Harry Piersie come forth with a like number at his back, and let this be the understanding between the parties, that both escorts halt within view of each other, and that both knights singly run a career with grounden spears at the outrance, the knights to be left to themselves. Be thou, I say, the bearer of these terms and conditions; but ere thou goest vouchsafe me thy name.”

“My name is Thomas Scrope, so please thee, my Lord,” replied the esquire.

“Within there,” said the Douglas; “call in my knights and officers. And now, Sir Squire,” said he, after the pavilion was filled, and he had given some necessary orders, “kneel down on this cushion, that before this brilliant knot of Scottish chivalry I may do due honour to him who is to bear my message to the Hotspur.” The English esquire obeyed. The Douglas ordered a pair of golden spurs to be buckled on his heels by the hands of the two eldest Scottish knights present. They then belted him with a magnificent sword, a gift from the Earl, who immediately bestowed on him the accolade, saying—

“I dub thee Knight, in the name of God and St. Michael; be faithful, bold, and fortunate. And now rise up, Sir Thomas Scrope.”

Astounded and confused with this unlooked-for honour, the newly-created knight but awkwardly received the congratulations which poured in on him from those present. The Douglas himself conducted him to the door, where a noble horse, fully caparisoned, awaited him.

“Get thee to saddle, then, Sir Thomas Scrope,” cried he, “and tarry not till thou hast possessed the Hotspur of our reply to his message. Say more—that if he liketh not the terms let him name conditions of his own, to the which I do hereby agree par avance; and let me have them forthwith, for in an hour hence I shall be in the field in front of these lines. God speed thee, Sir Thomas.”

“Might it not have been better, my Lord,” said Richard Lundie, after they were again alone, “might it not have been better to have taken a new sun to gild so glorious a combat? The day is already far spent.”

“Yea, it is so,” replied the Douglas; “but to-morrow we move hence from this idle warfare, and I would not willingly go without proving the metal of the gallant Hotspur, so ’tis as well that his impatience be gratified.”

The bruit of the coming encounter spread like wild-fire through the camp, and the whole chivalry within its circuit pressed forward to be admitted of the chosen band who were to witness the onset of the two bravest knights in Christendom. Lord Douglas’s difficulty was how to select so as to avoid giving offence, and he required all his judgment to manage this. Sir Patrick Hepborne had the good fortune to be one of those who were admitted into the honourable ranks.

When the gay little cohort of mounted lances were drawn forth in array, and the Douglas’s banner was displayed, the stout Earl sprang on a powerful black war-horse, that had neighed and pranced whilst he was held by two esquires, but that became quiet and gentle as a lamb when backed by his heroic master. The whole Scottish line turned out to gaze, and shouts of applause arose that re-echoed from the walls of Newcastle. Immediately afterwards Sir Harry Piersie appeared before the barriers of the town, mounted on a milk-white steed, and as Douglas, even at that distance, could perceive that his escort was of similar strength and description to his own, he had the satisfaction of thinking that the terms he had proposed had been accepted. The fortifications were soon covered by the garrison, who crowded to behold the combat, and the Scottish cheers were loudly returned by the English. A trumpet call from the Piersie band was instantly returned by one from that of Lord Douglas, who immediately gave the word for his knights to advance, whilst he rode forward so as to gain a position about fifty yards in front of them, that he might be the better seen by the opposite party. Having brought up his escort to a point sufficiently near (as he judged) for the arrangement agreed on, he halted them, and ordered them to remain steady, whilst he continued to approach until he came within a due distance for running his course against Hotspur, who had also come forward a considerable way before his attendants.

The trumpets from both bands sounded nearly at once, as if by mutual consent—both knights couched their lances—their armed heels made the blood spring from the sides of their coursers—and they flew like two thunderbolts towards the shock. Anxious suspense hung on both sides as they were stretching over the field, and the silence of the moment was such that the full crash of the collision entered every listening ear, however distant. Loud and exulting cheers from the Scottish lines, which, though they came so far, altogether drowned the uncouth sounds of dismay that ran along the walls of Newcastle, proclaimed the success of the Douglas, whose resistless arm, nerved with a strength that few men could boast, bore the no less gallant Hotspur clean out of his saddle, though, owing to his adroitness in covering his person against his adversary’s point, he was hardly if at all wounded.

The band of English knights who attended him, forgetting the nature of the combat, as well as the express orders they had received from Piersie, saw their adored leader on the green sward, and thinking only of the jeopardy he lay in, began shouting—“Hotspur, Hotspur, to the rescue!” and ere the bold Douglas could well check the furious career of his horse, he was in the midst of a phalanx of his advancing foes. Abandoning his ponderous lance, he grasped the enormous mace that hung at his saddle-bow, and bestirred himself with it so lustily that three or four of the English chevaliers were in as many seconds dashed from their seats to the earth, in plight so grievous that there was but little chance of their ever filling them again. But the throng about the hero was so great, and their blows rained so thickly and heavily upon him, that his destruction must have been inevitable long ere his own band could have reached him, had not the noble Hotspur, whom some of his people were by this time carrying hurriedly away, called out to the knights of his party in a voice of command that was rarely disobeyed—

“Touch not the Douglas—harm not a hair of his head, as ye would hope for heaven. What, would ye assault at such odds the brave Douglas, who hath relied on the word of a Piersie? Shame, shame on ye, gentlemen. Your zeal for Hotspur’s safety came not well at this time for Hotspur’s honour. Trust me, his life stood in no peril with so chivalric a foe.”

Awed and ashamed by these chiding words, the English knights fell back abashed, and made way for the valiant Douglas, who emerged from among them like a hunted lion from among the pack of puny hounds who have vainly baited him.

“Halt! chevaliers,” cried he, rising in his saddle, and raising his right arm, as he in his turn addressed his own band, who were pouring furiously down on the English knights, shouting, “Douglas, Douglas, to the rescue!” “Halt,” cried he again, “halt, in the name of St. Andrew! Let the gallant Hotspur retreat in peace. I blame not him for this small mistake of his trusty followers, the which, after all, was but an excusable error of affection. And as for thee, Piersie, I thank thee for thy courtesy. Depardieux, thou hast proved thyself to be brave as honourable and honourable as brave. Can I say more? By the honour of knighthood, thou hast proved thyself to be Harry Piersie, and in that name all that is excellent in chivalry is centred. The chance hath been mine now; it may be thine anon, if it do so please Heaven. Get thee to refresh thyself then, for we shall forthwith beat up thy quarters with a stiffer stoure than any thou hast yet endured.”

“Douglas,” cried Piersie, who was by this time remounted, “Douglas, thou art all, and more than all that minstrels have called thee. Farewell, till we again meet, and may our meeting be speedy.”

With these parting words, the two leaders wheeled off their respective bands.

Immediately after the Earl of Douglas had returned to the camp, a council of war was held, and, after a short deliberation, preparations were made for instantly assaulting and scaling the fortifications. The army was drawn out from its entrenchments and was led to the attack arranged in three divisions. The Earl of Douglas, attended by the little chosen band of knights who had that day vowed him their special service, led on the central body directly against the barriers. The right and left wings, commanded by the Earls of Dunbar and Moray, marched on steadily, to attempt the storm of the walls at two several points on each side of the gates, in defiance of a heavy shower of arrows from the English bowmen, mingled with some weightier missiles from the balistæ, which sorely galled them, and which they could but ill return with their cross-bows. Each of these flanking divisions covered the approach of a number of wains, laden with hay and straw collected from the neighbouring country; and so soon as they had come near enough to the fortifications, a signal was given, the wains were brought suddenly forward, and hurled one over another into the ditch, so as in many places to fill it up, and admit of the ladders being raised against the wall with great success. The Scottish soldiers rent the air with their shouts, and wielding their destructive battle-axes, rushed like furies to the escalade. But the English were so well prepared, and defended themselves so manfully that they beat back the assailants at every point, and soon succeeded in setting fire to the combustible materials in the ditch, by throwing down lighted brands, so that all hope of forcing an entrance in that way was soon at an end.

Meanwhile the Douglas forcibly assaulted the wooden barriers that defended the entrance to the town; and Piersie and his chivalry, who were immediately within them, no sooner heard the war-cry of “Douglas, Douglas! jamais arrière!” than, collecting themselves into one great body, they rushed out on the Scottish forces with so resistless an impetus, that nothing could withstand the fury of the stream. Douglas and his troops were borne away like trees of the forest before some bursting torrent. But no sooner had the English spread themselves out upon the plain like exhausted waters, than the voice of the Scottish hero was heard above all the clang of the battle, cheering his men to the charge, and his superb figure, exalted on his black courser, was seen towering onwards against the slackening foe, gathering the firmest Scottish hearts around him as he went.

The English now in their turn gave back; but Harry Piersie, recovered from his stunning fall, mounted on a fresh roan, and, surrounded by the brave knights by whom he was formerly attended, restored their courage both by his voice and example. Shouts of “Piersie, Piersie!” and “Douglas, Douglas!” arose from different parts of the field, and were re-echoed from the walls. At length the two leaders caught a glimpse of each other amid the volumes of smoke that, tinged by the setting sun, were rolling along the ground from the blazing straw, which the descending damps of evening now hardly permitted to rise into the air.

“Ha, Douglas, have I found thee at last?” cried Piersie, turning towards him.

“Trust me, ’twas no fault of mine that we met not sooner, Harry Piersie,” cried Douglas, spurring to encounter him with his mace, his lance having been shivered in the melee.

There was time for no more words. Piersie ran his lance at the Douglas as he came on, who with wonderful dexterity turned it aside, and catching it in his hand, endeavoured to wrench it from his owner. Piersie’s embroidered pennon was waving from the spear head. Douglas snatched at it, but his adversary disappointed him, by forcing up the point, and each retaining his grasp, they were now drawn together into close contact. The little silken trifle, utterly worthless in itself, glittered like a child’s bauble over their heads; but if it had been a kingdom they were contending for, they could not have been more eagerly set on the contest. Each forgetful of the defence of his own life, put forth all his strength and skill, the one to obtain what he considered so glorious a prize, and the other to keep what he thought it would be so disgraceful to lose, and what, moreover, he so much valued, for the sake of her whose taper fingers had interwoven its golden threads. The struggle was strong, but it was short in duration, for the iron hands of Douglas snapt the slim ashen shaft in twain, and in an instant he held up the broken lance, and waved the pennon triumphantly over his head.

“The Piersie’s pennon! recover the Piersie’s pennon!” was the instant cry, and the English crowded to assist Hotspur, led on by Sir Rafe Piersie.

At that moment a body of Scottish lances, headed by Sir Patrick Hepborne, came pouring down in tremendous charge, shouting “Douglas, Douglas!” and dividing the two combatants as they swept onwards, they bore away the Piersies and the English before them to the very barriers, where the press of the combat was so hot, that they were soon compelled to retreat within their palisadoes, and to close up their defences. The partial breathing of an instant ensued, during which Douglas looked eagerly for Hotspur, and at length having descried him over the pales—

“By St. Andrew,” he cried, rising in his stirrups, and again waving the captured pennon high in the air, “I have good reason, Harry Piersie, to be thankful for the glorious issue of this bicker. Trust me, I value this pennon of thine above all the spoil of Newcastle, nay, or of an hundred such towns. I shall bear it with me into Scotland, fair Sir, in token of our encounter; and in remembrance of thy prowess, I do promise thee it shall grace the proudest pinnacle of my Castle of Dalkeith.”

“Be assured, Douglas,” replied Piersie courteously, though with manifest signs of great vexation, “ye shall not bear it over the Border; nay, ye shall not pass the bounds of this county till ye be met withal in such wise that ye shall make none avaunte thereof.”

“Well, brave Sir,” replied the Earl of Douglas, “it shall be set up before my pavilion this night; so come thither to seek for thy pennon, and take it thence if thou canst; till then, farewell.”

The Lord Douglas turned away, proudly bearing his trophy; and the night was now approaching, and all hopes of succeeding in the assault being at an end, he ordered the retreat to be sounded, and collecting his forces, he retired behind his trenches.

The Scottish troops were no sooner withdrawn than Hotspur, smarting under the stinging disgrace of the loss of his pennon, summoned a council of war, in which he bravely proposed to lead on the English troops to a night attack against the Scottish entrenchments. This proposition was warmly supported by Sir Rafe Piersie, who participated largely in his brother’s injured feelings; but an opinion prevailing among the English knights that the Earl of Douglas’s party was but the Scottish vanguard, and that the large army, of which they had heard so much, was hovering at no great distance, ready to avail itself of any imprudent step they might take, very generally opposed his wishes.

“Sir,” said the prudent Seneschal of York, who was present, and who seemed to speak as the organ of the rest, “there fortuneth in war oftentimes many chances. Another day thou mayest gain greater advantage of Earl Douglas than he hath this day won of thee. Let us not peril the cause of England for a paltry pennon, when the power of Scotland is abroad. Who knoweth but this empty skirmish of theirs may be a snare to lure us out to destruction? Better is it to lose a pennon than two or three hundred brave knights and squires, and to lay our country at the mercy of these invading foemen.”

Though some of the young and impetuous, and even the old Sir Walter de Selby, showed symptoms of being disposed to support the plan proposed by the Hotspur, yet this prudent counsel was so generally applauded, that, though boiling inwardly with indignation at their apathy, he was compelled to yield with the best face he could, while his lip was visibly curled with a smile of ineffable contempt for what he considered their pusillanimity.

“What a hollow flock of craven pullets, brother Rafe!” said he, giving way to a burst of passionate vexation after the council had broke up, and they were left alone. “What, a paltry pennon, saidst thou, Sir Seneschal? May thy tongue be blistered for the word! Depardieux, were it not unwise to stir up evil blood among us at such a time, I would make him eat it, old as he is, and difficult as he might find the digestion of it. Oh, is’t not bitter penance, brother Rafe, for falcons such as we are to be mewed up with such a set of grey geese? By Heaven, it is enough to brutify the noble spirit we do inherit from our sires. What will the Douglas, I pr’ythee, think of Harry Hotspur, now that after all his vaunts he cometh not out to-night to give him the camisado in his tent, and to pluck his pennon from the disgraceful soil in the which it doth now grow so vilely? But, by St. George, though I should be obliged to go with no more than our vassals, I will catch the Douglas ere he quits Northumberland, and I will have my pennon again or die in the taking of it.”

The Douglas was well prepared to give Harry Piersie a welcome had circumstances enabled him to have paid his visit to the Scottish camp before they broke up from Newcastle. The sentinels were so stationed that the whole army would have been alarmed and under arms in a few minutes. His sleep was therefore as sound as if he had been in his own Castle of Dalkeith, though he slept in his armour, that he might be ready to meet the foe on the first rouse.

“Well, my trusty esquires,” said he to Robert Hart and Simon Glendinning, as they came to wait on him in the morning, “doth Harry Piersie’s pennon still flutter where these hands did place it yesternight?”

“Yea, my good Lord,” replied Glendinning, “thy challenge hath gone unheeded.”

“Nay, then, we bide no longer for him here,” said Douglas; “an he will have it now, he must come after us to take it. Are my Lords Moray and Dunbar astir?”

“They are, my Lord,” replied Hart.

“Go to them, then, Robert, and tell them, that with their leave we shall march anon. But, by St. Andrew, there shall be no appearance of unseemly haste. Let the sun, that saw the Piersie’s pennon planted yesternight ere he did go to bed, be suffered to look upon it for some time after he be well risen again, so that we may not be accused of being more dexterous in carrying off our prey than bold in defending it.”

The little Scottish army broke up from their encampment with as much composure as if they had been in a friendly country, and marched leisurely off with loud cheers. Harry Piersie was on the wall, and his blood boiled at the very sound.

“By the holy St. Cuthbert, they mock me,” cried he, his face flushing with anger; “ay, an well may they too,” continued he, striking his forehead. “Oh, I could leap over these walls from very despite. By the mass, their numbers are naught; see how small their columns appear; already the last of them are gone; oh, is it not enow to drive me to madness!”—and, dashing his mailed foot to the ground, he turned away to gnaw his nails with vexation.

After taking two or three turns with his brother along the rampart, he suddenly called for an esquire, and ordered him to procure some intelligent scouts; to these he gave orders to follow the Scottish line of march, and to bring him frequent and accurate intelligence of their numbers, their route, and all their actions; and, having taken this precaution, he and Sir Rafe Piersie continued to pace the walls by themselves, giving vent, from time to time, to their indignation and disappointment, in abrupt sentences addressed to each other. During that day and the evening following it, large reinforcements of troops poured into Newcastle, from different quarters of the circumjacent country; and the stronger Hotspur found himself, the more impatient he became to make use of his strength.

“Ay, ay, see where they come; see where they come, brother Rafe,” said he in a pettish tone. “But what come they for, an we have them not in the field? Depardieux, from the careless guise and strutting gait of some of these butter-headed burghers, and clod-pated churls, meseems as if they came more to parade it in a fair than to fight.”

“If we can but get them once into the field,” said Sir Rafe Piersie, “by all that is good, we shall teach the knaves another bearing and another step.”

“Ay, marry, would that we but had them in the field, indeed,” replied Hotspur; “the very smell of battle hath a marvellous virtue in it, and doth oftentimes convert the veriest dolt into a hero. Of such fellows as these men, one might make rare engines for recovering a lost pennon, yea, as of finer clay. Would we but had them fit the proof. But a plague upon these cautious seniors of the council, methinks my patience was miraculous; nay, in truth, most miraculous, to hear that old driveller talk of my paltry pennon, and not to dash my gauntlet in his teeth for the word.”

“Nay, I could hardly keep my hands down,” cried Sir Rafe Piersie. “Methinks our blood must be cooling, or else even his age should have been no protection.”

“’Tis better as it is, Rafe,” replied Hotspur; “but why tarry these scouts of mine? I shall fret me to death ere they return. Why are we not blessed with the power of seeing what doth pass afar off? Had I this faculty, how would mine eyes soar over the Douglas and my pennon!”

In such talk as this the brothers wasted great part of the night. The impatient Hotspur was kept in suspense until next morning, when, much to his relief, the arrival of the wearied scouts was announced to him. He ordered them instantly into his presence, and having closely interrogated them, he soon gathered from them all the intelligence he wanted.

The Earl of Douglas had marched slowly and circumspectly, and although his little army had sufficiently marked his course, by plundering and burning whatever came in its way, the troops had not been suffered to spread far to the right or left. They halted at Pontland, and took and burnt the town and castle, making prisoner of Sir Aymer de Athele, who defended it. Thence they marched to Otterbourne, where they encamped, apparently with the intention of besieging the castle of that name next day. The scouts also brought certain information that the Scots did not amount to more than three thousand men-at-arms, and three or four hundred lances, and that the main body of the army was nowhere in the neighbourhood, but still lying indolently on the Western Marches. Full of these particulars, Hotspur, with a bounding heart, again summoned the council of war, and bringing in his scouts, he made them tell their own story.

“What say ye now, gentlemen?” cried he with a triumphant air; “was I right, or not? By the Rood, I was at least wrong to listen to the cold caution of some few frozen heads here; for, an I mistake not the general voice of the council yesterday was with me. We mought have spared these Scots many a weary mile of march, I ween. By St. George, they were a mere handful for us, a mere handful; not a man of them should have escaped us; ay, and such a price should they have paid for the ruin they have wrought on these fine counties, that Scotland should have quaked for a century at the very thought of setting foot across the Border.”

“Frozen heads, didst thou say, Sir Harry Piersie?” demanded the Seneschal of York calmly; “methinks that thy meaning would be to accuse those frozen heads of being leagued with frozen hearts; but let me tell thee, Hotspur, where snow is shed on the poll we may look for a cool judgment; and if a cool, then probably a wise judgment.”

“Pshaw!” said Hotspur, half aside to his brother; “this fusty utterer of worn-out saws and everyday wisdom goadeth me beyond all bearing; yet must I temper mine answer. Trust me, I meant not to impeach thine ordinary judgment, Sir Seneschal,” continued he aloud, “though I do think that it did for once err grievously in our yesterday’s council. But let us not talk of this. I am now here to tell ye, gentlemen, that, by the faith I owe to God, and to my Lord my father, go who list with me, I shall now go seek for my pennon, and give Lord Douglas the camisado this night at Otterbourne; yea, by St. George, though I should do it without other aid than that of my brother Rafe, and the faithful vassals of the Piersie. What, am I to put up, think ye, with the loss of my pennon, and the disgrace of our house and name? By heaven, though it were but a hair’s-breadth of the hem of my Lady’s mantle, the Douglas should not carry it into Scotland. But if disgrace doth attend the losing of Hotspur’s pennon, depardieux, let it be borne by those who, calling themselves his friends, will not yield him their help to retake it; for Hotspur is resolved to wipe off shame from himself—he will follow his pennon to the Orcades, yea, pluck it from their most northern cape, or fall in the attempt. Disgrace shall never cleave to Hotspur.”

“No, nor to Rafe Piersie neither,” cried his brother. “Let those who fear to follow stay at home. We shall on together, hand in hand, and seize the pennon, though grim death held its shaft; yea, paltry as it may be thought, it shall be the sun on whose beams our dying eyes shall close. Let us on then.”

The loud murmurs of applause which arose from among the younger knights manifested how much they sympathized with the feelings of the Piersies. But the old Seneschal of York again put in his word of prudence.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I see that, in speaking as I must do, I shall have but few to agree with me, yet must I natheless freely speak my mind, more especially as I do perceive that those knights who, like myself, have seen more years of warfare than the rest, do seem disposed to think with me. I must confess, that, albeit some potent reasons do now cease to war with your opinion, mine is but little altered. Meseems it still is an especial risk to move so far from garrison after an uncertain enemy, for a mere shred of silk and gold.”

“A shred of silk and gold!” exclaimed Sir Walter de Selby. “What, dost thou not think that all England is disgraced by this triumph of the Scottish Douglas over the Hotspur? And dost thou regard nought but the shred of silk and gold? Talk not of the old ones, I pray thee, Sir Seneschal of York. Trust me, old as is Sir Walter de Selby, he shall never rest idle whilst gallant deeds are adoing to wipe off a foul stain from the name of England. Be it death or victory, he shall have his share on’t.”

“Thy hand, my brave old soldier,” cried both the Piersies at once.

“Thou shalt go with us,” exclaimed Hotspur; “though thine years might have well excused thee leaving thine own Castle of Norham, yet hast thou come hither; yea, and thou shalt now forward with us to the field, were it but to show how the noble fire of a warlike soul may burn through the thickest snows of age.”

“Nay, then,” said the Seneschal of York, “thou shalt see, Sir Harry Piersie, that albeit I do advise caution, yet shall I do my part as well as others, when my words do cease to avail aught; yet would I fain have thee tarry until thou art joined by the Bishop of Durham, who is looked for with his force this night.”

“What, while we can muster eight thousand good soldiers without him, and six hundred gallant lances? Shall we wait for the Bishop, and so permit the Scots to ’scape from our vengeance? Nay, nay, let’s to horse, my brave friends; my heart swells at the thought of reaping so glorious a field. Let’s to horse without delay, if your blood be English.”

Hotspur’s call was hailed with loud approval, and the brave though cautious Seneschal, seeing that it was in vain to urge more, joined heartily with the rest in getting the army under arms, and in hastening the march.

The Scots had begun to sound their bugles at an early hour that morning, and to assault the Castle of Otterbourne, and they wasted the whole of the day in unsuccessful attempts against it. A council of war being held in the evening, it was found that there were cautious heads among the Scotch as well as among the English knights. Some of those who spoke were of opinion that they should abandon all further attempts against the Castle, and march forward towards Scotland. But the Earl of Douglas opposed this.

“What, my brave Lords and Knights of Scotland,” cried he with energy, “would ye give Harry Piersie cause to say that we have stolen this pennon of his? Let us not creep away with it like thieves in the dark; nay, rather let us show these Southerns that we do earnestly covet their promised visit to us. Let us, I pray ye, tarry here for some two or three days at least; we shall find occupation enough in beleaguering and taking of this Castle hard by, the which is assuredly pregnable to bold and persevering men, and will yield us the more honour that it be strong. Then shall Hotspur have leisure to bethink himself how he may best come to fetch his pennon; and if it should so list him to come, depardieux, he may take my banner too, if he can.”

The old and the cautious hardly in secret approved this counsel; but so much was the heroic Douglas the idol of all, that his wishes were of themselves enough to determine the resolution of those who heard him. Measures were accordingly taken for securing the army against surprise, and for rendering their camp as strong as circumstances would allow; and seeing that they were to remain for so much longer a time than they at first imagined, the soldiers hastily threw up huts, composed of sods and branches of trees, to give them better shelter. The baggage-wains and baggage, with the wainmen, sutlers, and other followers of the army, were stationed so as to block up the approach to the camp; and their position was so defended by morasses and woods, flanking it on either side, as to render it almost unassailable. At some distance from this, the troops were encamped on the slope of a hill, and the wooded rising grounds on either hand contributed to form defences which left it open to attack nowhere but in front, and even there only after the outwork formed by the baggage at a distance in the meadow below should be broken through.

Earl Douglas said little to those around him, but made his various dispositions with the cool and skilful eye of an expert commander. He surveyed the ground with thoughtful attention, as the sun was setting bright on the hill. It glanced upon Piersie’s pennon, that fluttered as if idly impatient of its captivity beside the large banner of Scotland, the heavy drapery of which, drooping to the ground in ample folds, hung in silent and majestic dignity, unruffled by the gentle evening breeze. He thought on the Hotspur and his threats—on the violence and impotence of man’s passions—on the actual insignificance of the object which had so stirred up himself and Harry Piersie, compared with the number and value of the lives of those who might soon be called on to fight for it to the death. He mused on the peaceful quiet that now hung over the scene, and of the change that in a few short hours it might undergo; on the change, above all, that might affect many of those brave hearts which were now beating high with the pulses of life, eager to return to their native soil, and to fulfil schemes of future happiness, never, perhaps, to be realized.

“There is something solemn and grand in the stillness of this lovely evening,” said the Douglas at last to the Earl of Moray, who was with him. “The parting radiance of day in yonder western sky might make us fancy that the earth was yblent with heaven. Why might we not pass to that long-wished-for country on those slanting rays of glory, without intervening death, or the penitential pains of purgatory?”

“’Tis a whimsical conceit, brother,” replied Moray with a smile; “but why, I pray thee, are thy thoughts so employed at a time like this?”

“I will tell thee,” said Douglas gravely. “I know not why it is, but my memory hath been at this time visited by the recollection of a strange dream I once had, and which, long forgotten, doth now arise to me afresh with all its circumstances. Methought I was sitting on a hill side, when, all at once, I beheld a furious battle on the plain of the valley below. One side was led by a figure the which I was conscious bore striking resemblance to mine own. He rushed to the fight, but was quickly pierced with three lances at once, and fell dead on the field. Dismay began to fasten on his army, and defeat appeared certain, when the dead corpse of the knight arose, and, towering to a height ten-fold greater than it had when alive, moved with the solemn step of the grave towards the foe. The shout of victory arose from those who were about to yield, and their enemies were dispersed like chaff before the wind, when the giant figure and all vanished from my fancy’s eye.”

“Strange!” cried Moray, his attention grappled by this singular communication from the Douglas.

“Thou canst never believe me to be a driveller, Moray,” continued Douglas, without noticing his brother-in-law’s interruption, “far less one whom the approach of death may affright. Death must succeed life, as the night doth follow the day, and we who can know little how much of our day is gone, must be prepared to couch as decently when and where the night doth overtake us.”

“Nay, Douglas,” said Moray, again interrupting him, “I well wot that those grave sayings of thine are anything but the offspring of a quailing heart; I know that they are begotten by thy dauntless and well-grounded courage that doth accustom itself to survey death at all times, in thought as well as in field, till thou has converted his grim image into the familiar figure of a friend. Yet why should such thoughts find harbour with thee now? Harry Piersie, if he do come at all for his pennon, will hardly be here to-night.”

“I think not of the Piersie,” said Douglas, taking Moray’s hand, and warmly pressing it between his, while a tear glistened in his manly eye, “I think not of the Piersie or his pennon; but promise me now, when mine hour hath come, and I shall have gloriously fallen in battle, as I well trust may be my fate, that thou wilt yield thine especial protection, and thy love and cherisaunce, to my widowed Margaret. I need not tell thee what she hath been to me. Our brother-in-law Fife is cold, and calculating, and politic, yea, and heartless. He doth aim at the Regency, and he will doubtless gain his end. Margaret is his much-loved sister while she is the proud wife of Douglas; but trust me, little of her brother’s sunshine will fall upon her widow’s weeds. Be it thine, then, to be her prop and comfort. I well know that the warmth of thy Margery’s love will go hand in hand with thee. I am a man, Moray—we are both men—why should we be ashamed of a few tears shed at a moment like this?”

“Nay, but Douglas, why shouldst thou talk thus?” said Moray. “Fate may call for my life first, and then thou wilt have those duties to perform for Margery the which thou dost now claim from me for her sister.”

“Nay,” replied Douglas, with ominous seriousness of aspect. “Yet be it so,” said he, after a pause; “do thou but listen to my sad humour. Mine attached Lundie doth well deserve thy care; see that he do meet with that advancement his piety to God and his devotion to me hath so well merited. And then as for my gallant Archibald, my brave esquires Hart and Glendinning, and my faithful shield-bearer Hop Pringle, they have already carved out a shining reputation for themselves; yet do thou never let it be forgotten that they have been faithful followers of the Douglas.”

“Canst thou believe that the name of Douglas can ever lose its potent charm?” exclaimed the Earl of Moray with energy, yet deeply affected; “or canst thou doubt that to me thy will must ever be a sacred law? But why should we now talk of matters so sad?” continued he, endeavouring to rally his own spirits as well as those of Douglas; “the banquet doth abide us in thy pavilion yonder, and the lords and knights of Scotland do doubtless wait for thee there, in obedience to thine invitation.”

“I had forgotten,” said Douglas, resuming his usual cheerful countenance. “Let us then attune our spirits to mirth and joyous manly converse, sith we have discussed these melancholy themes. Allons, let us to the banquet—such banquet as the rude cookery of the field may furnish.”

It was at this time that Rory Spears, having collected a little knot of friends about him, thus addressed them—

“Captain MacErchar, and you most worthy esquires, Masters Mortimer Sang and Roger Riddel, yea, and you, brave Robin Lindsay and Ralpho Proudfoot, and the rest, who are nobly ettling to rise by your deeds as others hae done afore ye—ahem—panting after that most honourable honour and dignified dignity of an esquire, I do hereby invite ye all to go down wi’ me to the baggage-camp and sutlerages, whaur we may find comfortable and cozy houf in a braw new bigget sodden hostel, yereckit for the accommodation o’ Dame Margaret MacCleareye’s yill-barrels and yill-customers, and there, at my proper expense, to eat the bit supper I bid her prepare as I came up the hill, and to drink till ye hae weel wet the honours, the which, descending on mine unworthy head from the gallant Hotspur (whose health we shall not fail to drink, albeit we may yet hope to hae the cleaving o’ his skull), have been approven of by our noble Lord of Douglas, and by mine especial dear Lord of Moray, for both of whom we are not only bound to drink to the dead, but to fight to the dead.”

“Oich, hoich, Maister Spears, surely, surely—he, he, he!” cried MacErchar.

“Bravo, Master Spears, I shall willingly go with thy squireship,” cried Sang; “nay, and never trust me an I do not my best honour to thine entertainment.”

“Squire Spears, I am thine,” cried Roger Riddel; and the rest all heartily joining in ready acquiescence in his invitation, they followed Rory joyously down the hill in a body.

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