Chapter LXVI…

Chapter LXVI

A Ship of Olden Times—Tempest Tossed—Arrival at the Maison Dieu in Elgin.

The bark which we left threading its way down the mazes of the Thames made a tedious and difficult passage northwards along the coast of England. It was sometimes borne on by favouring breezes, but it often encountered furious contrary blasts that compelled the dauntless Mercer, its commander, to yield before them, and to submit to be driven back for many a league. We must not forget that naval architecture and nautical science were then, comparatively speaking, in their infancy. The hull of this Scottish privateer, or pirate, as she was called by the English, was awkwardly encumbered by two enormous erections. One of these, over the stern, is still recognized in some degree in the poop of our larger ships. Of the other, called the forecastle, although nothing now remains but the name, it was then in reality a tower of considerable height, manned during an engagement by cross-bow men, who were enabled to gall the enemy very severely from that elevated position. The masts were three, one rising from the middle of the vessel, and the others from the two extremities, each formed of one thick short tree, the mainmast being the largest. At the upper end of each mast was fixed a circular stage, walled strongly in with wood; these were called the round-tops, and were large enough to admit of several warriors being stationed in them. Each mast had but one sail hanging from its yard, and that attached to the mainmast was the only sheet of magnitude.

“Ha! what sayest thou now, Barnard?” exclaimed Mercer, slapping on the shoulder his steersman, an old sailor, who had served him and his father before him for some fifty years in the same capacity, and whose back was bent by his constant position at the helm; “methinks this is the only breeze that hath promised to be steady during these fourteen days of our wearisome voyage. An it do but last for some good hour or twain, we may hope to see the other side of St. Abb’s yonder.”

“Ay,” replied Barnard, casting his eye over his left shoulder, “but I like not yonder wide-flaming cloud that doth heave itself up so i’ the sou’-west, Master Mercer. I’m no sailor an it be not big with something worse than aught we have had yet to deal with.”

“Come, come, no evil-omened croaking, Master Barnard,” replied Mercer; “should the breeze freshen, we shall speed but the faster.”

“Nay, but I do tell thee, there is some cruel ill-nature yonder,” said Barnard, sticking testily to his point.

“By St. Rule, but it doth look somewhat angry,” replied Mercer. “We must get more under the lee of the land ere the mischief cometh.”

“By St. Paul, but it doth come already,” cried Barnard; “seest thou not yonder white-topped waves tripping after us?”

“By the mass, but it doth come indeed,” cried Mercer, jumping forward. “Ha, there goeth the foresail flying through the air like a sea-mew. Down with the mainsail. Come, stir ye, stir ye, my hearts. Out with your long-sweeps, my brave spirits—put her head to the land, Barnard. Pull yarely now, my gallants. There is a lull yonder beneath the rocks.”

“’Tis a lull thou wilt never reach, I’ll promise thee, Master Mercer, pull as thou wilt,” said old Barnard gruffly. “Better let her drive to the open sea before the storm. See how angry yonder sinking sun doth look. Trust me, no human power may force her against the tempest. But thou art ever for working impossibilities.”

“Tush, old man,” cried Mercer; “time enow to give in when we shall have tried and failed. I have no fancy for a run to Norway, if by any means we may reach the bonny Frith o’ Forth. So put her head more to the land, I say.”

In obedience to the command of his resolute master, the old helmsman, grumbling like a bear, put the bark into the course he had ordered, and the mariners, aided by the pike and cross-bow men, put their hands steadily to the long oars. The brave Mercer moved actively about, giving life and spirit to their exertions. The storm rapidly increased, and he climbed the forecastle to look out ahead.

“Mercy on us,” cried old Barnard, “there burneth a blue flame at the foremast head. ’Tis gone. Some one is near his end, I trow. Run, boy, and tell the master to come down. He is, as it were, mine own son, and I like not to see him yonder after that dismal warning.”

The ship-boy carried the steersman’s message, but Mercer laughed and heeded it not.

“Here, Peter Patullo, do thou take the helm a bit,” cried the old man, becoming anxious. “He is so wilful, I must go to him myself.”

Barnard had hardly spoken, when a tremendous wave came rolling on against the head of the ship, and striking the forecastle, a dreadful crash followed, the huge timber tower being swept away like a cobweb.

“Holy Mother of God, he is gone,” cried Barnard. “My master—Oh! the boy I nursed, as I may say. Ha, see’st thou nought of Him?” cried the distracted old man, running to the lee-side of the ship, which was drifting broadside on, from the sudden cessation of the panic-struck rowers. “Ha, he’s there; I see him; I saw him as he was heaved up on the bosom of the billow. I’ll save him, or I’ll perish with him.”

“Stop him,” cried the Franciscan, who had rushed from the cabin on hearing the confused cry; “stop him, he plunges to certain destruction.”

But old Barnard was too alert for them all. He was overboard ere any of them could reach him.

“Madman,” cried the Franciscan, hastily picking up a rope; and as the sea lifted up the bulky form of the old skipper, who hung for some moments poised as it were on the crest of the wave, he, with great dexterity, threw a coil over him, and Barnard was dragged most miraculously on board, being unwillingly saved from his rash, though generous, but utterly hopeless attempt.

Meanwhile the brave Mercer was borne away, seemingly to certain destruction. Everything was done by the active Franciscan to bring the bark near him. He was seen, now tossed on the high top of a mountainous surge, and now far down in the gulf out of which it had swelled itself. Sometimes he was thrown violently towards them, and again he was whirled far away with the velocity of thought; yet amidst all the horrors of the apparently inevitable death that surrounded him, he struggled with a calmness that showed his undaunted soul, and seemed determined to husband his strength as long as hope remained. A rope with a noose upon it was thrown to him. He had watched the endeavours his friends were making to save him, and he now exerted all his strength and skill to aid them. After many an unsuccessful effort, he at last caught the rope, and, with great adroitness, passed the noose over his head and arms. The Franciscan and the half-frantic helmsman, aided by some of the crew, began to pull him gently towards the vessel. A long rolling wave came and dashed him against the ship’s side. He was hastily pulled up—but life was for ever extinct.

The deepest grief fell upon the crew when they beheld their beloved commander thus stretched inanimate before them; and they forgot their own safety and that of the vessel in their affliction for his loss. Poor old Barnard hung over the dripping corpse of his master, and seemed to be utterly unconscious of all that was passing around him.

“Alas!” he cried, looking in his face, and putting back his drenched locks with his rough hand as he said so, “would I had but sunk ere I had beheld thee so. I had never the blessing of wife or of children, but I did esteem thy father as my son; yea, and thou wert as the grandchild of mine old age. Thou didst grow to be a man under mine own especial nurture. I had pride and pleasure in thy gallantry and in thy success. Right cheerfully did I work for thee; ay, and would have worked for thee whiles my old timbers did hang together; but now, sith thou art gone, I have but little tie to this world. I care not how soon I weigh anchor for the land of souls; for what have I, a poor old lonesome man, to do here without thee? Let fresher hands take the watch, for—I—I—” his feelings overcame his hardy nature for a moment, but he recovered himself. “Take care no harm comes over his corpse,” cried he, looking sternly round upon his shipmates. “Let it be laid decently out in his own berth—and—and——” His voice again became choked—he coughed—he put his hands to his eyes—and turning hastily away, disappeared into the hole that was his usual place of repose, to bury his emotions in darkness and silence.

After the loss of Mercer, there was an utter confusion and want of system among the under officers and crew, until the Franciscan monk boldly assumed the command. Many of those on board had sailed with him in the days of old Mercer, and being well acquainted with his resolute mind, as well as with his nautical knowledge, they scrupled not to obey him. He was indefatigable in his exertions; but nothing he could do availed, and he was compelled to allow the bark, crazed as she was, to drift before the wind with every fear of her foundering.

Dreadful was the night that ensued, and anxiously did every soul on board long for morning, but when it came it was like a mimic night. The clouds hung darkly over the sea, as if about to mingle with it. Torrents of rain fell; and the waves arose like peaked mountains, their whitened tops piercing the black vault of the clouds. The tempestuous wind seemed to shift from one point to another; and they were so tossed to and fro that they became bewildered, and could not even avail themselves of the imperfect needle then in use. Land they could see none; and when the second night fell upon them, each man gave his soul to the care of the Virgin or his patron saint, persuaded that there was but little chance of ever seeing another sun.

Meanwhile the hardy Franciscan never quailed, nor did he ever leave the deck. Little could be done to aid the ship, but he ceased not to encourage the mariners, both by his voice and his example.

At last the tempest seemed to yield. The wind became hushed, and although the swell of the sea continued for some hours, yet it diminished every moment, and went on gradually moderating until daybreak. By this time the sky had cleared itself of the clouds that had hitherto obscured it, the sun rose above the horizon in full splendour, and a faint hope arose with it that the vessel might yet be saved. But no land was yet visible. The needle was consulted, and it was determined to hoist the mainsail, and to avail themselves of an eastern breeze, to steer in that direction where they knew the British coast must lie; and two men, who were placed in the round-top to look out a-head, soon cheered them with the intelligence that the land was visible; upon which they gave thanks to Heaven, and, as they scudded gently before the breeze, the blue mountains began to appear in the distant haze, and were swelling every moment upon their sight.

Now it was that some of the older men in the ship came to inform the Franciscan that it had been the wish of Mercer, repeatedly expressed during his life, that wherever he might die, he should, if possible, be buried at sea; and, since the cessation of the storm permitted them to have some leisure, the monk gave directions accordingly to prepare for the solemn rite. Old Barnard had never appeared since the moment he left the deck after the catastrophe that befel Mercer, and the struggle the crew had been maintaining ever since with the angry elements had hindered any one from visiting him where he had retreated. He was now sent for; but the sailor who went for him speedily returned with a face of alarm, to report that he could get no answer from him. The Franciscan then lighted a lamp, and went below, followed by several anxious faces. There lay the old man, wrapped up in a blanket, in his berth. His head was turned from them. The Franciscan shook him gently, but he stirred not. He then turned him round, and the light of the lamp fell upon his face. It was ghastly—the eyes were glazed, and the rough features fixed in death. He seemed to have died soon after he had lain down; but whether he had suffered some fatal injury in his noble attempt to save Mercer, or whether he had died of a broken heart for the loss of the brave young man, to whom he was so much attached, it was impossible to say.

Preparations were made for bestowing upon old Barnard the same funeral rites as were contemplated for his master. The religious duties were performed over both by the Franciscan, and both were consigned together to the deep amidst the tears that fell from many a weather-beaten face.

The breeze continued, and the distant mountains grew every moment more and more distinct; but long ere they had approached the land sufficiently near to enable them to determine what part of the coast they were borne towards, a thick fog arose, and put an end to every speculation on the subject, by shutting it entirely from their eyes. The vessel laboured exceedingly, from her shattered condition, and there was no hope of safety left for them but to avail themselves to the utmost of the favourable breeze that still continued to blow. It lasted them bravely, and earned them cheerily on until sunset, but then it fell calm; and the mist clearing away, the moon arose, and showed them a bold coast some miles to the south. Farther on the land became lower, and thither the Franciscan made the crew pull with all their might. As they neared the land, the Lady Beatrice was brought out, half-dead, upon the deck, to be prepared for disembarking immediately, the frail vessel beginning every moment to show more alarming symptoms of the shattered state to which the continued storm had reduced it. They now beheld the lights in some fishermen’s huts on shore, and the distant murmur of the waves, breaking gently on the beach, was the cheering music of hope to them. All at once the vessel struck upon some sunken rock or sand, and instantly began to fill. The confusion was dreadful. The Franciscan approached Beatrice, and quickly made her sensible of her danger. The boat was got out, but it was instantly overloaded—sunk—and all were in the water.

“Hold fast by my cowl, and fear not,” cried the Franciscan, who had the wisdom to stick to the vessel, and who now committed himself to the waves, as it went down under them. Where all were men accustomed to the sea, all were necessarily swimmers, and all made lustily for the shore. Thither also did the bold monk press his way, the Lady Beatrice hanging with the gripe of fate to his cowl; and the distance being but short, and the sea smooth, she was soon placed in safety upon the beach, whence he quickly carried her to the fishermen’s cottages.

The poor inhabitants of the fishing hamlet did all in their power to cherish the unfortunate people who were thus shipwrecked amongst them, but it was little they could do; and the comfort of a large fire was the utmost that any of the hovels could furnish. The Franciscan eagerly inquired what part of the coast they had been thrown on; and he declared that, since it had pleased the saints to deny them an entrance into the Frith of Forth, where lay their destination, he had reason to rejoice that they had taken land on the eastern coast of Moray. The Lady Beatrice, who had never held up her head during the tempestuous voyage, was grievously weakened by sickness. She sank down exhausted on the wretched pallet that was provided for her, and, eager as was the Franciscan to proceed with her to Elgin, the following day was far spent before she could gather strength enough to undertake even so short a ride. Horses were then procured, and they arrived at the gates of the Hospital of the Maison Dieu, where they were kindly received by the pious brethren and the sisterhood, who administered the hospitalities of the institutions to pilgrims and strangers of the better sort, as well as its charities to the poor.

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LXVII. The Wolfe of Badenoch again—The Burning of Elgin Cathedral

The Franciscan left the Lady Beatrice with the nuns of the establishment, and hastened to present himself before the Bishop of Moray, who was then at his Palace of Spynie, at some distance from the town. He found the good man in deep conference with some of his canons, and he received him joyfully.

“Blessed be St. Francis that thou art arrived, Friar John,” said the Bishop aloud, after they had whispered together apart. “Thou comest right seasonably, seeing we do discuss the endless theme of the Wolfe of Badenoch.”

“What! my Lord Bishop of Moray,” cried the Franciscan, “hath that destroying angel been again let loose, to invade the holy territory of the Church?—to burn and to devastate?”

“Nay, nay, Friar John,” replied the Bishop, “for this time the news we have to tell thee are good. The King hath sent a body of troops to dispossess his sacrilegious son from our Badenoch lands, and they are now again in the hands of the tenants of the Church. What sayest thou to this?”

“Um,” replied the Franciscan, doubtfully shaking his head—“and do the King’s troops tarry in Badenoch, to guard the possessions of the Church?”

“Nay, that I do not believe,” replied the Bishop, “but methinks he will hardly try so daring an attempt again.”

“Hast thou brought down his proud spirit, then, to entreat on his knees for the removal of thine anathema?” demanded the Friar.

“Nay, as well hope to make the eagle stoop to the earth, and quail before me,” replied the Bishop.

“In truth, then, my Lord Bishop,” said the Franciscan, “thou mayest as well hope to reclaim the eagle, so that he shall sit on thy wrist like a falcon, as look for a peace from the Wolfe of Badenoch.”

“Dost thou indeed think so?” demanded the Bishop. “Methought that after his Royal father’s reproof, and this his late signal interference against him, we might have looked for peace. Something must be tried, then. To thee, Friar John, we shall look for counsel, and the sooner we do have it the better. So shall we straightway ride with thee to Elgin, and summon a Chapter, that we may consider of this weighty matter.”

The Franciscan accordingly returned to the town with the Bishop and his attendants, and such of the canons as were within call were immediately summoned. The Bishop then occupied his stall within the Chapter-House, supported by his Dean, Archdean, Chancellor, and Chanter; and the other members having taken their places, they remained some hours in council. When the Chapter broke up, the Bishop held some private conference with the Franciscan, and then permitted him to go to his lodging in the Maison Dieu, whither he was happy to retire, being overpowered by exhaustion from his late fatigues, and glad to be at last allowed to seek the needful refreshment of a few hours’ rest.

The vesper hymn had died away through the lengthened aisles of the venerable Cathedral; every note of labour or of mirth was silenced within the town. The weary burghers were sunk in sleep, and even the members of the various holy fraternities had retired to their repose. No eye was awake, save those of a few individuals among the religious, who, having habits of more than ordinary severity of discipline, had doomed themselves to wear the hard pavement with their bare knees, and the hours in endless repetition of penitential prayers before the shrine of the Virgin, or the image of some favourite saint. Not even a dog was heard to stir in the streets. They were as dark, too, as they were silent; for, with the exception of a feeble lamp or two, that burned in niches, before the little figures set up here and there for Popish worship, there was nothing to interrupt the deep obscurity that prevailed.

Suddenly the sound of a large body of horsemen was heard entering the town from the west. The dreams of the burghers were broken, and they were roused from their slumbers; the casements were opened, one after another, as the band passed along, and many a curious head was thrust out. They moved on alertly, without talking; but although they uttered no sounds, and were but dimly seen, the clank of their weapons, and of their steel harness, told well enough that they were no band of vulgar, peace-loving merchants, but a troop of stirring men-at-arms; and many was the cheek that blenched, and many was the ejaculation that escaped the shuddering lips of the timid burghers, as they shrunk within their houses at the alarming conviction. They crossed and blessed themselves after the warriors had passed by, and each again sought his bed.

But the repose of the inhabitants was for that night doomed to be short. Distant shrieks of despair, mingled with shouts of exultation, began to arise in the neighbourhood of the Cathedral and the College, in which all the houses of the canons were clustered; and soon the town was alarmed from its centre to its suburbs by the confused cries of half-naked fugitives, who hurried along into the country, as if rushing from some dreadful danger.

“Fire, fire!—murder!—fire, fire!—the Wolfe of Badenoch!”

The terrible name of the fell Earl of Buchan was enough, of itself, to have spread universal panic through the town, even in the midst of broad sunshine. But darkness now magnified their fears. Every one hastened to huddle on what garments might be at hand, and to seize what things were most valuable and portable; and all, without exception—men, women, and children—hurried out into the streets, to seek immediate safety in flight. As the crowd pressed onwards, scarcely daring to look behind them, they beheld the intense darkness of the night invaded by flames that began to shoot upwards in fitful jets. The screams and the shouts rang in their ears, and they quickened their trembling speed; their voices subdued by fear, as they went, into indistinct whispers of horror. No one dared to stop; but, urging on his own steps, he dragged after him those of his feeble parents, or tottering wife, or helpless children.

Those who were most timorous, halted not until they had hid themselves in the neighbouring woods; but those whose curiosity was in some degree an equipoise to their fears, stopped to look behind them whenever a view of the town could be obtained, that they might judge of, and lament over, the devastation that was going forward. Already they could see that the College, the Church of St. Giles, and the Hospital of the Maison Dieu, were burning; but these were all forgotten, as they beheld the dire spectacle of the Cathedral, illuminated throughout all the rich tracery of its Gothic windows by a furious fire, that was already raging high within it. Groans and lamentations burst from their hearts, and loud curses were poured out on the impious heads of those whose fury had led them to destroy so glorious a fabric, an edifice which they had been taught to venerate from their earliest infancy, and to which they were attached by every association, divine and human, that could possibly bind the heart of man. In the midst of their wailings, the pitchy vault of heaven began to be reddened by the glare of the spreading conflagration; and the loud and triumphant shouts that now arose, unmingled with those cries of terror which had at first blended with them, too plainly told that the power of the destroyer was resistless.

As the Lady Beatrice and the Franciscan were the last comers among the crowd of pilgrims and travellers who that night filled the charitable caravansera of the Maison Dieu, they had been put to lodge in the very uppermost storey of the antique and straggling building. The lady occupied a chamber at the extremity of a long passage, running through one wing that was dedicated to the use of the few sisters who inhabited the Hospital, and their female guests. The Franciscan was thrust into a little turret room that hung from one angle of a gable at the very opposite end of the edifice, being connected with the garrets that lay over that wing occupied by the preaching brethren and the guests of their own sex. There was no direct communication between the opposite parts of the building where the lady and the friar were lodged. The main stair, that opened from the doorway of the Hospital, arose within the body of the house, and several narrow passages branched off from it, having separate stairs leading to the different parts of the higher regions.

The brethren and sisters of the institution, as well as the numerous temporary inmates of its various chambers, were alarmed by the shrieks that arose when the firebrands were at first applied to the Cathedral, and the houses of the clergy connected with it. Neither the permanent nor the accidental tenants of the house had much personal property to remove, and what they had was instantly carried out by a general rush into the courtyard, whence they hastily escaped, each prompted by a desire of self-preservation. Not so the Lady Beatrice and the Franciscan. Both of them had suffered so much from want of natural rest, and the monk especially had undergone fatigue of body so lengthened and so severe during the protracted storm they had lately had to struggle with, that they lay as unconscious of the noise as if their senses had been locked up by the influence of some powerful opiate. The Lady Beatrice, indeed, was half awakened by the din occasioned by the escape of those who were in the house. But she had been dreaming of the ship and of the sea, and the hurry of the retreating steps and the confused voice of alarm having speedily subsided within the Hospital, she turned again to enjoy a more profound repose, believing it was her fancy that had made her imagine she had heard the sound of the waves and the winds, and the bustling tread of the mariners.

Again a noise came that increased and jarred in her ears, and a vivid light arose that flickered through the casement into the place where she lay, and falling strongly on her face, her silken eyelashes were gradually opened, and, terror seizing upon her, she sprang at once from her couch to the window. Then it was that she beheld the court of the Hospital below filled with mounted men-at-arms, together with numbers on foot, who seemed to be active agents in kindling combustibles, by the employment of which the whole main body of the building was already in flames—as she could easily guess from the suffocating smoke that arose, and the red glare that was thrown over the features of those who, with their faces turned upwards, were watching the progress of the devouring element with a fiendish expression of satisfaction.

Half-dead with fear, the Lady Beatrice began to hurry on her garments, doubtful, in the state of distraction she was thrown into, whether she might or ought to hope to escape from the fire, since she could not possibly do so without exposing herself to the fury of a savage band, whose present occupation was enough to proclaim them enemies of the most reckless description. She was bewildered, and knew not what to do. The towers and spires of the Cathedral were blazing like gigantic torches. The darkness of night seemed to be put to flight, and distant yells arising from time to time, proclaimed the multitude who were actors in this scene of ruin.

But the more pressing danger brought her at last to recollection, and she rushed from her chamber to make an effort to escape. Already were the narrow passages filled with a stifling smoke, which she made some faint efforts to penetrate; but finding it impossible to proceed, she returned to her chamber, and, throwing herself upon her knees, grew faint from despair. Recovering herself in some degree, she grasped her croslet, and began offering up her prayers for that mercy in the next world of which she believed she had now no hope in this; and, as she was so employed, she thought she felt the very boards heating beneath her. She sprang to her feet, and again approached the open casement, that she might breathe more freely. At that moment a loud murmur, rather than a cry, arose in the court below.

“He cometh—’tis he—’tis he himself.—The Earl—the Earl of Buchan—the Wolfe of Badenoch!—Hush!”—And their clamour was instantly silenced.

“Out o’ my way,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, as, armed cap-a-pie, and with his vizor up, he came galloping furiously in at the Gothic gateway, followed by his four younger sons, and some forty or fifty mounted spearmen and axemen. The pavement rattled under the clatter of their iron shod hooves, and their polished mail flashed back the blaze of the flaming edifice.

“Ha, ha, ha! by all the fiends, but the mischief doth work well here too,” shouted he laughing wildly as he reined up his steed, with a check that threw him backwards on his haunches; “yet this is but baby’s work compared to the blazing towers yonder—ha, ha, ha! The haughty pile on the which the pride of that scurvy Priest-Bishop hath heretofore been so loftily perched, will soon be prostrate amidst its own dust and ashes. Ha! by the beard of my grandfather, but it is a glorious vengeance. What was the brenning of Forres to this?—ha, ha, ha! Not a hole shall these corbies have to hide their heads in. Every nest polluted by these stinking carrions shall be levelled. Such be the fate of those who dare to contend with the Wolfe of Badenoch! But have all escaped from this burning house? I would not have the hair of a human head singed—not a hair of a head, I tell ye. Didst thou see all escape them hence?”

“I did, my noble Lord,” replied one of his esquires, who had superintended the execution of this part of his commands; “with our own eyes did we see them, as we arrived, scour from the walls, like an army of mice from a hollow cheese.”

“Ha! by my faith, but thou liest, villain,” cried the Wolfe, turning hastily round, and levelling the speaker to the earth with one blow of his truncheon; “thou dost lie black as hell. By all that is unlucky, I did even now behold a female form at yonder window. Nay, now the smoke doth hide it; but—see, see—ha! why hath it been so, knaves? Did I not warn ye all that not a life should be tint?”

“Help, help, Lord Badenoch,” cried the Lady Beatrice—“help, help, or I perish! The boards burn.—Help, help, for the love of mercy—for the love of the blessed Virgin, save me, save me!”

“By the holy mass, I should know that voice,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch; “nay, ’tis she indeed, or ’tis her wraith I do behold.”

“’Tis some evil spirit, father,” said Sir Andrew Stewart, who had accompanied his father in this expedition, not willingly, but because the Wolfe of Badenoch had resolved that he should have a share in it.

“Evil spirit!” cried the Wolfe, turning angrily around on him; “ha! ’tis thou who art the evil spirit, son Andrew. Thou darest not to look on her whom thou wouldst have injured. But, by this hand, thou shalt. The damsel shall not perish, if I can help her. I will go rescue her, and thou, son Andrew, shalt follow me.”

“Nay, try not anything so rash, father,” exclaimed Sir Andrew Stewart, dreadfully alarmed to find that he was expected to participate in an attempt so desperate; “the whole body of the house is in flames.”

“What, villain,” cried the Wolfe indignantly; “so, thou couldst love the damsel to do her violence, and yet art base enow to shrink from the glorious achievement of saving her life, or perishing in the attempt. Unworthy whelp of the Wolfe of Badenoch! Dastard, dismount and in with me, or, by the blood of the Bruce, the spears of my men-at-arms shall goad thee to it.” And saying so, he sprang from his horse, while Sir Andrew Stewart, though half-dead with fear, was compelled to follow him with all the alertness that might have befitted a hero well stomached for the desperate undertaking.

“What, Andrew going thither!” cried Walter Stewart, leaping from his horse; “by this hand, but I shall in too, then.”

“And so shall I,” cried James, following his brother’s example.

“And by my beard that is to grow,” cried the boy Duncan, “but I shall not be left behind.”

“Nay, stay, Sir Duncan,” cried an esquire. “By the mass, but he is in after the others; and what will my Lord say if anything doth befall him? He loveth the boy more than all the rest put together. I’ll in after him.” Upon which the man rushed in, followed by a crowd of the others, who were equally afraid of the rage that might fall upon their heads for having permitted the boy to escape from them.

And now a terrible scene ensued. The crowd who entered soon wedged themselves in the narrow passages just within the doorway, so that they could neither advance nor retreat. The smoke accumulated about them from the stoppage of its vent. They struggled and crushed, and poured out half-choked curses. Some fell, and were trampled under foot; and at length the voice of the Wolfe was heard from within—

“Ha! clear the passage, or I am suffocated; clear the passage, villains, or I will murder ye all.”

The fear of their violent master did for them what they could not before accomplish. An unusual exertion on the part of those who were outermost extricated them from the doorway, and the passage being now less wedged, the force from within sent them all out headlong into the court, and out rushed the Wolfe, nearly spent by the continued suffocation he had endured.

“By all that is miraculous, I do believe that it was a spirit after all,” said the Wolfe, half in soliloquy, as soon as he had gathered breath to speak; “I did make my way to the chamber where she did appear, and she was not there; nor was she anywhere else to be seen. Such tricks of fancy are often played by sprites. And how, after all, could she have been there—she who must be even now in Norham? But, ha!” cried he aloud, “what figure is that I do now behold in yonder hanging towernet that doth blaze so fiercely?”

All eyes were now directed towards the spot he had indicated, and there, to the astonishment of every one, appeared the form of the Franciscan, brightly illumined by the jets of flame that surrounded it.

“Holy Virgin!” cried his followers, crossing themselves, “’tis a sprite—’tis a devil. Mercy on us, ’tis no monk, but something unholy,” cried half-a-dozen voices.

The teeth of the stern Wolfe himself were heard to chatter as he gazed on his old enemy, of the reality of whose present appearance he almost doubted. The keen eyes and strongly expressive countenance of the Friar were now wildly distorted by the alarm which had seized him, on suddenly awaking from the deep sleep he had been plunged in, and finding himself surrounded by all the horrors of the most dreadful of deaths. A red and unearthly light was thrown on his features, and broadly illumined his tonsure, giving him a most terrific and ghastly look. It was, therefore, little to be wondered that even the hardy-minded Wolfe of Badenoch should have for an instant believed that it was the Devil he beheld.

“By all the fiends of hell, ’tis wonderful!” cried he, as he stood fixed in a kind of stupor.

“Help, help!” cried the Franciscan.

“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, recovering himself, “if thou be’st in very deed the chough Friar, bren, bren, and welcome. But if thou be’st the Devil, thou mayest well enow help thyself.”

“Help, in mercy help!” cried the Franciscan; “a ladder, a ladder.”

“A ladder!” cried the Wolfe, now sufficiently reassured, and becoming convinced that it really was the very Franciscan in true flesh who had so bearded him at Lochyndorbe, and no phantom nor demon. “Ha! prating chough, is it thee, in troth? A ladder, saidst thou? Thou couldst have lacked a ladder but for thy hanging, and now thou needst it not, seeing thou art in the way of dying a better death.”

“Help, help!” cried the unfortunate wretch, who seemed hardly to have yet gained a knowledge of those who were below.

“Help!” repeated the Wolfe; “by my trusty burlybrand, but I shall hew down the first villain who doth but move to give thee help. What, did I say that no hair of life should be touched? By the blessed bones of mine ancestors, but there lacked only this accident to make my revenge complete. Ha, ha, ha! did I not swear, thou grey-hooded crow, that as thou didst escape from the pit of water, thou shouldst be tried next by the fire? By my head, I did little imagine that I should thus so soon see thee bren before mine eyes; and bren thou shalt, for no man of mine shall risk the singeing of his beard to pluck thee from the destruction thine atrocious tongue has so well merited.”

The monk disappeared for some moments, and soon afterwards, to the astonishment of all, was seen making his way along the roof through volumes of flame and smoke. Every eye in the court below was turned towards him. It seemed impossible that anything but a demon could have clambered where he went. Again he was lost to their eyes, and anon he appeared in the very room which had been lately occupied by the Lady Beatrice. He shrieked out her name; was again invisible; and then, again, was seen in all the upper apartments, one after another. At last they saw him no longer.

“He is either the Devil himself, or he is brent by this time,” whispered some of the awe-stricken followers of the Wolfe.

In an instant he again appeared on the top of the turret in which he had been first seen; the flames arose everywhere around him; terrible was his aspect, and an involuntary shudder crept through the silent crowd.

“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” cried he with an appalling voice, whilst he threw his arms abroad, in an attitude befitting the denunciation he was about to pour out—“the red hand of thine iniquity hath again lifted the firebrand of destruction, but as thou hast kindled these holy piles dedicated to God, so shall the wrath of the Almighty be kindled against thee. The measure of thine iniquity is now full, and yonder flaming heavens do bear witness to thy crimes. Seest thou yonder fiery cloud that doth now float over thy devoted head? There sitteth the Angel of Vengeance, ready to descend on thee and thine. Prepare—for instant and direful punishment doth await thee.”

The monk again disappeared. The Wolfe of Badenoch looked upwards to the sky, and beheld the fiery cloud that hung as it were over him. Fancy depicted in it a countenance that looked down upon him in terrible ire. He gnashed his teeth, and his features blackened. At that moment shrieks arose from the higher chambers of the building.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha!—let him die,” cried the Wolfe, clenching his fists and laughing wildly; “let the villain die, I say.”

The shrieks came again, and louder.

“Ha! what voice was that?” exclaimed the Wolfe, in an altered tone, and in considerable agitation.

“Help, help!” cried a voice, and a figure appeared at an upper window, in the midst of the flames.

“Oh God!” cried the Wolfe, in an agony, “my son, my son!—my dearest boy, Duncan? Save him, save him—save my child!”

With the fury of a maniac he rushed fearlessly towards the burning building. His people sprang after him. He had already reached the doorway, when the central stair fell with a tremendous crash within; and had not his followers dragged him back the instant before, he must have been crushed beneath the descending ruin.

“Father, father!” cried a piteous voice from the ground.

“Walter,” cried the unhappy Wolfe of Badenoch, running to lift up his son, “what hath befallen thee?—Speak.”

“I was knocked down and crushed by the men-at-arms as they rushed outwards,” said the youth faintly; “I do feel as if I had tane some sore inward bruises.”

“Merciful God!” cried the miserable father, removing his son farther from the danger. “But where is James?” demanded he, looking wildly about him.

“He also fell near me,” said Walter.

The attendants now ran forward, and amongst several wounded people who lay on the pavement they found and raised James Stewart, who was only known to be alive by his quick breathing. But the distracted father had little leisure to attend to either of these his wounded sons, and in an instant they were abandoned to the care of those about him; for the boy Duncan, his youngest and his darling child, the pride of his heart, was again heard to shriek from an upper window. The flames were rioting triumphantly within, and every possible approach to him was cut off.

“Ladders, ladders!” cried he, in a frenzy; and his people set off in a hopeless search of what he called for.

“Ladders!” cried the Franciscan, with a voice like thunder, as he unexpectedly appeared behind the boy; “ladders! how dost thou dare to call for that help which thou didst refuse to yield to others? Now doth thy fiendish joy begin to be transmewed into mourning, thou accursed instrument in the hands of an incensed God. Already do two of thy lawless brood lie on that pavement, to be carried home with thee to linger and die; and now this child, thy youngest and dearest, shall be lost to thee by a more speedy fate.” He caught up the boy in his sinewy arms with a savage laugh of triumph, and held him aloft with a gripe so powerful, that his puny efforts to escape were utterly hopeless. “Ha, ha, ha! now may I laugh in my turn,” cried the Franciscan, with a yell that struck to the heart of the Wolfe of Badenoch, and subdued him at once.

“Mercy!” cried he, clasping his hands and wringing them together, and his breath came thick and laborious, so that he could hardly find utterance, as he looked up with stretched eyeballs, expecting every instant to behold the horrible spectacle of his best beloved son’s destruction. “Mercy!—fiend!—ha!—Ladders, ladders!—Oh, mercy, mercy!—Oh, spare my boy!—Oh, mercy, mercy—mercy on my boy!” He sank down on his knees, his broad chest heaving to his very cuirass with its labouring respiration, and his lips moving, even after all power of utterance was denied him.

“Ha! mercy, saidst thou?” cried the Franciscan, with a contemptuous smile and a glaring eye; “what, mercy to thee—to thee, who hath no mercy!—mercy to thee, who hath incurred God’s highest wrath!—mercy to thee, who hath wrapped all these holy buildings, and these dwellings of God’s peaceful servants and people, in impious flames!—thou, who wert but now revelling in the hellish joy of thy daring sacrilege—mercy to thee!—mercy meanly begged, too, from him whom thou didst but this moment doom to the most cruel death! Ha, ha, ha! But my life or death is not in thy weak power to withhold. My life will be preserved by Him who gave it, that it may yet fulfil the purpose for which He did bestow it. Thy fate doth hang in my grasp, and the gripe which I do now hold of this frail fragment of thyself,” continued he, lifting up the trembling boy in a terrific manner, “is but a symbol of the power which God hath given me over thee to force thee to repentance.”

“Oh, spare, spare, spare!” cried the miserable Lord of Badenoch, bereft of all thought but of his son’s fate.

The boy screamed for help, but the ruthless Franciscan laughed savagely, and then sprang backwards with him through the flames.

The wretched Lord of Badenoch remained fixed on his knees, his face still turned upwards, and his eyes fastened on the casement so lately occupied by the figures of the Franciscan and his lost boy. It was now filled by a sheet of brilliant flame. His lips muttered, and “Mercy—oh, mercy!” were still the only words that escaped them. His followers crowded around him in dismay, the whole group being broadly illuminated by the fire, which had now gained complete mastery over the interior of the building.

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LXVIII. The Bishop’s Palace at Spynie—The Wolfe gets a Surprise

The wretched Wolfe of Badenoch was slowly raised by those who were about him; and he submitted, as if altogether unconscious of what they were doing. His features were immoveable, and his eyes vacant, until they rested on his two sons, Walter and James, who lay wounded in the arms of his servants.

“Where is my son Andrew?” cried he, suddenly recovering the use of speech.

The attendants muttered to one another, but no one answered him.

“Speak, ye knaves,” cried he, grinding his teeth, and at the same time springing on them, and seizing one of them in each hand by the throat; “villains, I will choke ye both with my grasp if ye answer me not.”

“My noble Lord,” cried the men, terrified by his rage and his threats, “we saw him enter the burning building with thee, but none of us saw him issue thence.”

“Villains, villains, tell me not so!” cried the Wolfe, shaking the two men from him, and sending them reeling away with such force that both were prostrated on the earth. “What, hath he too perished?—And it was I who did myself compel him thither!” and, saying so, he struck his breast, and moved about rapidly through the court, giving vent to a frenzy of self accusation.

“Ha!” cried he, halting suddenly, as he heard the clang of horses’ heels approaching; “who comes there?—Alexander—my son—thou art all that is left to me now;” and springing forward, he clasped the knees of Sir Alexander Stewart, who at that moment appeared, followed by the whole of his force.

“Why tarriest thou here, father?” demanded his son; “depardieux, but I have sought thee around all the glorious fires we have kindled. Little did I think to find thee here in this by-corner, looking on so paltry a glede as this, when the towers of the Cathedral do shoot out flames that pierce the heavens, and proclaim thy red vengeance on the Bishop of Moray, yea, even to his brother-mitred priest of Ross, even across the broad friths that do sunder them.—Come with me, I pray, and ride triumphant through the flaming streets, that our shouts may ring terribly in the craven corbie’s ears, and reach him even where he doth hide him in his Palace of Spynie.—But what aileth thee, father, that thou seemest so unmanned.”

“Alexander,” cried the afflicted father, embracing his son, who stooped over him, “thy brethren have perished; Walter and James are there dying from their bruises, and Andrew and Duncan—my beloved boy Duncan—have perished in these flames.”

“How, what! how hath this happened?” cried Sir Alexander, leaping from his horse and running to question the attendants who supported his two wounded brothers. From them he gathered a brief account of the events that had occurred, and for some moments gave way to the sorrow that afflicted his father.

“But why grieve we here, my Lord?” cried he suddenly; “of a truth, whatever woe hath befallen us, hath but come by reason of that ill-starred enemy of our house, Bishop Barr, who has driven us to the desperation out of which all these evils have arisen. He and his accursed flock of ill-omened crows have flown to the refuge of his Palace of Spynie. Rouse, my noble father, and let us gallop thither and seek a sweet revenge by pulling the choughs from their nests.”

“Right, son Alexander,” cried the Wolfe, his native temper being so far roused for the moment by this speech that he shook off the torpor that had come upon him, and sprang into his saddle; “by this beard, but thou dost say right. ’Tis indeed that accursed Priest-Bishop who hath embittered the whole stream of my life, and hath now been the cause of hurling all this misery upon me. Alas, my poor boys!—But, by the blood of the Bruce, they shall be avenged.—I shall take thy counsel, my son—My son, said I?—Alas, Alexander, thou wilt soon, I fear, be mine only son.—Dost hear, Sir Squire?” said he, turning fiercely to one of his attendants, “See that thou dost take care of my wounded boys. Take people enow with thee, and see that they be promptly and tenderly carried on men’s shoulders to Lochyndorbe—Dost thou mark me?—Thy head shall pay the forfeit of thy neglect of the smallest tittle of thy duty.”

“Ay,” cried Sir Alexander Stewart, “our business, I trow, will soon be sped, and we shall overtake them before they shall have gone many miles of the way.”

“Come, then, Alexander, let’s to Spynie,” cried the Wolfe; and then turning again to the esquire—“But take care of my boys, and see that they be gently borne.”

“On, brave spears,” cried Sir Alexander; “ye shall have work peraunter to do anon.”

Out dashed the Wolfe of Badenoch, gnashing his teeth, as if to wind himself up to desperation, yet rather led than followed by Sir Alexander Stewart, and away rattled about two hundred well-armed and well-mounted men-at-arms at their backs, leaving behind them a sufficient force to escort the wounded youths homeward in safety. There were but few among the troops that would not have willingly stayed behind. They liked not this ungodly warfare, and although they witnessed the execution of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s fell fury on the holy edifices, done by a few of the less scrupulous ministers of his vengeance, they felt conscience-stricken at the sight, and this feeling had not been diminished by the denunciations of the Franciscan, the direful fate of the boy Duncan Stewart, and of his brother Sir Andrew, and that which had befallen the youths Walter and James, of whose recovery there seemed to be but little hope.

The Palace of Spynie offered them but a wretched defence against any assailant who might choose to attack it, for it was not till the following century that it was so strengthened as to enable Bishop David Stuart [1] to defy the proud Earl of Huntly. The buildings, indeed, were surrounded by a wall; but, trusting to that awe which the sacred dignity of the possessor was calculated to inspire, the wooden gate was left unprotected by any portcullis of iron. It therefore promised to be easily assailable by the sledge-hammers which had been found so useful in furthering the work of destruction they had already accomplished.

The Wolfe of Badenoch, hurried on by his son, swept over the gentle eminence lying between the town and the palace, and as the distance was but a mile, his excitement had had hardly time to expend itself ere he found himself approaching the walls. The lurid red vault of the sky reflected a dim light, which might have been sufficient to enable them to discover the building before them. But, independently of this, the summit of the outer walls was lined by a number of torches, which began to flit about hastily, as soon as the thundering sound of the horses’ feet reached those who carried them.

“The place doth seem to be already alarmed,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, as they advanced, his resolute soul shaken by his recent calamities. “These lights are not wont to appear on the grass-grown walls of these mass-ensconced priests. Thou shalt halt here, son Alexander, and let me advance alone to reconnoitre. I cannot, I wis, afford to peril the life of thee, whom my fears do tell me I may now call mine only son.”

“Peril my life?” cried Sir Alexander indignantly; “what, talkest thou of peril, when we have but these carrion crows to deal with? I trow there be garrison enow of them, sith that all their rookeries, grey, black, and hooded, have doubtless gathered there to-night. By my knighthood, but it doth almost shame me to attack them with harness on my back, or men-at-arms at my heels. And see, the lights have disappeared. Never trust me, but those who did flourish them have fled into the deepest cellar of the place, at the very tramp of our war-steeds.”

“Nay, but, son Alexander,” repeated the Wolfe, “I do command thee to halt; thou shalt not advance until I shall have first——Where hath he vanished?” cried the Wolfe, losing sight of him for a moment in the dark. “Ha! there he speeds him to the gate,” and, leaping from his saddle, he launched himself after his son. Sir Alexander had snatched a sledge-hammer from some one near him, and was already raising it to strike the first blow at the gate, when his right arm fell shattered and nerveless by his side, and he was crushed to the earth by some unseen power. The Wolfe of Badenoch reached his son but to raise him up in his arms. At that moment a broad blaze arose on the top of the wall, immediately over the gateway, in front of which the Wolfe of Badenoch stood appalled by the apparition it illumined, and he grew deadly pale when he beheld the figure of the Franciscan, of that very friar whom he believed nothing but superhuman power could have saved from the flames of the Maison Dieu, again presented before his eyes. The attitude of the monk was fearfully commanding. He reared a large crucifix in his left hand, whilst the other was stretched out before him. The light by which he was encircled shot around him to a great distance, showing the walls thickly manned with crossbow-men prepared to shoot upon the assailants, and exhibiting these assailants themselves with their faces turned to what they believed to be a miraculous vision, which filled them with a terror that no merely human array could have awakened.

“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” cried the Franciscan, in his wonted clear but solemn voice, “have I not told thee that the Omnipotent hath resigned thee and thine into my grasp for penance or for punishment? Go, take thy wounded son with thee, sith that thou hast sought this fresh affliction. His life and the lives of those who are now borne to thy den hang on thy repentance.”

A hissing sound was heard—a dense vapour arose—and all was again dark as before. Some of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s terrified attendants ventured to approach the gate to assist him. They carried Sir Alexander away; and the ferocious Earl, again subdued from the high wrath to which his son’s sudden excitation had for a moment raised his native temper, relapsed into that apathetical stupor from which he had been roused. He seemed to know not what he was doing, or where he was; but, mechanically mounting his horse, he retired from the walls of Spynie, and took his way slowly homewards. As the distant conflagration flashed from time to time on his face, he started and looked towards it with wild expression—and then elevated his eye towards his son, who was carried on a bier formed of crossed lances, by some men on foot; but excepting when he was so moved, his features were like those of the stone effigy which now lies stretched upon his tomb.

The Bishop and the dignitaries of the Cathedral who composed his Chapter, had assembled in fear and trembling in the Chapel of the Palace, where they offered up prayers for deliverance from their scourge; and the Wolfe of Badenoch and his formidable party were no sooner ascertained to have permanently withdrawn, than they issued forth, bearing some of the most holy of their images, with the most precious relics of saints, which had been hastily snatched from their shrines on the first alarm of the enemy’s approach, and began to move in melancholy procession towards Elgin, guarded by the armed vassals of the Church, who had been summoned to man the Palace walls. As they rose over the hill, they beheld the flames still raging in all their fury. The sun was by this time rising over the horizon, but his rays added little to the artificial day that already possessed the scene. The smiling morning, indeed, served to show the extent of the devastation which the flames had already occasioned; but the cheerful matin song of the birds accorded ill with the wailings that burst from those who beheld this dismal spectacle. The pride of the Bishop, if the good man ever had any, was indeed effectually humbled. As he rode on his palfrey at the head of the sad procession, the reins held by two attendants, one of whom walked on each side of him, he wept when he came within view of the town; and, ordering them to halt, he crossed his hands meekly over his breast, and looked up in silent ejaculation to Heaven.

“O speculum patriæ et decus regni,” cried he, turning his eyes again towards the Cathedral, whilst the tears rolled over his cheeks. “Oh, glory and honour of Scotland—thou holy fane, which we, poor wretched mortals, did fondly believe to be a habitation worthy of the omnipotent and mysterious Trinity, to whom thou wast dedicated—behold thee, for the sins of us the guilty servants of a just God, behold thee yielded up a prey to the destroyer! Oh, holy Father, and do thou, blessed Virgin Mother, cause our prayers to find acceptance at the Almighty throne, through the merits of thy beloved Son—may we, thy sinful creatures, be humbled before this thine avenging arm; and may the fasts, penances, and mortifications we shall impose be the means of bringing us down, both body and soul, unto the dust, that thy just wrath against us may be assuaged; for surely some great sin hath beset us, seeing it hath pleased thee to destroy thine own holy temple, that our evil condition might be made manifest to us.”

Those who formed the procession bent reverently to the ground as the venerable prelate uttered these words.

“And now, my sons,” said he with a sigh, “let us hasten onwards, and do what we can to preserve what may yet have escaped from the general destruction.”

The first care of the good Bishop was to collect the scattered townsmen, who had already begun to cluster in the streets; and every exertion was immediately used to put a stop to the conflagration. The Franciscan was there, but his attention was occupied with something very different from that which so painfully interested every one else. The Lady Beatrice—was she safe? At the risk of his life he had clambered over the blazing roof of the Maison Dieu to seek her in her chamber. She was gone from thence. He had searched anxiously through all the upper apartments of the building, and yet he had seen no trace of her. Full of alarm, he had been compelled to rest on the hope that she might have escaped with others from the flames; and, with an unspeakable anxiety to have that hope confirmed, he went about inquiring impatiently of every one he met, whether any damsel, answering to the description of the Lady Beatrice, had been seen; but of all those to whom he addressed himself, there was no one who could say that she was known to have escaped.

“Miserable wretch that I am,” said he, “have her sins then been punished by so terrible a death—sins for the which I myself must be called to dread account both here and hereafter—I who deprived her of the blessing of a virtuous mother’s counsel, and of a father’s powerful protection? Holy St. Francis forgive me, the thought is agony.”

He sat him down on a stone in the court of the Maison Dieu, and he was soon joined by sister Marion, the lame housekeeper of the Hospital, who came to mourn over its smouldering ruins.

“Oh, dear heart and alas!” cried the withered matron—“the blessed St. Mary defend, protect, and be good unto us—and there is a dole sight to be sure. Under that very roof hae I been housed and sheltered, come the feast of Our Lady, full forty——nay, I should hae said fourteen years and upwards, and now I am to be turned out amidst the snares and temptations of this wicked world, to be the sport and the pastime of the profligate and ungodly. What will become of us, to whose lot beauty hath fallen as a snare, and fair countenance as an aid to the Evil One? Where, alas! shall we hide our heads that we fall not in the way of sinners? Where——”

“Tell me, sister!” cried the Franciscan, impatiently interrupting her—“tell me, didst thou see the Lady Beatrice, whom I escorted hither yesterday?”

“Yea, in good verity, did I that, brother,” replied Marion.

“Where?—where and when?” cried the anxious Franciscan.

“Nay, be not in such a flurry, brother,” replied she. “I did first see her in the refectory when thou didst bring her there, and a pretty damsel she be, I trow.”

“Nay, but didst thou see her after the fire?” demanded the Franciscan.

“In very deed, nay, brother,” replied the literal sister, Marion.

“Wretch that I am,” cried the Franciscan, in an agony of suspense, “hath then no one seen her escape?”

“St. Katherine help us, an thou dost talk of her escape, indeed, thou comest to the right hand in me,” replied she, “sith that it was I myself who did show her how to escape; but that was neither before nor after the fire, I promise thee, but in the very height of the brenning, when the flames were bursting here, and crackling there—and the rafters——”

“Nay, tell me, I entreat thee, sister,” cried the Franciscan, interrupting her, though greatly relieved—“tell me how and where she did save herself?”

“But I do tell thee thou art wrong, brother,” cried the peevish old woman, “for it was in no such ways, seeing, as I said before, it was I myself that did save her. But thou art so flustrificacious; an thou wouldst but let me tell mine own tale——”

“Go on then, I pray thee, sister Marion,” cried the monk, curbing his ire, and patiently resuming his seat upon the stone; “take thine own way.”

“In good troth, my way is the right way,” replied sister Marion. “Well, as I was a-saying, I was sound asleep in my bed, in the back turret at the end of the passage, when cometh the Lady Beatrice to my room, and did shake, shake at me; and up did I start, for luckily for me I had taken an opiate, tincture, or balsam, the which the good cellarer doth give me ofttimes for the shooting toothache pain (but, alas! I doubt it be all burnt now), and so I had somehow lain down in my clothes; and then came the cries of the people, and the smoke and flame—and so I did bethink me straightway of the nun’s private stair to the Chapel, the which did lead down from my very door. This I did enter, and bid the Lady Beatrice follow me. But I being rather lame, and the stair being fit only for one at a time, she did sorely hurry and hasten me; and methought we should never hae gotten down to the Chapel. A-weel, as we were crossing the Chapel to make our way out at the door that doth lead into the garden, who should I see coming down the steps of the main-stair that doth lead from yonder passage on the ground floor into the Chapel, but Sir Andrew Stewart, the son of the Wolfe of Badenoch himself. Trust me, I stayed not long. But if the Lady Beatrice did complain of my delay in the way down thither, I trow she had reason in sooth to think me liard enow in leaving it. I was gone in a trice ere she did miss me; for of a truth I had no fancy to fall into such hands, since who doth know what——”

“And the Lady Beatrice?” interrupted the Franciscan.

“Nay, I must confess I did see him lay his hands on her,” answered Marion; “and I did see him behind me as I did flee through the garden. But——”

“Then all is well,” interrupted the Franciscan, turning away from the fatiguing old woman, and finishing the rest of his speech in grateful soliloquy. “It doth rejoice me much that she hath fallen into the hands of Sir Andrew Stewart; for albeit the Wolfe of Badenoch hath wrought so much evil, verily I have myself seen that he is no enemy to the Lady Beatrice. And then, Sir Andrew Stewart hath the reputation of being the best of his family—one who is a mirror of virtue and of peaceful gentleness; a perfect lamb of patience in that ferocious litter of wild beasts. Even our holy Bishop hath him in favourable estimation. He could not choose but take especial care of her. Praised be the Virgin, I may now go about the Bishop’s affairs withouten care, being sure that I shall hear good tidings of her anon.”

All that day and night, and all the following day, had passed away—the flames had been partly extinguished by active exertion, and had partly expired from lack of further food, and much had doubtless been done by the influence of images and relics. Measures also had been taken to preserve the quiet and peace of the town, as well as to ensure the immediate accommodation and support of such of its inhabitants as had suffered in the general calamity. Penitential prayers had been offered up, and hymns chanted in the conventual churches and chapels which had not suffered. A general penance and solemn fast had been ordered, after all which the Bishop sent for the Franciscan, and held a long conference with him on the subject of the affairs of the Church, which we shall leave them to discuss together, that we may now follow the humbled Wolfe of Badenoch to Lochyndorbe.

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Chapter LXIX

Changes at the Castle of Lochyndorbe—The Wolfe tamed—Alarm for the Lady Beatrice.

The scene within that fortress was materially changed since our last visit to it. The boys, Walter and James Stewart, were laid in beds from which there was but small hope of their ever rising. Sir Alexander Stewart also lay in a very dangerous and distressing state, with a shattered arm and a bruised body, resulting from the heap of heavy stones which had been thrown down upon him from the wall of Spynie; and the hitherto hardy and impregnable mind and body of the Wolfe of Badenoch himself, yielding before the storm of calamity that had so suddenly assailed him, had sunk into a state of torpor, and he was now confined to a sick bed by a low, yet rapidly consuming fever. In so short a time as two days his gigantic strength was reduced to the weakness of a child. His impatience of temper had not been entirely conquered by the disease, but its effects were sufficiently moderated by his prostration, to render him no longer a terror to any one; and this feeling was heightened in all around him, by the conviction that his malady was of a nature so fatal that his existence must soon be terminated.

The Lady Mariota was one of the first who became aware of this, and she prudently regulated her conduct accordingly. Yes, she for whose illicit love he had sacrificed so much—she who had ever affected so devoted an attachment to him—she who was the mother of his five boys—she on whose account he had so resolutely braved so many tempests, and who had been the original cause of the very feud with the Bishop of Moray which had led to the commission of excesses so outrageous, and now produced so much fatal affliction—she it was who, now beginning to show herself in her true character, sorrowed not for him, but as her own importance and high estate must inevitably sink in his deathbed. Even her grief for her lost sons, and her anxiety for those whom she feared to lose, arose more from the thought that in them perished so many supporters and protectors who might yet have enabled her to hold her head proudly, than from any of that warm and perfectly unselfish feeling, which, if it anywhere exists, must be found to throb in the bosom of a mother. Instead of flying in distraction from couch to couch, administering all that imagination could think of, to heal, to support, or to soothe, she wisely remembered that, in her situation, time was precious; and, accordingly, she employed every minute of it in rummaging through the secret repositories of many a curious antique cabinet, and in making up many a neat and portable package, to be carried off the moment that the soul of the Wolfe of Badenoch should quit his body. Nor were her active thoughts bestowed on things inanimate, or within doors only; her tender care soared even beyond the Castle walls and the Loch that encircled them; and by means of a chosen few of her own servants whom she had managed to secure by large bribes to her especial interest, the surrounding country was raised, and the cattle and sheep that fed in the lawndes of the forests for many a mile round, were seen pouring in large bodies towards the land-sconce, to be ready to accompany her, and to unite their lowings and bleatings to her wailings, when she should be compelled to take her sad departure from Lochyndorbe.

Nor was the knowledge of this base ingratitude spared to the dying man. She had not visited him for the greater part of the day. He called, but the hirelings, who were wont to fly to him ere the words had well passed his lips, were now glad to keep out of his sight, and each abandoning to the rest the unwelcome task of waiting on him, he was left altogether without help. He was parched with a thirst which he felt persuaded the Loch itself would have hardly quenched; and in the disturbed state of his nerves he was haunted with the eternal torture of the idea of its waves murmuring gently and invitingly around him. It was night. A light step entered his room cautiously, and the rays of a lamp were seen. He entreated for a cup of water, but no answer was returned to his request. At length his impatience gave him a momentary command over his muscles, and throwing down the bed-clothes, he sprang on his knees, and opened wide the curtains that shaded the lower end of his bed. By the light of the lamp he beheld the Lady Mariota occupied in searching through his private cabinet, whence she had already taken many a valuable, the table being covered with rich chains of gold, and sparkling gems of every variety of water and colour, set in massive rings, buckles, brooches, collars, and head-circlets; and so intently was she busied that she heard not his motion.

“Ha, wretch,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, in a hollow and sepulchral voice of wasted disease; “the curse of my spirit upon thee, what dost thou there?”

The Lady Mariota gave him not time to add more, for, looking fearfully round, she beheld the gaunt visage of the Wolfe of Badenoch, with his eyes glaring fiercely upon her; and believing that he had already died, and that it was indeed his spirit which cursed her, she uttered a loud scream, and rushed in terror from the apartment. The Wolfe, exhausted by the unnatural exertion he had made, sank backwards in his bed, and lay for some time motionless and unable to speak.

“Oh, for a cup of water,” moaned the miserable man at length, the excruciating torture of his thirst banishing even that which his mind had experienced in beholding so unequivocal a proof of the Lady Mariota’s selfish and unfeeling heart; “oh, will no one bring me a cup of water? And hath it then come so soon to this, that I, the son of a King, am left to suffer this foretaste of hell’s torments, and no one hand to help me? Oh, water, water, water, for mercy’s sake! Alas! Heaven’s curse hath indeed fallen upon me. My dead and dying sons cannot help me; and Mariota—ha! fiends, fiends! Ay, there is bitterness—venom—black poison. Was it for this,” said he, casting his eyes towards the glittering jewels on the distant table; “was it for a heart so worthless that I did so brave the curse of the Church? Was it for such a viper that I did incur my father’s anger? Was it for a poisoned-puffed spider like this that I did do deeds that made men’s hair bristle on their heads, and their very eyes grow dim? Did I bear her fiercely up before a chiding world, that she might turn and sting me at an hour like this? Ha! punishment, dread punishment was indeed promised me; but I looked not that it should come from her whom I did so long love and cherish—from her for whom I have sacrificed peace in this life, and oh, worse than all, mercy in that to which I am hastening.” He shuddered at the thoughts which now crowded on his mind, and buried his head for some moments under the bed-clothes.

It now approached midnight, and the solitary lamp left by the Lady Mariota was still burning, when his ear caught a rustling noise.

“Ha, Mariota, art there again?” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, impatiently lifting up his head.

He looked, and through the drapery of the bed, that still remained wide open, he beheld the Franciscan standing before him.

“Ha, what! merciful St. Andrew,” cried the Wolfe; “ha, is it thou, fiend, from whom hath sprung all mine affliction? Devil or monk, thou shalt die in my grasp.” He made a desperate effort to rise, and repeated it again and again; but he sank down nerveless, his breast heaving with agitation, and his eyes starting wildly from their sockets. “Speak, demon, what further vengeance dost thou come to execute on this devoted head? Speak, for what fiendish torment canst thou invent that shall more excruciate the body than racking and unsatisfied thirst? or what that shall tear the soul more cruelly than the barbed arrows of ingratitude? Hence, then, to thy native hell, and leave me to mine.”

“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the Franciscan, “I do come to thee as no tormenting fiend. The seal of death doth seem to be set on thy forehead; thou art fast sinking into his fleshless arms. The damps of the grave do gather on thy brow. ’Tis not for mortal man as I am, to push vengeance at such an hour. When thou wert in thy full strength and power I did boldly face thy wickedness; but now thou art feeble and drivelling as the child that was born yesterday, or as the helpless crone over whose worn head and wasted brain an hundred winters have rolled, I come not to denounce aught of punishment against thee; for already hast thou enow here, and thou wilt soon be plunged for endless ages in that burning sea to which it were bootless for me to add one drop of anguish. Forgetting all thy cruelty against myself, I do come to thee as the hand of Mercy to the drowning wretch. I come to offer myself as the leech of thy soul as well as of thy body; and, as an offering of peace, and a pledge of my sincerity, behold thy beloved son!”

The Franciscan threw aside the folds of his habit, with which he had hitherto concealed something, and he held up the smiling boy, Duncan Stewart.

“Mock me not, foul fiend,” cried the frantic father, believing that what he saw was a phantom; “hence, and disturb not my brain.”

“Again I repeat, I am no fiend,” said the Franciscan mildly. “I come to tell thee that repentance may yet ensure thee salvation in the next world; nay, even life in this; yea, and life also to thy sons; and as a gracious earnest of God’s infinite mercy, behold, I here restore thee thy best beloved boy, the Benjamin of thy heart, whose life mine hand did save from that raging fire thyself did so impiously kindle.”

The Wolfe of Badenoch devoured the very words of the Franciscan as he spake. He gazed wildly on him and on his boy alternately, as if he yet doubted the reality of the scene; and it was not until the little Duncan’s joyous laugh rang in his ears, and he felt the boy’s arms fondly entwining his neck, that he became satisfied of the truth of what he heard and saw. He was no longer the iron-framed and stern-souled Wolfe of Badenoch; his body was weak and his mind shaken, and he sank backwards in the bed, giving way to an hysterical laugh.

“Oh, my boy, my boy,” cried he at length, smothering the youth with his caresses; “my beloved Duncan, what can I do for so great a mercy! What—what—but—Oh, mercy, one cup of water, in mercy!—I burn—my tongue cleaveth—Oh, water, water, in mercy!”

The Franciscan hastened to give him water; and the thirsty wretch snatched the cup of life from the hand of him whom his unbridled rage had so wantonly consigned to the cruellest of deaths.

“More, more,” cried the impatient Wolfe of Badenoch; “mine entrails do crack with the scorching heat within me.”

“Drink this, then,” said the Franciscan, taking a phial from his bosom, and pouring part of its contents into the cup; “drink this, and thou shalt have water.”

“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, darting a glance of suspicion towards the monk. “Yet why should I hesitate?” continued he, as his eyes fell upon Duncan. “He who hath restored my son, can have little wish to hasten the end of a dying wretch.”

“And he who might have used the dagger against thee,” said the Franciscan calmly, “would never have thought of giving thee a death so tedious as that of poison. Drink; there is health in the cup.”

The Wolfe hesitated no longer.

“Now water, oh, water, in mercy!” cried he again, after he had swallowed the drug.

“Thy thirst must be moderately ministered unto for a time,” said the Franciscan; “yet shalt thou have one cup more,” and he poured one for him accordingly.

“Why art thou thus alone, father,” demanded the boy Duncan; “why is not my mother here? she who doth ever so caress and soothe thee, if that the pulses of thy temples do but throb unreasonably. I’ll go and fetch her hither straightway.”

“Fetch her not hither, Duncan, if thou wouldst not have me curse her,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, dashing away the half-consumed cup of water, in defiance of his thirst “Oh, that I might yet be myself again, were it but for a day, that I might deal justice upon her. Then, indeed, should I die contented.”

“Hush,” said the Franciscan; “such is not the temper that doth best befit a dying man; yea, and one, too, who hath so much for the which to ask forgiveness. It doth more behove thee to think of thine own sins than of those of others. If it may so please Heaven, I shall be the leech of thy body; but it were well that thou didst suffer me to give blessed medicine to thy diseased soul, for thy life or thy death hangeth in the Almighty hand, and no one can tell how soon thou mayest be called to thy great account. Say, dost thou repent thee of all the evil thou hast wrought against the Holy Church and her sacred ministers?”

“I do, I do; most bitterly do I repent me,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, grinding his teeth ferociously, and with an expression of countenance very different from that becoming an humble penitent. “I do repent me, I say, in gall and bitterness; for verily she for whom I did these deeds——”

“Nay, talk not of her,” said the Franciscan, interrupting him; “mix not up thine angry passions with thine abasement before thine offended Maker. Repent thee of thy sins—make instant reparation to the Church from the abundance of thy wealth—resolve to put away all thine abominations from thee—and, finally, make a solemn vow, that, if it should please Heaven to restore thee to health, thou wilt do such penance as it may seem fitting for the injured Bishop of Moray to impose upon thee—do these things, and all may yet be well with thee. If thou art willing to vow solemnly to do these things, if Heaven in its mercy shall yet spare thee, verily I will receive and be witness to thy serment; and I do beseech thee to speak quickly, for I would fain leave thee to that healing repose, for the which my medicine hath prepared thee, that I may go to give healthful balsams to thy three sons, that they may yet be snatched from an early grave.”

“Yea, most merciful and beneficent monk,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, “thou whom I did believe to be a fiend, but whom I do now find to be saint upon earth, most gladly do I yield me to thee. I here most solemnly vow to the Virgin and the Holy Trinity, that I do heartily repent me of mine outrages against the Holy Church of God and His holy ministers; that I am ready to make what reparation I may; and that, if it so please Heaven to rescue me from the jaws of death, I shall do penance in such wise as to the Bishop and the King, my father, may seem best.”

“Be thy vow registered in Heaven,” said the Franciscan, solemnly crossing himself. “And now, with the blessing of St. Francis, thou shalt soon be in a state for fulfilling it. But let me entreat thee to yield thyself to that repose, the which the healing draught thou hast taken must speedily ensure to thee; when thou dost again awake, thy consuming fever will have left thee, and in two or three days at most thou mayest be again in thy saddle. Let me now hasten to help thy sons.”

The boy Duncan Stewart had already paved the way for the Franciscan’s favourable reception with his brothers, who gladly submitted themselves to his directions, and he speedily administered to their respective cases. The domestics now began to be re-assured of the probable recovery of the invalids, and they already quaked for the returning wrath of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The Lady Mariota, sat trembling in her apartment. The Franciscan, who had formerly disappeared so miraculously, and who now re-appeared so strangely among them, was eyed with fear by every one within the Castle, and his orders were obeyed as implicitly and as promptly as the Wolfe himself, so that he lacked for nothing that his patient required. Having done all for them that art could effect, he had time to think of the Lady Beatrice, whom he believed to be an inmate of the Castle, seeing he had no doubt that Sir Andrew Stewart must have brought her thither. But he found, on inquiry, that the knight had not appeared. He was vexed at the disappointment, but taking it for granted that her protector had carried her to some other fastness belonging to his father, he felt no uneasiness, trusting that he should soon have tidings of her.

Dismissing all thoughts of the Lady Beatrice, therefore, from his mind, he devoted himself eagerly to the restoration of the sick, being filled with the idea of the signal service he was about to perform to the Church, the extent of which would much depend on the recovery of those who now lay in so precarious a state, that they might appear before the world as living instances of penitence. For two days, then, he was indefatigable in his attentions; and the effect of his care and skill was, that the Wolfe of Badenoch’s cure was rapid. His disease had been chiefly caused by sudden affliction, operating on an impatient temper, and a conscience ill at ease. The Franciscan’s words, therefore, had happily combined with his medicines to produce an almost miraculous effect; and, ere the time promised by the monk was expired, he appeared in the great hall, haggard and disease-worn indeed, but perfectly ready to fill his saddle. The recovery of his sons, though there was now little to be feared for them, promised to be more tedious; and it was well for the peace of the Castle of Lochyndorbe that it was so, for they might have made some objections to the decided step which their father took the moment he again showed himself.

“Ha, villains,” cried he as he came stalking through the opening crowd of domestics that shrunk from him on either hand—“so the Earl of Buchan, the son of a King, mought have died for all ye cared. Ha! whither did ye all hide, knaves, that I was nearly perishing of thirst, and no one to give me a cup of water? But ’tis no marvel that ye should have forgotten your master when—Ha! Bruce—send Bruce, the old esquire, hither. What mighty lowing of cattle, and bleating of sheep, is that I do hear?”

The domestics looked at each other, but no one dared to speak. The impatient Wolfe hurried up a little turret-stair, from the top of which he had a view over the outer walls of the Castle, and the narrow strait that divided that from the mainland. There he beheld the whole of the flocks and herds which the Lady Mariota had so prudently collected together, and which her trepidation had made her forget to order to be driven again to their native hills and forests. He wanted no further information, for the truth flashed on him at once. His eye reddened, his cheek grew paler than even the disease had left it, his lip quivered, and he rushed precipitately down to the hall.

“Where, in the fiend’s name, is Bruce?” cried he. “Ha! thou art there, old man. Get thee quickly together some dozen or twain of mounted spears, with palfreys for the Lady Mariota and her women, and sumpter-horses needful for the carriage of their raiment; and let her know that it is my will she do forthwith depart hence with thee for my Castle of Cocklecraig, the which is to be her future place of sojournance.”

The esquire bowed obediently, and hastened to execute the command of his impatient Lord. In a little time a page appeared, with an humble message from the Lady Mariota, to know whether the Earl was to accompany her into Buchan.

“Tell her no,” replied the Wolfe, turning round on the frightened page, and speaking with a voice that shook the Gothic hall, which he was rapidly measuring backwards and forward with his paces.

Again a woman came to him from the Lady Mariota, most submissively entreating for an interview.

“Nay, the red fiend catch me then!” cried the furious Wolfe, his eyes flashing fire; “I do already know too much of her baseness, ever to trust myself with a sight of her again. ’Twere better, for her sake, that she urge me not to see her. Ha! tell her I have sworn by my knighthood that the threads that hath bound my heart to her worthlessness shall be for ever snapped. Let not the poisonous toad cross my path, lest I crush her in mine ire, and give to my conscience another sin to be repented of.—Away!”

The Wolfe again paced the hall, very much moved. The neighing of horses and the noise of preparation were heard in the court-yard; the warder’s call for the boats sounded across the lake; and a wailing of women’s voices soon afterwards succeeded. The Wolfe paced the hall with a yet more rapid step; he became much moved, and hid his face from the Franciscan, who was the only witness of his agitation. But at last it became too strong to be concealed, and he rushed up the turret-stair, whence he had before looked out towards the land-sconce. He remained absent for a considerable time; and when he returned, his face was deeply marked with the traces of the strong contending emotions he had undergone.

“How doth thy leech-craft prosper, good Sir Friar?” demanded he at length, evidently from no other desire than to talk away his present feelings, seeing that he had already put the same question more than half-a-dozen times before.

“I do trust that, under God, thy sons will yet be well,” replied the Franciscan. “But be not impatient, my Lord; their cure must be the work of time. Meanwhile, be thankful to a merciful Providence, who doth thus restore to thee all those of whom thou didst fear thou wert bereft.”

“All!” cried the Wolfe, shuddering, “nay, not all; all but Andrew, and he did perish horribly in the flames of the Maison Dieu, whither I did myself enforce him. Heaven in its mercy pardon me!”

“Andrew!” cried the Franciscan, with surprise; “trust me, my Lord, Sir Andrew Stewart is safe.”

“Safe!” cried the Wolfe, clasping his hands together in an ecstacy—“then thanks be to a merciful God, who hath saved me from the torturing thought of having been the cause of working my son’s death. But where, I pray thee, was he seen?” demanded the Wolfe eagerly.

“He was seen in the Chapel of the Maison Dieu with a lady, whom he did thereafter lead through the garden of the Hospital,” replied the Franciscan.

“What, the Lady Beatrice!” demanded the Wolfe; “for that is all the name I did ever know her to bear as a woman, albeit I do well recollect her masculine appellation of Maurice de Grey.”

“The same,” replied the Franciscan.

“Then hath Andrew preserved her life,” replied the Wolfe. “By the beard of my grandfather, but I do greatly rejoice to hear it. There is still some virtue in the caitiff after all. My efforts to save the lady were vain; I did even gain her chamber, but I found her gone; from which I was compelled with grief to believe that she had surely perished. But whither hath my son Andrew conveyed her?”

“Nay, that I have not yet discovered,” replied the Franciscan; “but Sir Andrew Stewart saved not the Lady Beatrice from the flames. One of the sisters of the Hospital did teach her how to escape; and as they crossed the Chapel together, Sir Andrew Stewart, who had fled thither for safety——”

“Ah, coward,” cried the Wolfe; “so, after all, he was the craven kestrel. By my beard, I thought as much. And so thou sayest that thou art yet ignorant where the Lady Beatrice hath been bestowed.”

“Nay, my good Lord,” replied the Franciscan; “but with a knight of his good report she is sure of protection, and——”

“What sayest thou?—good report, sayest thou?” interrupted the Wolfe. “Though he be a brauncher from mine own nest, yet must I, in honesty, tell thee, Sir Friar, that a greater hypocrite presseth not the surface of the earth. Protection, saidst thou? By St. Barnabas, but she hath already hath enow of his protection.”

“What dost thou mean, my Lord?” replied the monk, in astonishment.

“Why, by my knighthood, but I am ashamed to speak so of mine own son,” replied the Wolfe; “yet am I bound to treat thee with candour, and so thou shalt e’en have it.” And he proceeded to give the monk a short history of the infamous treachery of Sir Andrew Stewart towards the Lady Beatrice.

“My Lord of Buchan,” cried the Franciscan, with an agitation and earnestness of manner which the Wolfe of Badenoch could by no means explain, “if I have found favour with thee, lend me thine aid, I entreat thee, to recover the Lady Beatrice from thy son. She is destined to take the veil, and in giving me thine aid to reclaim her thou wilt be doing a pious duty, the which will assuredly tell for the good of thy soul, yea, and help to balance the heavy charge of thine iniquities.”

“Right joyfully shall I give thee mine aid,” replied the Wolfe of Badenoch; “the more that she was the lady of the gallant Sir Patrick Hepborne, with whom she was here, in the disguise of a page. Ha, ha, ha, ha! But wherefore doth she now take the veil?”

“’Tis fitting that she doth atone for a youth of sin by a life of penitence,” replied the Friar, unwilling to speak more plainly.

“So,” said the Wolfe of Badenoch, with a significant look, “after all her modest pretence, and after all Sir Patrick’s cunning dissembling, ’twas as I did suspect then, after all?”

“Thou didst suspect, then?” said the Friar; “alas! I do fear with too much reason. Yet let us not tarry, but hasten to recover her, I pray thee.”

“Squires, there—what, ho, within!” cried the Wolfe, “hath no one as yet heard aught of Sir Andrew Stewart?”

“No one, my noble Earl,” replied an esquire who waited.

“By the holy mass, then,” said the Wolfe, “but the caitiff hath taken refuge in some of my strongholds. But ’twill be hard an we ferret him not out. Ha! knaves there, let fifty mounted lances be ready in the lawnde beyond the land-sconce ere I can wind my bugle.”

The Wolfe of Badenoch was restored to all his pristine vigour by the very thought of going on an expedition, even though it was against his own son. The court-yard rang with the bustle the Castle was thrown into, and all the boats were put in requisition to ferry the horses across. Everything was ready for them to mount at the land-sconce in an incredibly short space of time; but, however short the delay, still it was too much for his impatience; nor was his companion less restless than the Wolfe, till he found himself in saddle. When all were mounted, the monk showed, by his forward riding, that there was little risk of his being a drag upon the speed of the furious-pricking knight, and the Wolfe of Badenoch exulted to behold his horsemanship.

“By the mass,” cried he, pulling up a little, “but thou art a prince of friars; ’tis a pleasure, I vow, to have a stalwarth monk like thee as a confessor; wouldst thou be mine, thou shouldst ever ride at my elbow. Where hadst thou thy schooling, Sir Friar?”

“I have rode in the lists ere now,” replied the Franciscan; “yea, and war have I seen in all its fashions. But it doth now befit me to forget these vain carnal contentions, and to fight against mine own evil passions, the which are harder to subdue than any living foe. And in this let me be an ensample to thee, my Lord, for verily the time is but short sith that I was as violent and tempestuous as thyself; and hard it is even yet for me, frail man as I am, to keep down the raging devil that is within me. May the blessed Virgin increase our virtuous resolution!” said he, crossing himself.

To this pious ejaculation the Wolfe added a hearty “Amen;” and they again pushed on at the same rapid pace at which they had originally started.

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LXX. Bishop Barr at Lochyndorbe Castle—Reception by the Wolfe

The Wolfe of Badenoch and the Franciscan had hardly reached the end of the lake, when they descried a mounted knight approaching them.

“By all that is marvellous,” cried the Wolfe, halting suddenly, “but yonder doth come my very son Andrew!”

“Is it indeed Sir Andrew Stewart?” said the Franciscan; “methinks he cometh as if he had little fear of blame about him.”

“By’r Lady, but his coming home thus at all doth look something like honesty,” said the Wolfe; “but do thou let me question him, holy father, nor fear that I will deal over gently with him. So, Sir Andrew,” cried he, as soon as his son was near enough to hear him, “I do rejoice to behold thee again. Whence comest thou, I pray thee?”

“From Elgin straightway, my noble father,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart.

“Marry, and what hath kept thee there so long, then?” demanded the Wolfe; “methought that thou hadst seen enow to teach thee that no whelp of mine could be welcome guest there.”

“In truth, I did so find it indeed,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart.

“Then what a murrain hath kept thee there?” demanded the Wolfe sternly. “Come, thou knowest I am not over patient. Thy story—thy story quickly. What befel thee after thou didst enter the blazing Spital of the Maison Dieu? Didst thou rescue the damosel—the Lady Beatrice?”

“I did,” replied the unblushing knight; “verily, I rushed to the upper chamber through the fire and the smoke, and I did snatch her from the very flames, and bear her forth in safety.”

“There thou liest, caitiff,” roared out the Wolfe; “thou dost lie in the very threshold of thy story. By the mass, but we shall judge of the remainder of thy tale by the sample thou hast already given us. But go on, Sir Andrew. What didst thou with her after thou didst save her, as thou saidst? ay, and tell us, too, how thou didst escape?”

“But first, where is she now?” demanded the Franciscan, breaking in.

“Nay, Sir Friar, be not impatient,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch; “thou wilt gain nothing by impatience. Interrupt him not, I entreat thee; but let him go on in order. Proceed, sirrah.”

“I retreated with the Lady Beatrice, through the Chapel of the Maison Dieu,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart, now assuming greater caution as to what he uttered.

“Well, Sir Knight,” exclaimed the Franciscan keenly, “what hast thou done with her? Speak to that at once.”

“Nay, Sir Friar, why wilt thou thus persist in taking speech?” demanded the Wolfe testily; “thou art most unreasonably hasty. By the beard of my grandfather, but impatience and unbridled passion doth ever defeat itself. Dost thou not see that I am cool and unflurried with this knave’s face? Answer me, villain,” roared he to his son, “answer me, thou disgrace to him from whom thou art sprung—thou child of thine infamous mother—answer me, I tell thee, quickly, and to the point, or, by the blood of the Bruce, I shall forget that thou hast any claim to be called my son.”

“Be not angry with me, father,” said Sir Andrew, trembling; “verily the lady is safe, for all that I do know of her; and——”

“Where hast thou bestowed her, villain?” shouted the Wolfe; “speak, or, by all the fiends, thou shalt never speak more.”

“I will, father, if thou wilt but suffer me,” replied the terrified Sir Andrew Stewart.

“Why dost thou not go on then?” cried the Wolfe yet more impatiently; “where hast thou bestowed the lady, villain! An we be not possessed by thee of the whole of thy story, and of the place where thou hast confined her, in less time than the flight of an arrow doth consume, by the blessed house of my ancestors, I shall cause hang thee up, though thou be’st called my son.”

“The lady is not in my hands,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart in terrible alarm; “she fled from me in the garden of the Maison Dieu, and I did never see her more.”

“Hey—what?—but this may be all of a piece with the beginning of thy tale, which we know was false as hell,” replied the Wolfe.

“Nay, we do indeed know so much as that thou didst never save her,” cried the Franciscan; “we do know right well how she was saved; yea, and we do know, moreover, that thou didst seize her as she did pass through the Chapel, and thou wert heard with her in the garden. Tell me speedily whither didst thou carry her, and where is she now?”

“Ay, where is she now,” cried the Wolfe; “out with the truth, if thou wouldst escape hanging. Be assured that every false word thou mayest utter shall be proved against thee; so see that thou dost speak truth.”

“Have mercy on me, father,” cried the wretched Sir Andrew Stewart, throwing himself from his horse, and dropping on his knees between the Wolfe and the Franciscan; “have mercy on me, and I will tell thee all the truth. To my shame I do confess that vanity and the fear of my father’s wrath against my cowardice did prompt me to utter that which was false; and——”

“Ha! where is she, then, villain?” cried the Wolfe, interrupting him.

“Distraction! where hast thou concealed her?” cried the Franciscan.

“Verily, I know nothing of her,” said the knight.

“Wretch, dost thou return to thy falsehood?” cried the Franciscan.

“Nay, what I say in this respect is most true,” said Sir Andrew Stewart; “it was in saying that I did rescue the Lady Beatrice that I spake falsely. I was too much daunted by the fierceness of the flames to venture aloft; but having been once upon a time a guest in the Maison Dieu, I well knew its various passages, one of which did lead from the bottom of the main staircase of the building directly into the Chapel, whence I was aware that a retreat into the garden was easy. As I entered the Chapel I beheld one of the sisterhood of the Maison Dieu hobbling away with the Lady Beatrice. Mine ancient passion returned upon me, and——”

“Villain! thou didst carry her off,” cried the Franciscan, interrupting him.

“Thou lying caitiff, where hast thou concealed her?” cried the Wolfe.

“I did straightway attempt to lay hands upon her, when she fled before me into the garden, and escaped among the trees and bushes, where I instantly lost all trace of her.”

“But where hast thou been all this time sithence?” demanded the Wolfe fiercely; “answer me straightway to that.”

“My Lord Earl,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart, “as I wandered in the garden I did encounter the old gardener, who, under the light of the burning, did remember me for one of thy sons. He instantly seized me, and having snatched my sword from my side, he did swear potent oaths that he would put me to death if I dared offer to resist; and with these threats he forced me through the garden, and plunged me into a deep vault at its farther extremity, where I was immured without food for two days.”

“Ha! and by the Holy Rood, thou didst well merit it all, I ween, thou most pitiful of cowards,” cried the Wolfe, angrily gnashing his teeth; “what, thou the son of the Wolfe of Badenoch, to be frayed and captured by an old doting unarmed gardener! By all the fiends, but thou dost deserve to wear a kirtle and petticoat, and to have a distaff to handle. But what more hast thou to tell, thou shame to knighthood?”

“When I was nearly spent by hunger and thirst,” continued Sir Andrew, “the gardener came, with some of the brethren of the Maison Dieu, to take me from my prison, and I was led before the Bishop of Moray.”

“Ha! and how did the Bishop treat thee?” interrupted the Wolfe.

“He received me with much mildness and gentleness,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart; “and he did severely chide those who so cruelly left me without food, and ere he would allow a question to be put to me, he did straightway order my hunger and thirst to be forthwith satisfied; and, when I had well eaten and drank, he ordered an apartment to be instantly prepared for me, that I might enjoy the repose the which I had so much need; and verily I was right glad to accept of the proffered blessing. The Bishop did keep me with him until a messenger came to him from Lochyndorbe, after which he entertained me rather as his favoured guest than as his prisoner.”

“Nay, so far he speaketh truth” said the Franciscan; “that messenger was mine; he was the messenger of peace.”

“I do indeed speak the truth in everything now,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart, “the which thou mayest soon learn from the Bishop himself, for I am sent before him to announce a peaceful visitation from him, and he will be here anon.”

“Ha! if thou hadst but listened, Sir Friar,” cried the Wolfe, “if thine impatience had but suffered thee to listen, we had saved much time.”

“Yea, much time mought have indeed been saved,” said the Franciscan; “but, sinner that I am, what hath become of the Lady Beatrice? Her disappearance is most mysterious, if what Sir Andrew Stewart hath told be indeed true.”

“But didst thou not say that the Bishop was coming hither, son Andrew?” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch; “what force doth he bring with him?”

“He bringeth not a single armed man with him,” replied Sir Andrew Stewart; “nay, he hath not above some fifteen or twenty persons in all his company.”

“Had we not better hasten us homewards?” said the Wolfe to the Franciscan; “had we not better hasten to prepare for receiving my Lord Bishop, sith that he doth honour me so far?”

“Thou art right, my Lord,” replied the Franciscan, starting from a reverie into which he had fallen; “it may be that my Lord Bishop may peraunter have some tidings to give me of her about whom I am so much interested.”

The Franciscan had little leisure to think more of the Lady Beatrice at that time. They were no sooner within the Castle walls than he found that he had a sufficient task to fulfil in preparing the fierce mind of the Wolfe of Badenoch for receiving the Bishop with that peaceful humility which became a sincere penitent. It was so far a fortunate circumstance that the Wolfe himself was already very greatly touched by the prelate’s generous conduct towards his sons Duncan and Andrew, whom fortune had placed at his mercy.

“By the Rood,” exclaimed he, “but the Bishop hath shown kindness where, in truth, I had but little reason to expect it at his hands. He might have hanged both my boys, taken, as I may say they were, red-handed in a manner. Then his coming thus doth show but little of that haughtiness of the which I did believe him to be possessed. By this hand, we shall muster out our garrison and meet him on the land-sconce with all our warlike parade, that we may do him all the honour that may be.”

“Nay,” replied the monk mildly, “not so, I do entreat thee, my Lord. Let us appear there with all the symbols of peace and humility, and——”

“What,” interrupted the Wolfe hastily, “wouldst thou have me put myself in the power of the prelate?”

“Nay, thou needst hardly fear that, if thou rememberest what thy son Sir Andrew did say of the unarmed state of his small escort,” replied the Franciscan; “and, in truth, meseems that if the peaceful Bishop doth adventure so far as to entrust himself and his people unarmed in thy stronghold, it would speak but little for the bold heart of the Earl of Buchan to go armed, and attended by armed men. Nay, nay, my Lord; of a truth, this is a bold act of the Bishop of Moray, when all that hath passed is well considered. He hath indeed been generous, and now he doth prove himself to be dauntless. Let him not have to boast, then, that he hath outdone thee either in generosity or fearlessness. I need not call upon thee to remember thee of thy vow, the which I did witness, and which is now registered in heaven. Show that thou art truly penitent and humble, and remember that thine abasement before God’s minister is but thine abasement before God, who hath already shown thee such tender mercy, and who will yet show thee more.”

After listening to this exhortation, the Wolfe of Badenoch became thoughtful, and the Franciscan gradually ventured to propose to him the manner in which it would best become him to receive the Bishop. The countenance of the ferocious warrior showed sufficiently how painful the humiliation was to his feelings; but he submitted patiently, if not cheerfully, and the necessary preparations were accordingly made.

The warder who was stationed in the barbican blew his horn to announce the first appearance of the Bishop’s party, who were seen winding like black specks through the scattered greenwood at the farther end of the lake. The colony of herons were scarcely disturbed by their slow and silent march. The little fleet of boats clustered under the Castle walls was manned, and the Wolfe of Badenoch and his whole garrison were rowed across to the land-sconce, where they immediately formed themselves into a procession, and walked onwards to meet those who were coming.

First went fifty warriors, unarmed and with their heads bare. Then followed the Wolfe of Badenoch himself, also unarmed, and wearing a black hood and surcoat. At his side was the Franciscan, and behind him were his sons Andrew and Duncan, after whom came fifty more of his people. The Bishop approached, mounted on his palfrey, surrounded by some of the dignitaries of his diocese, and followed by a few monks and a small train of attendants. The Wolfe of Badenoch’s men halted, and, dividing themselves into two lines, formed a lane for the Bishop and his party to advance. The Wolfe moved forward to meet the prelate; but though his garb was that of a humble penitent, his eye and his bearing were those of a proud Prince.

“Ah, there is the good Bishop, who was so kind to me at Spynie,” cried little Duncan, clapping his hands with joy; “he did teach me to play bowls, father, and he gave me so many nice sweetmeats. Let me run to him, I beseech thee.”

The boy’s innocent speech was enough; it brought a grappling about the heart of the Wolfe of Badenoch; he hastened forward to the end of the lane of men, and made an effort to reach the Bishop’s stirrup, that he might hold it for him to dismount.

“Nay, nay,” said the good man, preventing his intention by quitting his saddle ere he could reach him; “I may not allow the son of my King so to debase himself.”

“My Lord Bishop,” said the Wolfe, prompted by the Franciscan, “behold one who doth humbly throw himself on the mercy and forgiveness of God and thee.”

“The mercy of God was never refused to a repentant sinner,” replied the Bishop; “and as for the forgiveness of a fallible being like me, I wot I do myself lack too much of God’s pardon to dare refuse it to a fellow-sinner. May God, then, in his mercy, pardon thee on thy present submission, and on the score of that penance to which thou art prepared to submit.”

“My Lord Bishop,” replied the Wolfe, “I am ready to submit to whatsoever penance it may please thee to enjoin me. Thy mercy to my sons, and in especial that to my boy Duncan, hath subdued me to thy will. But let me entreat of thee that, sinner though I be, thou wilt honour my Castle of Lochyndorbe with thy sacred presence. There shall I learn thy volunde, the which I do here solemnly vow, before the blessed Virgin and the Holy Trinity, whom I have offended, to perform to the veriest tittle, were it to be a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre itself. Trust me, thy tender mercy towards me and mine hath wrought more with me than all that thy power or thy threats could have done.”

“Let us not talk more of this matter at this time, my Lord,” replied the Bishop; “I do hereby take upon me, in the meanwhile, conditionally to remove from thee the dread sentence of excommunication, seeing thou hast made all the concession as yet in thy power, and that thou art ready to make what reparation thou canst for what hath passed, and to do such penance as may be required of thee; and so shall I cheerfully accept thy hospitality for this night.”

The Wolfe of Badenoch’s men stared at each other, to behold their fierce master thus become the peaceable companion of the very prelate and monk against whom the full stream of his fury had been so lately directed. They shrugged and looked wise at each other, but no one ventured to utter a word; and the two processions having mingled their truly heterogeneous materials together, they turned towards the land-sconce, and peacefully entering the boats, crossed the Lake to the Castle, where the chief personages were soon afterwards to be seen harmoniously seated at the same festive board. But before they were so assembled, the Franciscan had a conference with the Bishop in his private apartment.

“Thou hast indeed well served the cause of the Church, Friar John,” said the prelate to him; “yea, thou hast done God and our holy religion good service, by having thus so miraculously tamed this wild and ferocious Wolfe. Thou hast tilled a hardened soil, that hath heretofore borne but thistles, thorns, and brambles, that did enter into our flesh and tear our very hearts. But thy hand must not be taken from the plough until thy task be complete. Thou must forward with the Earl of Buchan towards Perth to-morrow. ’Twere well to take him while his mind is yet soft with the meliorating dews of penitence. I have spoken to him apart sith I did come hither. Already hath he agreed to make over to me certain large sums in gold, to be placed at the disposal of our chapter, as alswa divers annual rents springing from a wide extent of territory, to be expended in the restoration of our Cathedral. Moreover, he hath declared himself ready to perform the penance I have enjoined him, the ceremonial of which thou wilt find detailed in this parchment, after which he will be absolved by the godly Walter Traill, Bishop of St. Andrews, in the Blackfriars Church of Perth. To thy prudence and care do I commit the proper ordering and execution of all that this parchment and these directions I have written do contain, seeing there be none other who could do it so well.”

“I must obey all thy commands, my sacred Lord,” replied the friar; “yet is my mind ill attuned to the task, seeing it is distracted because of the uncertain fate of the Lady Beatrice. I beseech thee, hath any tidings of her reached thee?”

“Nay, I heard not of her,” replied the Bishop, “save what I gathered from Sir Andrew Stewart, who parted with her in the garden of the Maison Dieu. Yet did I not cease to make inquiry—and, in truth, I do greatly fear that she hath availed herself of her liberty to flee towards the south, to join herself to him with whom she did once so scandalously associate, and for whom thou sayest she hath unblushingly confessed her inextinguishable love. I hear our Scottish champions have returned from the English expedition, and doubtless Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger is by this time at the Court of King Robert, at Scone, if he hath not been detained in the Tower, to answer for his outrage. From what thou hast told me there must have been some secret concert between the knight and Beatrice. She must, therefore, have been well possessed of all his intentions—and if so, she was well prepared to avail herself of any chance of escape, that she might fly to join herself to him again. Hadst thou any talk with her on the subject of Sir Patrick Hepborne?”

“Never, my sacred Lord, sith the night when Friar Rushak enabled me to take her from the Tower,” replied the Franciscan. “Nay, save some short dialogue between us after the ship weighed anchor, when, to quiet her fears and compose her mind, I did tell her the secret in which she was so much interested, and explained to her by what right I so assumed control over her—the stormy voyage, and the fatigues that followed it, left me no leisure to hold further converse with her. But thou art right, my gracious Lord Bishop. She hath doubtless fled to her paramour, who seems to carry some love enchantment about him that he hath so bewitched her.”

“The King hath lately removed to Scone,” said the Bishop; “so, I do verily think that, on going to Perth on this errand of the Church, thou shalt have the best chance to recover her who hath fled from thee; at least, thou wilt hear of Sir Patrick Hepborne; and where he is, there will she be also.”

“I do verily believe so the more I turn the subject in my thoughts,” replied the Franciscan; “nay, it can be no otherwise. Trust me, I do gladly give thee thanks for this hint, as well as for all thy friendly actings towards me. I shall go hence with Lord Badenoch to-morrow. My heart shall first of all be given to the service of the blessed Church, the which I do yet hope to see raise her head but so much the higher from these her late calamities. That accomplished, I shall seek for and find Beatrice, though her foul seducer should conceal her in the bowels of the earth.”

The hot feud had so long subsisted between the Wolfe of Badenoch and the Bishop of Moray that each had for many years viewed the other through a false medium. The eyes of the ferocious Earl had been specially diseased, and now that the scales had been removed from them, he was astonished to discover the mild and unpretending demeanour, and the forgiving disposition of the man whom he had believed to be his proud and implacable enemy. This induced him to overwhelm the Bishop with all that the kindness of his native hospitality could devise, and so a mutual re-action took place between them, which the politic Franciscan took every opportunity to improve. The Wolfe even listened with tolerable patience of countenance, and altogether without offensive reply, to the Bishop’s remonstrance on the subject of his misconduct to his wife Euphame Countess of Ross; and, strange as it may seem, he solemnly vowed that the first step he should take after doing penance, would be to receive that injured woman again to his bosom.

Preparations for an early march next morning were made with that expedition with which all his orders were generally executed by his well-disciplined people; and when the time of departure came, the Bishop and he set out cordially together, and afterwards separated, each to pursue his respective way, with a friendly regret that can only be comprehended by those who are well conversant in the whimsical issues of the human heart.

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LXXI. The Scottish Knights in London—Father Rushak’s Tale

Allowing the Wolfe of Badenoch and his friend the Franciscan to proceed on their journey, we must now return to inquire into the fate of Sir Patrick Hepborne. We left him lying on the straw in his dungeon, giving way to a paroxysm of grief for having been so cruelly rent from Lady Beatrice, tormenting himself with fears for her safety, and refusing the comfort which his esquire Mortimer Sang, and Master Lawrence Ratcliffe, were in vain attempting to administer to him. Whilst he was in this state of bitter affliction, the door of the dungeon was again opened, and a number of guards entering, silently approached him. Believing that they were about to lead him to immediate execution, he rose to meet them.

“I am ready,” said he recklessly; “my life is now but of little value to me. The sooner it is over the better. Lead on, then, my friends.”

Mortimer Sang sprang forward to prevent their seizure of his master, but he was speedily overpowered, and Sir Patrick was led passively away.

He was conducted through a long dark passage, and finally lodged in a cell, to which he ascended by a short circular flight of steps. He questioned his conductors as to what was to be his fate, but they retired without giving him any reply. His new prison, though small, was less dark and gloomy than the larger dungeon from which he had been taken; and though sufficiently strong, it had an air of greater comfort about it; yet would he willingly have exchanged it for that he had left, to have been again blessed with the society of his esquire and the wine merchant. He seemed to be now condemned to solitary imprisonment, and he anticipated the worst possible intentions from this seclusion. The survey he took of the four walls that enclosed him left no hope of escape. There was indeed another small door besides that by which he had entered, but both were so powerfully fenced with iron as to be perfectly impregnable. He viewed this second door with an eye of suspicion, and the idea that through it might enter the assassins who were privily to despatch him, presented death to him in a shape so uninviting, that, ready as he had been to lay down his life but the moment before, he now resolved to sell it as dearly as he could, although he had no other weapon but his hands to defend himself with.

He sat down on a stone bench in a niche in the wall opposite to this suspicious door, and, fixing his eye on it, he fell into a reverie, from which he was roused by the sound of footsteps, as if descending towards it. He sprang up, that he might be prepared for action. The door opened, and a young man in the garb of a lacquey, and altogether unarmed, appeared at the bottom of a very narrow spiral staircase. He made an obeisance to Sir Patrick, and silently, but respectfully beckoned him to follow; and the knight, resolving to pursue his fate, immediately obeyed. He was conducted up several flights of steps, until at length, to his great surprise, he was brought into a little oratory, where he was again left alone.

He had not waited long, when a pannel in the wall, behind the altar, opened, and a Franciscan Friar appeared. The knight regarded him with a calm and steady look. It was Friar Rushak, the King’s Confessor.

“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the monk mildly to him, “I come to thee on private embassage from the Royal Richard. Thine intemperance in breaking in upon his privacy as thou didst, hath led thee to be accused, by some who are more zealous than prudent, of having made a premeditated attempt to assassinate His Majesty. But this hath been done without the Royal sanction; for albeit that appearances do of a surety most powerfully array themselves against thee, yet he doth acquit thee of all such traitorous intent. But thou hast been led by blind fury to lift thine hand against the Sovereign whose hospitality thou dost now enjoy, and that, too, in defence of one against whom he did mean nothing dishonourable, though circumstances may have wrought up her fears to believe that he did.”

“What!” cried Hepborne, with a strong expression of doubt in his face; “so King Richard doth deny all dishonourable intention against the Lady Beatrice? But what availeth it if he doth so? Hath he not sithence devoted her to certain destruction, by giving her up to one who hath already proved himself to be her enemy, yea, an assassin, who would have murdered her?”

“Sir Knight,” said Friar Rushak, after some moments’ thought, “trust me, the King had no hand in the disposal of her. He did never see the lady after that moment when thou didst force him to retreat before thine inconsiderate rage. But, an assassin—a murderer, saidst thou? How canst thou so accuse a brother of St. Francis?”

“Because I have good reason to know that he did once steal into the chamber of the Lady Beatrice at the hour of midnight, armed with a dagger,” cried Hepborne impatiently; “and had she not saved herself by flight——”

“Thou must suffer me to tell thee that this strange tale is difficult of credence with me,” said Friar Rushak, interrupting him; “the more, too, that it cometh from the very knight whom report doth accuse of having taught the damsel to stray from the path of virtue, and to whom she oweth her present infamy.”

“What mean ye, friar?” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, with mingled indignation and astonishment. “Who hath so foully and falsely dared to charge me and the Lady Beatrice—she who is pure as an angel of light—Who, I say, hath dared to prefer so foul and false an accusation?”

“The Franciscan whom thou——”

“Villain!” cried Sir Patrick, interrupting Friar Rushak, and giving way to a rage which he was quite unable to control; “villain, black and damnable villain! I swear by the honour of a knight, that this charge is false as hell. Pardon me, holy father, for my just ire. I do beseech thee, tell me what thou dost know of this wretch, of this assassin, who doth so foully stab reputation too, and who hath so imposed on thy too easy belief—What, I pray thee, dost thou know of him?”

“Nay, I am ashamed to say, I know not much,” replied Friar Rushak, already shaken in his opinion of the Franciscan by the solemnity of Sir Patrick’s asseverations; “yet what I do know I was about to tell thee, when thou didst break in on my speech. Being yesterday at the Franciscan Convent in the Newgate Street, a stranger brother of the order did claim a private audience of me, when he entreated mine aid to recover a damsel of good family from the house of the Lady de Vere. He stated his belief that she had come hither for the purpose of meeting with thee, with whom she had once lived in lawless love, hid in the disguise of a page, a connection which both were impatient to renew. He said that it was intended to bury her disgrace in a convent. Fearing, for certain reasons, that the King might see her at the Lady de Vere’s, and so be misled to take up with one so light, I resolved to do my best to assist in her removal, and to this I was afterwards the more spurred on by hearing that Richard had gone expressly to meet with her, as I did believe, by her own especial consent. Availing myself of my private knowledge of the palace, I did enable the stranger Franciscan to take her from the apartment, where she succeeded in convincing me that she was no willing captive; and the King’s confession of this morning, the which I am so far permitted to impart to thee, hath satisfied me that I had weened too gravely of the matter as it did regard him, and that the whole of his share in it did but arise from a harmless piece of humour.”

“And whither hath the Lady Beatrice been carried by this villain?” cried Hepborne, in all the agony of apprehension for her safety.

“He took her hence by water,” said Friar Rushak, “and Scotland did seem to be the object of his voyage. But, of a truth, mine intercourse with the foul deceiver was so short that I had little leisure to question him.”

“Fiend!” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, his rage overpowering his grief. “If St. Baldrid do but speed me, I shall find him though he were to flee unto the uttermost parts of the earth. Meanwhile, may God in his mercy, and the blessed Virgin in her purity, protect the Lady Beatrice!”

“Amen! my son,” said the father confessor. “Verily, I do grieve for thee and for her; and of a truth I do bitterly reproach mine own facile credence, the which hath led me to be the innocent author of this misfortune. Thou shalt have my prayers. Meanwhile, let us return to the object of my mission. Richard did send me to tell thee that he doth freely forgive thee thine indiscreet attack on his sacred person, seeing it was committed under a delusion. Thou and thine esquire are forthwith liberated, under his word as a king, and yours as a knight, that all that hath passed shall be buried in oblivion by both sides; and further, that thou, on thy part, shalt fasten no quarrel on Sir Hans de Vere for what hath passed.”

“Nay,” replied Hepborne; “meseems that His Majesty doth ask too much in demanding of me to withhold punishment in a quarter where it is so justly due.”

“Yes, and where it would be so well merited, Sir Knight,” observed the Friar Rushak. “But yet must thou yield for peace’s sake.”

“Thou mayest tell the King, then,” said Hepborne, “that as a mark of the high sense I entertain of his hospitality, he shall be obeyed herein, and that Sir Hans de Vere shall find shelter under it from my just indignation.”

“And now let me show thee forth, Sir Knight,” said Friar Rushak.

“Ere I go,” said Hepborne, forgetting not the misery of others amid his own affliction; “ere I go hence let me entreat thee to use thine influence with His Majesty for the liberation of mine host, Master Lawrence Ratcliffe.”

“Knowest thou aught of this same Ratcliffe, Sir Knight?” demanded the Friar after a pause, during which he endeavoured to read Hepborne’s countenance.

“Nay, nothing further than that I have experienced his hospitality by His Majesty’s good will,” replied Hepborne.

“And how may he have treated thee and thine?” inquired Rushak, resuming a careless air.

“With a kindness for which I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude,” replied Hepborne.

“’Tis well,” replied Rushak. “Then may I tell thee in confidence that he hath been for some time suspected as a malcontent, and after thine attempt of yesternight against the King, he was taken up by the officious minions of power, as the most likely person to have set thee on. But I may now promise for his liberation. Thou shalt forthwith see him at his own house, and he shall know, ere he goeth, that it is to thee he oweth his liberty.”

Sir Patrick Hepborne now hastened home to his lodgings, whither he was soon afterwards followed by his esquire and Master Lawrence Ratcliffe. The former was all joy, and the latter all gratitude. By and by he was joined by Adam of Gordon, who wept bitterly for the fate of the Lady Beatrice. Hepborne, much as he wanted comfort himself, found it necessary to administer it to the good old man, whom he immediately took into his service. He was now impatient to begin his quest after the Franciscan, and he would have quitted London immediately could he have easily procured a safe-conduct for himself individually; but this could not be granted. Sir David Lindsay, however, having witnessed the perfect recovery of the Lord Welles, on whom he had been unceasing in his attendance, he readily yielded to Hepborne’s impatience, and the brave band of Scottish knights departed, leaving a sweet odour of good fame, both for courtesy and deeds of arms, behind them.

Their journey was speedily and safely performed; and they were no sooner in Scotland than Hepborne hastened to Hailes Castle, whither he was accompanied by his friends. Thence he was eager to pursue his way northwards to Elgin, where he believed that the Franciscan had his abode, and whither he thought it likely that he had conveyed his prisoner. But Sir John Halyburton, to whom he had been much attached ever since their first acquaintance at Tarnawa, and with whom his friendship had been drawn yet tighter by the intercourse he held during their late expedition, had already extracted a promise from him that he would be present at his marriage with the Lady Jane de Vaux, a promise from which he felt it impossible to rid himself by any excuse he could invent. But this, he hoped, would occasion him but small delay, for the Lord of Dirleton, with his lady and daughter, were understood to be with the Court at Scone; and thither Sir John Halyburton resolved to proceed immediately, in the hope that the consummation of his happiness would not be long deferred. Delay to Hepborne was distraction; but it was at least some small comfort to him, that at Scone he would be so much nearer that part of Scotland whither his anxiety now so powerfully drew him.

The whole party then hastened to Scone, which the residence of the Court had already made the general rendezvous of the great. There Sir Patrick Hepborne had the happiness to find his father, and there he also embraced his happy sister Isabelle, and her Assueton. The Lord of Dirleton and his lady expressed much pleasure in again enjoying his society; but, to the great grief of Sir John Halyburton, and to the secret mortification of his friend Sir Patrick, the Lady Jane de Vaux was not with her father and mother, for, not being aware of the so early return of the knights from England, they had permitted their daughter to accompany the Countess of Moray from Aberdeen to Tarnawa, whence that noble lady was daily expected to bring her to Scone.

The venerable King Robert received the knights who had so nobly supported the honour of Scotland on the bloody field of Otterbourne with distinguished cordiality and condescension. Sir Patrick Hepborne was among those who were most highly honoured. To him was granted the privilege, only extended to a limited number of courtiers, of entering the Royal presence at all times; and Robert, pressing his hand with a warmth which kings seldom permit themselves to show, told him that the more frequently he availed himself of the power of approaching him, the more he would add to his satisfaction. This flattering reception from his aged King, together with the gratifying notice bestowed on him by the Earl of Fife and Menteith, now the Regent of the Kingdom, might have made him well contented to prolong his residence at Court, and little regret the delay of Halyburton’s marriage, had it not been for the thought, that never forsook him, of the mysterious fate and probable misery of the Lady Beatrice. His mind was ceaselessly employed in fancying a thousand improbable things regarding her, and he was generally abstracted in the midst of those gay scenes which the politic Regent took care should follow one another with the greatest rapidity, that he might the better keep his hold of the fickle hearts of the nobles. In vain were the fairest eyes of the Court thrown upon Sir Patrick Hepborne: their warm glances were invariably chilled by the freezing indifference by which they were met.

Day after day passed away, and still no appearance of the Countess of Moray and her lovely companion; and Halyburton’s loudly-expressed impatience was only to be equalled by that which affected Hepborne in secret. The two knights had nearly agreed to proceed northwards together, a plan proposed by Hepborne, and listened to by Halyburton with great gratitude, as he considered it a very strong proof of his friend’s anxiety for his happiness. But, happening to recollect that the party from Tarnawa might reach Scone perhaps a few hours only after they should leave it on this doubtful expedition, and that the long-wished-for meeting with his beloved Jane de Vaux might thus be much delayed, instead of hastened, Halyburton, to Hepborne’s very great grief, abandoned the scheme as unwise. Soon afterwards came the intelligence of the burning of Elgin, which, whilst it threw a gloom over the whole Court, filled Hepborne’s mind with fresh apprehensions and anxieties.

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Chapter LXXII

At the Scottish Court—The Penitential Procession—Sir Patrick and the Friar.

It happened one day that Sir Patrick went to pay his duty to the King, and understanding, as he passed through the ante-room, from those who were in waiting, that His Majesty was in the apartment he usually occupied as a private audience-chamber, he approached and opened the door. To his unspeakable astonishment, he beheld the very Franciscan whom he was so anxious to go in search of, standing beside His Majesty’s chair, and in conference with him. They were alone. Holding a letter and parchment carelessly folded in his hand, His Majesty seemed to have been much moved with what had been passing between him and the monk, and he was so much occupied in listening, that Sir Patrick’s entrance could have hardly been observed, had not the opening of the door startled both of them. Sir Patrick was so petrified with what he beheld, that he had neither self-command enough to retreat, as he ought to have done, nor to apologise, as the interruption demanded.

“Another time, Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the King, nodding him away. But His Majesty was compelled to repeat the hint ere the knight had so far regained his self-possession as to take it, and when he did retire, it was with a face overwhelmed with confusion, and with a heart boiling with rage against the monk.

“Ha!” said he, at length, in soliloquy; “at least I am now nearer the object of my anxious quest than I did think I was. The friar must be a fiend, who can thus so soon catch the King’s ear. But, fiend or mortal, he shall not escape me. How malignant was his eye-glance, shot at me the moment that he heard my name uttered. But, by St. Baldrid, were he a basilisk I will seize him by the throat. He shall tell me where he hath hid her who is the idol of my soul; yea, he shall disgorge all that his black heart doth contain, even though the monarch himself should endeavour to protect him. What if the Lady Beatrice may be here? Oh, misery! so near me, and yet am I denied the delight of hearing that voice, the which did so soothe mine ear when it came from the lips of my faithful page—or of beholding that eye, which did so beam upon me with looks that nothing but love could have explained. But the monk at least shall not escape me this time. I shall station myself here, and watch his approach, albeit he should tarry within till doomsday.”

After thinking, rather than uttering, all this, Sir Patrick mingled with the crowd in the ante-room, where he waited patiently for the greater part of the day, until the King came forth to get into his litter to take the air. His Majesty appeared unattended by the friar, and then it was that Sir Patrick Hepborne began to recollect, what his agitation had made him overlook before, that the Franciscan must have been admitted, and allowed to retire, by a private passage, only accessible to those who received a very particular confidential audience of His Majesty. Hepborne threw himself as much in the King’s way as he could, and made a very marked obeisance to him as he passed; but Robert, who usually received all his advances with peculiar kindness and condescension, now turned from him with a certain distance of manner that could not be mistaken, and which chilled Sir Patrick to the heart. At once it flashed upon him that the Franciscan, who had so strangely possessed himself of the King’s ear, must have poisoned it against him, as he had formerly done that of Friar Rushak. His rage against the monk grew to tenfold strength, and, in the agony of his distraction, he resolved to risk His Majesty’s displeasure by seeking his presence again, rather than not gain his object. He determined to accuse the Franciscan to the King, as he who had stolen away, and perhaps murdered, the Lady Beatrice, and this in defiance of all consequences.

Sir Patrick again tried to catch the Royal eye, as the King returned from his airing, but again he had the mortification to observe that he was shunned and neglected. His Majesty appeared not at the banquet, where, indeed, he had not been since the news of the burning of Elgin had reached him; and when Hepborne thought on this, a faint hope came over him that the King’s neglect might perhaps proceed from no particular feeling against him, but might arise from the vexation that must naturally fill the Royal breast on this unhappy occasion. But then again he remembered, with incalculable chagrin, that although the sunshine of the Monarch’s smiles had been eclipsed towards him, it had fallen with all its wonted cheering influence upon some who were near him, and who had hitherto been considered as planets of a much lower order, and of infinitely less happy influence than himself.

But Sir Patrick now became so impatient to get at the truth, that he threw aside all that delicacy which might have otherwise swayed him. He resolved to make an attempt to obtain an audience of His Majesty at his hour of couchée; and, accordingly, entering the ante-room a little before the time, he made his enquiries for that purpose.

“The King hath given strict orders that no one be admitted to him,” replied the Lord-in-waiting, to whom he addressed himself. “He doth hold private conference. And between you and me, Sir Patrick Hepborne, I do verily believe that it is with his son, the furious Wolfe of Badenoch, who hath so besieged the Bishop of Moray, that he is to hold parlance.”

“What, hath the Earl of Buchan arrived, then?” demanded Sir Patrick.

“Yea, he is here,” replied the nobleman with whom he talked. “Hast thou not heard that to-morrow the streets of St. Johnstoun will see a sight the like of which hath not been seen in Scotland before? for there the fierce and proud Wolfe of Badenoch is to walk in penance from the Castle, where he now hath his lodging, to the Church of the Blackfriars.”

“And how dost thou know all this?” demanded Sir Patrick Hepborne, who had probably heard the report, but who had been too much occupied with his own thoughts to attend to anything extraneous, however interesting it might be to others.

“The news hath already gone fully abroad,” replied the nobleman; “but, moreover, all manner of preparation hath been already made for the ceremony; yea, and all the world do make arrangement for witnessing so great a miracle. I, for one, shall assuredly be there.”

Sir Patrick Hepborne retired. As he passed by the entrance to the King’s private staircase, a portly figure brushed by him, and entered it hastily. He called to mind that he had encountered the same as he left the King’s presence at Aberdeen. It was indeed the Wolfe of Badenoch, but he had passed Sir Patrick Hepborne without observing him.

King Robert was at this moment seated in a large antique chair, placed close to the chimney corner, somewhat in the same dishabille as we have described him to have worn on a former occasion. His foot-bath stood ready prepared, and his attendant Vallance, who waited at a respectful distance, ventured more than once to remind His Majesty that the water was cooling. But the old man was deeply absorbed in serious thought. His eyes were directed to a huge vacuum in the hinder part of the chimney, amidst the black void of which the play of his ideas went on without interruption. A gentle tap was heard at his private door.

“We would be private, Vallance,” said the King, starting from his reverie, and pointing to his attendants to quit the apartment.

When they had withdrawn, Robert arose feebly, and propped himself on a cane. The knock at the private room was repeated. The old Monarch tottered towards the middle of the room. The knock was heard a third time, and with more impatience.

“If it be thou, son Alexander, come in,” said the King.

The door opened and the Wolfe of Badenoch entered, with a chastened step, and a mien very different from that which usually characterised him. He made an humble obeisance to his father. He spoke not, but his eyes glanced unsteadily towards the King, as if yet half in doubt what his reception might be. He beheld the old man standing before him struggling with emotions that convulsed his face and threw his whole frame into a fit of trembling. He saw that a great and mortifying change had taken place on his father since the last interview, and his conscience at once struck him that his own disobedience and outrageous conduct must have largely contributed to produce the decay which was so evident. He was smitten to the heart.

“Oh, my father, my father!” cried he in a half-choked voice; “canst thou forgive me? When all have forgiven me, canst thou refuse me pardon?”

“Son Alexander,” said Robert, in a voice that shook from agitation as well as debility, “all others may pardon thee, and yet it may be the duty of thy King, albeit that he is thy father, to put on sternness with thee. Nor have we been wanting in performance of the severe duty of a King towards thee; for ere we did receive the godly Bishop of Moray’s letters regarding thee from the hands of the good Friar John, we had issued orders for the arrestment and warding of thy person in the nearest and most convenient of our prisons. Nor did we ever spare to meet thee with harsh reproof whilst thou were headstrong and rebellious; but now that thou dost come before us as a penitent and afflicted son, saying, ‘Father, I have sinned against Heaven and in thy sight;’ when thou comest as one willing to submit thee to all that the Church may demand of thee in reparation or in penance for thine outrages, we can no longer remember that we are a King, but we must yield us to those feelings which do now so stirringly tell us that we are a father. Oh, Alexander, my son, my son!” cried the old man, yielding to those emotions which he could no longer restrain, and bursting into a flood of tears, whilst he threw his aged arms around the manly form of the Wolfe of Badenoch; “the joy of this thy repentance doth more than recompense for all the affliction thou hast occasioned me during a long life. For thee, my son Alexander, have all my nights been sleepless; yea, and for thee have all my prayers been put up. Blessed be the holy Virgin, that they have not been put up in vain. Verily, I do sink fast into the grave; but thanks be to the Almighty King of kings, I shall now die in peace and with joy, sith that it hath pleased Him to bring thee to a due sense of the enormity of thy guilt.”

“Alas, alas!” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, deeply affected by his father’s wasted appearance, and sobbing aloud from remorse; “alas! I do fear that thy life hath been amenused by mine iniquities. Oh, father, I could bear all but this, the bitterest punishment of all. Thou hast sadly drooped sith that I did last behold thee. Would that I had then listened to the voice of thy wisdom, when it did so eloquently speak. But a devil hath possessed me; and, fiend that I was——”

“Speak not so, my son,” cried the old King, who had now sufficiently recovered himself to be able to talk calmly. “Self-accusation, except in so far as it is used as an offering before Heaven, is but a vain thing. Let thy whole heart be given up to that contrition the which is between thee and thy God alone, through the medium and mediation of the blessed Virgin and her Son; and let the seemliness and sincerity of thy public penance be an earnest of the amendment of thy future life.”

“I will, I will, my father,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, much moved. “Would that ages of my penance could but add to the number of thy peaceful and righteous years; cheerfully would I wander as a barefooted palmer for the rest of my miserable days. Yet fancy not, my father, that I have lacked mine own share of punishment. The viper for whom I did risk thy wrath and that of Heaven, hath stung me to the heart. Ha! but ’tis over now. The good Friar John hath taught me to keep down the raging ire which her black and hellish ingratitude did excite within me. May the holy Virgin grant me aid to subdue it, that my whole heart may be in to-morrow’s work; for, sooth to say, ’tis cruel and cutting, after all, for a hardy, haughty soul like mine to bend me thus beneath the rod of the priesthood. Ha! by the bones of my ancestors, a King’s son too—thy son! Nay, ’tis that the which doth most gall and chafe me; to think that thou shouldst thus be brought into derision by the disgrace which befalleth me. Thou, a King who——”

“Son Alexander,” said the venerable Monarch, calmly interrupting the Wolfe of Badenoch, as he was gradually blowing up a self-kindled flame of passion; “think not of us—think not of us now. Thou shouldst have thought of us and of our feelings before thou didst apply the torch of thy wild wrath to the holy temples of God and the peaceful habitations of his ministers. Robert was indeed ashamed of a wicked son, glorying in his mad and guilty rage; but Robert never can be ashamed of a son who is an humble penitent. No, Alexander; thy penance will be a crown of glory to us. Further, we would have thee remember that the priesthood are but the ministers of the justice of a greater King than any upon earth; and we would have thee to bear in mind how the Son of that Almighty King did, in all His innocence, submit Himself to the scourge and the cross, to infamy and cruel suffering, that He might redeem such sinners as thou and I. Let this humble thy pride and tame thy temper, if, indeed, pride or violence may yet remain with thee. And now haste thee homeward, that, by a night spent in conversation and prayer with the holy Friar John, thou mayest fit and prepare thyself for to-morrow’s duty, the which ought to be rather esteemed a triumph than a trial to thee. We shall be at the Castle of St. Johnstoun by times to give thee our best comfort; till then take with thee a father’s blessing.”

The Wolfe of Badenoch bowed his head to receive the benediction of the good old King, who wept as he gave it him, and throwing one arm round his son’s neck, he patted his head with the other hand, kissing his cheek repeatedly with all the affection of a doating father, who abandons himself to the full tide of his feelings and who is unwilling to shorten the transports he enjoys.

The news of the intended penitential procession of the King’s son, the terrible Wolfe of Badenoch, spread like wildfire through the town of St. Johnstoun, as well as throughout the surrounding country, and produced a general commotion. The Bishops of St. Andrews, Dunkeld, and Dunblane, had already arrived at the Dominican Convent, each having separately entered the town in great pomp, attended by all the high dignitaries of their respective dioceses. It was a proud triumph for the Church, and secret advices had been accordingly sent everywhere, that it might be rendered the more imposing and impressive by the numbers and importance of those religious persons who came as deputations from the different monastic houses which were within reach. Of the canons regular, there were the Abbots of Scone, Inch Colm, and Inch Mahome, with the Priors of St. Andrews, Loch Leven, Port Moak, and Pittenweem; of the Trinity, or Red Friars, were the Ministers of the Hospitals of Scotlandwell and of Dundee; of the Dominicans or Black Friars, the inmates of the Dominican Convent of Perth, where the ceremony was to take place, with the heads of the Convents of Dundee, Cupar in Fife, St. Monans, and St. Andrews; of the Benedictines, the Abbot of Dunfermline; of the Tyronenses, the Abbot of Lundores; of the Cistertians, or Bernardines, the Abbots of Culross and Balmerinoch; of the Franciscans, or Grey Friars, the head of the Convent of Inverkeithing; and, lastly, a numerous body of Carmelites, or White Friars, from the neighbouring Convent of Tullilum. All these heads of houses were largely attended; and if the crowd of these holy men was great that of the laity and vulgar was tenfold greater. The houses of the place were unable to contain them, and many were glad to encamp on those beautiful meadows stretching to north and south of the town, thankful to huddle themselves under any temporary shelter they could procure. The Black Friars Monastery, which was to be the scene of the humiliation of the Wolfe of Badenoch, was all in a ferment, and many there were who, knowing the formidable character of him they had to deal with, muttered secret ejaculations that all were well over.

The King left his Palace of Scone early in the morning, and entered Perth in his litter, attended by the Regent and the courtiers, being desirous to get as quietly as possible into the Castle. The King’s body-guard were drawn out to line the street from the Castle to the Church of the Dominican Convent. The distance was short, but the crowd contained in that small space was immense. The murmur was great, and the eyes of the spectators were constantly directed towards the gate of the Castle, whence they expected the procession to come. Every motion among the multitude excited an accession of impatience.

At length the King’s litter appeared, attended by the Regent, and followed by the crowd of courtiers. They came without order, and the litter hurried into the Church amidst the loud shouts of the people. All was then eager expectation, and nothing interrupted the low hum of voices, save the noise occasioned by those who made way for the different religious deputations, who approached the Church from different directions.

All these had passed onwards, and some time had elapsed, when a general hush ran through the crowd—a dead silence ensued—all eyes were directed towards the Castle gate—and the Wolfe of Badenoch appeared. He was supported on his right hand by his confessor, the Franciscan Friar, and he was followed by his two sons Andrew and Duncan, and by a very numerous train of attendants, all clad in the same humiliating penitential garb, walking barefooted. The Wolfe of Badenoch had no sooner issued from the Castle gateway than he appeared to be astonished and mortified at the multitude of people who had collected to witness his abasement. Anticipating nothing of this sort, he had prepared to assume a subdued air; but he was roused by the sight, and advanced with his head carried high, and with all his usual haughtiness of stride, his eyes flinging a bold defiance to all round, and their glances travelling rapidly from countenance to countenance, as they surveyed the two walls of human faces lining his way, as if he looked eagerly for some one whose taunting smile might give him an apology for breaking forth, and giving vent to his pent-up passion by felling him to the earth. He went on, biting his nether lip, and still he scanned them man by man; but everywhere he encountered eyes that quailed before his, and peaceful, gaping faces, filled with vulgar wonder, perhaps, and indicating much of fear, but nothing of scorn to be seen. The Franciscan was observed to whisper him; he seemed to listen with reverence, and, as he approached the entrance to the Church, he adopted a more humble gait and look. As for his men, they hung down their heads sheepishly from the first, like felons going to execution.

When the procession had reached the great door of the Church, which was closed against it, the Franciscan approached, and knocked slowly and solemnly.

“Who is he who knocketh for admission into the Church of God?” demanded a voice from within.

“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch, son of Robert, our most pious King,” replied the Franciscan.

“We do know right well that there once was such an one as thou dost name,” replied the voice; “but now he hath no existence. The great sentence of excommunication hath gone forth against his hardened obstinacy, and the Holy Church knoweth him no longer.”

“He cometh here as an humble penitent, to crave mercy and pardon of our Holy Mother Church,” replied the Franciscan.

“Is he ready to confess his sins against God and man, then?” demanded the voice. “Is he prepared humbly on his knees to declare his penitence, and to implore that mercy and pardon, the which must of necessity be extended to him ere he can again be received back into the bosom of that Church which he hath so greatly outraged?”

“He is,” replied the Franciscan.

“Then, if such be his sincere professions,” replied the voice, “let him and all understand, that albeit she can greatly and terribly punish, yet doth the Church delight in mercy, and it is ever her most joyful province to open her doors wide to her sincerely repentant children.”

These words were no sooner uttered, than the folding doors were thrown wide, and the populace were dazzled with the grandeur of the spectacle that presented itself. The verse of a hymn, that burst from a powerful choir within, added to the sublimity of the effect, whilst it gave time for the spectators to feast their eyes without distraction on what they beheld. In the centre of the doorway stood Walter Traill, the Bishop of St. Andrews, arrayed in all the splendour of his pastoral robes. Within his left arm was his crosier, and in his right hand he raised aloft a large silver crucifix. On his right and left were the Bishops of Dunblane and Dunkeld, behind whom were the whole dignitaries of the three sees in all their pomp of costume. The Church had been darkened that it might be artificially lighted by tapers, so as to present objects under that softly diffused and holy kind of illumination most favourable for the productions of strong impressions of awe. By this was seen a long train of Abbots and Priors, with Monks and Friars from all those religious houses we have already particularised. The sight was grand and imposing in itself, and picturesque in its grouping and disposal. The Franciscan Friar John whispered the Wolfe of Badenoch, and he bent down with a rigid effort until his knees were on the pavement. His sons and his followers imitated his example.

“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the Bishop of St. Andrews, in a full and sonorous voice, when the music had died away, “dost thou earnestly desire to be relieved from the heavy sentence of excommunication which thy manifold crimes and iniquities have compelled the Church to issue forth against thee?”

“I do,” replied the Wolfe in a firm voice.

“Dost thou humbly confess and repent thee of thy sins in general,” demanded the Bishop; “and art thou willing to confess and repent thee of each sin in particular at the high altar of this holy temple?”

“I do so repent me, and I am willing so to confess me,” replied the Wolfe.

“Then arise, my contrite son,” said the Bishop, “and humbly follow me to present thyself at the holy altar of God.”

The three Bishops with their attendants then turned away, and being followed by the Wolfe of Badenoch and his long train of penitential adherents, they moved in slow procession up the middle of the church towards the high altar, before which the penitents kneeled down, with their stern leader at their head, the monks of the various orders closing in behind them. The most perfect silence prevailed, and the soft fall of the footsteps on the pavement, and the rustling of draperies, were the only sounds heard.

“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the Bishop of St. Andrews, “dost thou confess that thou hast greatly sinned in thine abandonment of thine honourable and lawful wife Euphame Countess of Ross, and dost thou repent thee of this thine offence?”

“I do repent me,” said the Wolfe in an humble tone.

“Dost thou confess that thou hast greatly sinned in taking to thy bosom that foul and impure strange woman, Mariota Athyn?” demanded the Bishop; “especially thou being——”

“I do so confess, and I do most sincerely, yea, cruelly repent me,” cried the Wolfe, breaking in impatiently, and with great bitterness, on the unfinished question of the Bishop, and shouting out his answer in a tone that re-echoed from the Gothic roof.

“And art thou willing, or dost thou purpose to put this strange woman far from thee?” demanded the Bishop.

“I have already turned her forth,” shouted the Wolfe, in the same furious tone; “yea, and before God, at this His holy altar, do I swear, that with mine own will these eyes shall never see her more.”

“And wilt thou take back thy lawful wife?” demanded the Bishop, now willing to be as short as possible.

“I will,” replied the Wolfe.

“And now, dost thou sincerely acknowledge and repent thee of all the outrages thou hast done to our Holy Mother Church, as well as to God and His ministers?” demanded the Bishop.

“I do,” replied the Wolfe.

“Then do I, God’s servant, proceed to give thee and thine absolution, and to remove from thee the excommunication which was hurled upon thee by the Church in her just vengeance,” said the Bishop, who immediately began to pronounce the form of absolution prescribed by his ritual, as well as that for removing the excommunication.

Miserere was now sung by the choir, after which a mass was chanted, and the impatient Wolfe of Badenoch, tired twenty times over of a ceremony which would have worn out a much more submissive temper, tarried not a moment in the church after it was concluded, but, attended by the Franciscan, forced his way without any delicacy through the crowd, which yielded him a ready passage, and made a hasty exit from the church door. Having gained the open air, he strode along the lane of the guards, with an air that might have led a bystander to fancy that he gloried in his strange attire.

He was about to enter the Castle-gate, when a loud voice, calling “Halt!” came from behind him. He stopped, and turning loftily round, he beheld an armed knight, who came rushing through the abashed and scattered ranks of his men, who were straggling after him. In an instant, the mailed warrior made an effort to grapple the Franciscan by the throat; and he would have succeeded, had not the friar sprung nimbly aside to avoid him.

“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, in a voice like thunder, and at the same time snatching a formidable Scottish axe from one of the guards, and planting his unprotected body firmly before the Franciscan; “ha! who art thou that doth thus dare to attack the father confessor of the Wolfe of Badenoch? Dost thou think that I have tyned my spirit in yonder Church? By all the solemn vows I have made, I will split the skull of any he who may dare to lay impious hands on this holy Franciscan.”

“Is this possible?” cried the knight, raising his vizor, and showing himself to be Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger; “can it be that the Earl of Buchan will thus defend the very friar whom mine ears have so often heard him curse as a fiend? But let me pass to him, my Lord; I do beseech thee to provoke me not, for, of a truth, I am mad, utterly mad, at this present.”

“Mad or sober, Sir Patrick Hepborne,” cried the Wolfe, “for now I do perceive that thou art indeed Sir Patrick Hepborne, and much as I do love thee, I swear, by the beard of my grandfather, that neither thine arm, nor that of any created man, shall reach the friar save through this body of mine.”

“Wull she wants her helps? wull she wants her to grip him? wull she cleave the Wolfe’s crown?” said Duncan MacErchar, who now stepped out from the ranks, and spoke into Sir Patrick’s ear. “Troth, she wull soon do that, though she be twenty Wolfes, and a hundert Badenochs.”

“Stand aside, Duncan,” cried the knight, now somewhat sensible of his apparently unwarrantable violence, and altogether confounded by the Wolfe of Badenoch’s unlooked-for defence of the Franciscan. “By St. Baldrid, my Lord of Buchan, I should have as soon looked to have seen the eagle defending the owl who hath robbed her nest, as to see thee thus stand forth the protector of that accursed priest, that foul-mouthed slanderer, and remorseless assassin. Let me secure him. He is a criminal who must be brought to justice.”

“Thou shalt not touch the hem of his garment,” roared the Wolfe of Badenoch.

“Nay, give him way, my noble Lord of Buchan,” said the Franciscan in a taunting manner; “let this brave knight have way to use his poinard, or his sword, against the defenceless body of a friar. But,” continued he, snatching a long spear from one of those near him, whilst his eyes flashed a fiery defiance against Hepborne, “let him come on now, and he shall find that beneath this peaceful habit there doth beat as proud and determined a heart as ever his bosom did own. As for his villainous and lying charges, I do hereby cast them back in his teeth as false.”

“Caitiff,” cried Sir Patrick, “I should gain but little credit, I trow, by attacking a vile friar. I did but intend to prevent thine escape from the justice thou dost merit; and if I were but sure of seeing thee again in fitter time and place, when and where I could bring forward my charges, and prove them against thee, I should let thee go for this present.”

“Nay, fear not, I will promise not to shun thee, Sir Knight,” said the friar; “and thou, too, dost well know what charges thou shalt have to defend. The Earl of Buchan here will answer for my presence in the Castle when it shall be wanted; but who shall answer for thine?”

“I will,” said Sir John Halyburton, who chanced to come up at that moment.

“Sir John Halyburton!” exclaimed the Franciscan, with an air of astonishment. “Um—’tis well; and trust me, Sir John Halyburton, thou wilt find that thou hast more interest in his being forthcoming than thou dost at this moment imagine, and so the sooner he doth appear the better.”

“Nay, I will follow thee now,” replied Sir Patrick; “by all the holy saints, thou shalt not leave my sight.”

“Come on, then,” replied the Franciscan, with a bitter laugh; “and yonder cometh the King’s litter, so thou shalt have little time to wait, I wis, for ample justice.”

The monk then entered the Castle, followed by the Wolfe of Badenoch, who still brandished the long Scottish axe, and looked sternly around from time to time upon Sir Patrick as if suspicious that he might yet meditate an attack upon the friar.

“Hoit oit,” cried Duncan MacErchar, “and has the Hepbornes lost their spunks sith the battles o’ Otterburns? Who would hae thought that ony ane o’ her name would hae ta’en the boast yon way even frae the Wolfes o’ Badenoch hersel? Huits toots, Sir Patrick—uve, uve!”

“Pshaw,” replied Sir Patrick, much mortified to find that MacErchar had attributed his forbearance to want of spirit, “Wouldst thou have had a Hepborne attack a monk, or a man half naked, and at such a time as this too!”

“Ou fye! faith an’ it may be’s,” replied Duncan, somewhat doubtfully; “but she might ha’ gien him a clour for a’ tats. But can she do nothing to serve her honour?”

“Yea,” replied Sir Patrick, “plant thyself here; let not that Franciscan Friar leave the Castle until I have questioned him.”

“Ou, troth, and she’ll no scruples to gie him a clour,” replied Duncan.

Hepborne hastened into the Castle, and Captain MacErchar mechanically took his stand, nor did even the approach of the King’s litter, and the bustle that came with it, dislodge him from his post.

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LXXIII. Accusation made in presence of the King—The Challenge

Sir Patrick Hepborne, accompanied by his friend Sir John Halyburton, made his way into the hall of the Castle, burning with impatience to bring the Franciscan to a strict account, and half dreading that he might yet escape, by that mysterious power which had already so marvellously availed him. The Wolfe of Badenoch had hurried to his apartments to rid himself of his penitential weeds; and the Franciscan having disappeared also, the two knights were left to pace the hall for at least two hours, until Sir Patrick began to suspect that his fears had been realized. Rushing down to the gate, however, he found Captain MacErchar as steady at his post as the walls of the fortress; and, having questioned him, he learned that no friar had passed outwards. When he returned to the hall, he found the King seated on a chair of state, and his courtiers ranged on either hand of him, forming a semi-circle, of which he was the central point.

“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the King, with a high and distant air, “we are here to listen to thine accusation against the holy Franciscan Friar John, whom, we do understand, thou hast dared to malign.”

“My liege,” said Hepborne, “the thirsty steed panteth not more for the refreshing fountain than I do for audience of your Most Gracious Majesty, from whom I would claim that justice the which thou dost never deny to the meanest of thy subjects.”

“And we shall not refuse it to thee, the son of our ancient and faithful servant,” replied the King; “to one who hath himself done us and our kingdom of Scotland much good service. Yet do we bid thee bear in mind, that the best services may be wiped away by the disgraceful finger of polluted iniquity. Speak, Sir Patrick, what hast thou to say?”

“Nay, my liege, I would stay me until mine adversary doth appear to meet my charge,” said Sir Patrick.

“’Tis so far considerate of thee,” replied the King; “but thou mayest say on, for he will be here anon.”

“I come here, then, to impeach this Friar John of having feloniously carried off a damsel from the Tower of London, where she did then abide,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne, violently agitated; “a damsel whom he did once before attempt to murder, and whom he doth even now secrete, if he hath not already cruelly slain her.”

“Friar John is here to meet thy charge, Sir Knight,” cried the Franciscan, who had entered the hall in time to hear what had fallen from Hepborne, and who now came sternly forward, attended by the Wolfe of Badenoch, the Lord of Dirleton, and some others; “Friar John shall not shrink from whatever tales thine inventive recrimination may produce against him; he too shall have his charge against thee; but let thine be disposed of first, whereby the incredible boldness of thy wickedness may be made the more apparent to all.”

“What sayest thou?” demanded Hepborne, with considerable confusion.

“I do say,” replied the friar, “that conscious guilt doth already stagger thee in the very outset of this thine infamous attempt against an innocent man, whom thou wouldst fain sacrifice to hide thy foul deeds. Guilt doth often prove its own snare, and so shall ye see it here, I ween.”

“Villain, wretch, fiend?” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, who forgot in his resentment the presence in which he stood; “mine emotions, the which thou wouldst have others so misjudge, have been those only of horror and astonishment at thine unparalleled effrontery. My liege, this fiend—this wicked sorcerer—for so do I believe him to be—this assassin——”

“Ha! by the ghost of my grandfather,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, who stood by, now restored to all his knightly splendour—“by the ghost of my grandfather, but I will not stand by to hear such names hurled without reason on my holy father confessor. As he is here to answer thee, Sir Patrick Hepborne, and as I would not willingly seem to interfere with justice, say what thou wilt of calm accusation, for I fear not that he will cleanse himself, whosoever may be foul. But, by all the holy saints, I swear that, friends though we have been, I will not hear the holy man so foully miscalled; and I am well willing to fight for him to the outrance, not only in this world, but in the next too, if chivalry be but carried thither.”

“Silence, son Alexander,” said the King; “speak not, I pray thee, with lips so irreverent. And do thou, Sir Patrick Hepborne, proceed with thy charges, withouten these needless terms of reproach, the which are unseemly in our presence, and do but tend to inflame.”

“My liege,” said Sir Patrick, making an obeisance to the King, “I shall do my best to restrain my just indignation.—The Lady Beatrice, of whom I do now speak, did accompany me to Moray Land in the disguise of a page; and——”

“Ha!” exclaimed the King, starting with an air of surprise, and exchanging a look with the Franciscan and some others, that very much discomposed Sir Patrick; “so—dost thou confess this?”

“I do confess nothing, my liege,” replied Sir Patrick; “I do only tell the truth. When we were guests for some days to thee, my Lord of Buchan, at Lochyndorbe, this friar did enter the apartment of the Lady Beatrice armed with a dagger, and had she not fled from him to save her life, she had surely been murdered by his villainy. Already have I told that he did snatch her from the Tower of London, by means of false representations made to Friar Rushak, King Richard’s Confessor, and thence he did carry her by ship to Scotland, as I do know from Friar Rushak himself. I do therefore call on him to produce the damsel straightway, if indeed his cruelty hath not already put it beyond his power so to do.”

“Hast thou aught else to charge him withal?” demanded the King.

“Nay, my liege,” replied Hepborne, “but I require an immediate answer to these charges.”

“Before I do give a reply,” said the Franciscan, assuming a grand air, “I, on my part, do demand to know by what right Sir Patrick Hepborne doth thus question me.”

“Right, didst thou say?” exclaimed Hepborne; “I must answer thee by simply saying, that I do question thee by that right which every honourable knight hath to come forward in the cause of the unfortunate. But I will go farther, and say before all who are here present, that I do more especially appear here against thee for the unquenchable love I do bear to the Lady Beatrice.”

“Ha! so,” replied the Franciscan, with a bitter expression, “thou hast so far confessed that thou didst entertain the Lady Beatrice in thy company in male attire, and that thou dost cherish an unquenchable passion for her? Then, my liege, do I boldly accuse this pretended phœnix of virtue, this Sir Patrick Hepborne, of having stolen this damsel from the path of honour—of having plunged her in guilt—of having so bewitched her by potent charms, that she did even follow him to London, whence, with much fatigue and stratagem, I did indeed reclaim her, yea, did bring her to Scotland in a ship. But she was not many hours on land when she so contrived as to flee from me; and no one can doubt that her flight was directed to him who hath thrown his sorcery over her, and to whom she hath made so many efforts basely to unite herself again.”

“Friar, thou hast lied, grossly and villanously lied,” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne in a fury, “but now let me, in my turn, demand of thee what hast thou to urge that mought have given thee right so to control the Lady Beatrice?”

“All have right to prevent the commission of wickedness,” said the Franciscan. “But I do claim the right of parentage to control the Lady Beatrice. I am her uncle. Hath not so near a parent some right to control the erring daughter of his brother? Speak then; tell me where thou hast hid her, Sir Knight?”

“Can this be true?” exclaimed Sir Patrick Hepborne, petrified with astonishment at what he heard; “canst thou in very deed be the uncle of the Lady Beatrice? But what shall we say of that tender uncle who doth enter the apartment of his niece at midnight with a dagger in his hand? Villain, I observe thee blench as I do speak it. Thou art a villain still, let thy kindred to her be what it may. Thou hast murdered my love, and thou wouldst shift off suspicion from thyself, by an endeavour to throw guilt upon me. Wretched hypocrite! foul stain to the holy habit thou dost wear—say where, where hast thou bestowed the Lady Beatrice? Is she dead or alive?”

“Nay, foul shame to knighthood that thou art, ’tis thou who hast secreted the Lady Beatrice—thou who hast poisoned her mind—thou who hast disgraced her—thou who dost hide her from the light of day, that she may minister to thine abandoned love. Tell, tell me where thou hast hid her, or, friar as I am, I do here appeal thee to single duel.”

“Ha!” said Sir Patrick. “And right willingly, I trow, shall I do instant battle in support of mine unsullied honour—in support of the honour of her who hath been so foully calumniated; but with a friar like thee!”

“Nay, let that be no hindrance, Sir Knight,” cried the Franciscan, whilst his eyes darted lightnings; “now indeed I am a friar, but, trust me, I was not always so. In me thou shalt have no weak or untaught arm to deal withal; and if I may but have dispensation——”

“Talk not so, Friar John,” said the King; “thou shalt never be suffered to peril thy life. Thou must seek thee out some cham——”

“Nay, seek nowhere but here,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, slapping his right hand furiously on his cuirass. “If the good Friar John doth bestir himself to save my soul, ’tis but reason, meseems, that I should rouse me to save his body. I am in some sort a witness to the truth of part of what he hath asserted. So, by the blood of the Bruce, Sir Patrick——”

“Nay, nay, my Lord Earl,” cried the old Lord of Dirleton, now starting up with an agitation that shook every fibre, and with a countenance in which grief and resentment were powerfully blended; “verily I am old; but old as I am, I have still some strength; and my heart, at least, hath not waxed feeble. It shall never be said that a De Vaux did suffer a son of the Royal house of Scotland to risk the spilling of his noble blood, to save that which hath already been so often shed in its defence, and the which shall be ever ready to flow for it, whilst a drop of it may remain within these shrivelled veins. Here am I ready to encounter the caitiff knight, on whose smiles, when an infant, I looked with delight as the future husband of my very daughter Beatrice, and who did so gain upon me lately by the plausible semblance of virtue. Base son of thy noble sire, full hard, I ween, hath it been for me, an injured father, to sit silent thus so long listening to thy false denials, and thy vile recriminations against my brother John. But now do I give thee the lie to them all, and dare thee to mortal combat.”

“My Lord, my Lord,” cried Sir John Halyburton, going up to the Lord of Dirleton in great astonishment, “calm thy rage, I beseech thee. What is this I do hear? Of whom dost thou speak? For whom dost thou thus hurl mortal defiance against my dearest friend Sir Patrick Hepborne? Daughter, saidst thou?”

“Ay, daughter, Sir John Halyburton,” exclaimed the old man; “my daughter Beatrice—she whom I have discovered to be yet alive, only that I may wish her dead. Oh, I could bear the loss of mine innocent infant—I could forgive a sinning and now repentant brother—but to forgive the villain who hath robbed my sweet flower of her fragrance—no, no, no, ’tis impossible. The very thought doth bring back all a father’s rage upon me. Give me my daughter, villain!—my daughter. Oh, villain, villain, give me my daughter!” The aged Lord of Dirleton, exhausted by the violence of his emotions, tottered forward a step or two towards Sir Patrick, and would have sunk down on the floor had he not been supported to the seat he had occupied.

“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said Sir John Halyburton, sternly advancing towards him, after he had assisted the father of his future bride, “we have been warm friends, yea, I did come in hither to stand by thee to the last, as thy friend; but my friendship did sow itself and spread its roots in that honourable surface with the which thou wert covered. ’Tis no wonder, then, that it should dry up and wither when it doth push deeper into the less wholesome soil, which was hitherto hid from my sight. The Earl of Buchan, the Lord of Dirleton—nay, all do seem to know thy blackness, and I do now curse myself that we were ever so linked. We can be friends no longer; and sith that it has pleased heaven to deny a son to that honourable but much injured Lord, it behoveth me, who look soon to stand in that relation to him, to take his wrongs upon myself. We must meet, yea, and that speedily, as deadly foes. My liege,” continued he, turning towards the King, and making his obeisance, “have I thy gracious permission here to appeal Sir Patrick Hepborne to single combat of outrance, to be fought as soon as convenient lists may be prepared?”

“Thou hast our licence, Sir John Halyburton,” replied the King; “to-morrow shall the lists be prepared, and on the day thereafter this plea shall be tried.”

“Then, sith that I have thy Royal licence, my liege,” cried Sir John Halyburton, “I do hereby challenge Sir Patrick Hepborne to do battle with me in single combat of outrance, with sharp grounden lances, and after that with battle-axes, and swords and daggers, as may be, and that unto the death. And this for the foul stain he hath brought upon the noble family of De Vaux, of the which I am about to become a son, and may God defend the right, and prosper the just cause;” and with these words, Sir John Halyburton threw down his gauntlet on the floor.

“I will not deny,” said Sir Patrick, as he stooped to lift it with a deep sigh, “I will not deny that it doth deeply grieve me thus to take up the gauntlet of challenge from one whom I have so much loved, and one for whom I should much more willingly have fought to the death than lifted mine arm against him. But the will of an all-seeing Providence must be obeyed; that Providence, who doth know that I wist not even that the Lady Beatrice was aught else but the page Maurice de Grey, until after she did flee from me. Twice did I afterwards behold her; once in the field of Otterbourne, where she had piously sought out and found the body of her benefactor, Sir Walter de Selby, and once within the Church of Norham, where she did assist at his funeral rites; but on neither of these sad occasions had I even speech of her. A third time I did behold her but for an instant in the house of Sir Hans de Vere, in the Tower of London, and then did I save her, at the peril of my life, from what I then conceived to be a base assault of King Richard of England against her, for the which I did pay the penalty of imprisonment. On these three occasions only have mine eyes beheld her, sith that we parted at Tarnawa. If to love her honourably and virtuously be a crime, then am I indeed greatly guilty; but for aught else——”

“Thou hast told a fair tale, Sir Patrick,” said the King, shaking his head.

“Nay, ’twere better to be silent, methinks, than thus to try to thrust such ill-digested stories on us,” cried the Franciscan. “But ’tis no wonder that he should be loth to appear in the lists in such a cause. Conscience will make cowards of the bravest.”

“Nay, let God judge me then,” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, turning fiercely round, and darting a furious glance at the friar. “Conscience, as with thee, may sleep for a time; but trust me, its voice will be terribly heard at last. Then bethink thee how thou shalt answer thine, when thy death-bed cometh. Coward, saidst thou?—By St. Baldrid, ’tis the first time—But Sir John Halyburton, thou at least will readily acquit me of aught that may have so disgraceful a savour. I do accept thy challenge; I am thine at the appointed time; may God indeed defend the right! Then shall mine innocence appear, while the transcendent virtue of the Lady Beatrice, whom I do glory to proclaim my lady-love, shall shine forth like the noonday sun.”

By one of those unfortunate accidents which sometimes occur, it chanced that the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne had been gone for some days on private business to his Castle of Hailes. Had he been present, this unfortunate feud might have perhaps been prevented; but he could not be now looked for at Scone until after the day fixed for the duel; and if he had been expected sooner, things had already gone too far to have been arrested, without some living proof to establish the truth. Sir John Assueton was present during the scene we have described, but he had been too much confounded by all he had witnessed and heard to be able to utter a sentence.

“My dear Assueton,” said Sir Patrick, going up to him, and taking him aside after all was over, “my friend, my oldest, my best-tried, my staunchest friend, thou brother of my dearest affections, from thee, I trust, I may look for a fairer judgment than these have given me?”

“Thou mayest indeed, Hepborne,” replied Assueton, griping his friend’s hand warmly. “Trust me, it doleth me sorely to see such deadly strife about to be waged between thee and one whom we both do so much love. Yet are the ways of Providence past our finding out. But may God do thee right, and make thy virtue appear.”

“Thou canst not have been astonished at the tardiness I did show!” said Hepborne. “Alas! my heart doth grieve to bursting; perplexed, lost in a maze of conjecture, the whole doth appear to me to have been delusion. So the Lady Beatrice proveth to be the long-lost daughter of the Lord of Dirleton! and the Franciscan—ha!—the Friar—he then is that John de Vaux who did so traitorously steal his brother’s child!—and hath the word of such a villain had power to face down mine? Oh, monstrous! Nay, now do I more than ever fear for the safety—for the life—of her whom I do love to distraction. And then her pure fame blasted, mine own good name tarnished, and no other means left for the cleansing of mine honour and her fame, but to lift the pointed lance, and the whetted sword, against the life of him whom, next to thee, I do of all men account most dear to me! May the holy Virgin, may the blessed Trinity, aid and sustain me amid the cruel host of distresses by the which I am environed!”

“Most hardly art thou indeed beset,” replied Sir John Assueton; “yet hast thou no other choice but to put thy trust in God, and to do thy best in this combat for the establishment of thine own honour as a knight, and the pure fame of thy lady-love, leaving to Providence the issues of life and death.”

After this conversation, Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton prepared to leave the Castle. As they were passing through the gateway, Hepborne, who was deeply absorbed in his own reflections, was gently touched on the arm by some one.

“She be’e here, Sir Patricks,” whispered Duncan MacErchar; “troth, she hath catched the friars, and troth she be’s a strong sturdy loons. Uve, uve, but she had a hard tuilzie wi’ her.”

“What? whom?” cried Sir Patrick.

“Troth, she did tell her to stand there till Sir Patricks come,” said MacErchar; “but she would not bide; and so, afore a’ was done, she was forced to gie her a bit clouring. Would she no likes to——”

“What?” cried Sir Patrick, now beginning to comprehend him, “thou dost not talk of the Franciscan? I do hope and trust thou hast not hurt the Franciscan?”

“Phoo! troth, as to tat, she doth best ken hersel the friars,” replied Duncan; “but hurts or no hurts, she be’s in here,” continued he, pointing under the gateway to a low vaulted door, “and she may e’en ask the friars hersel.”

“Holy Virgin!” cried Hepborne, “thou hast ruined me with thy zeal. Open the door of this hole, and let me forthwith release the friar. Though he be mine enemy, yet would I not for kingdoms lie under the foul suspect of having caused him to be waylaid.”

“Troth, she shall soon see her,” said Duncan, opening the door of the place—“Ho, ho, ho! there she doth lie, I do well wot, like a mockell great grey swine.”

There indeed, in an area not four feet square, was squeezed together the body of the Franciscan. He had a considerable cut and bruise upon his tonsure, from which the blood still oozed profusely. He seemed to be insensible; but he was no sooner lifted into the open air, than it appeared that his swoon was more owing to the closeness of the hole he had been crammed into than the wound he had received. He quickly began to recover and Sir Patrick raised him up and assisted him to stand.

“To thee, then, I am indebted for thy villainous traiterie?” cried the Franciscan, looking wildly at Sir Patrick, and shaking himself free from his arms as he said so. “Oh, shame to knighthood, thus to plant an assassin in my path; but rivers of thy blood shall speedily flow for every drop that doth fall from this head of mine.”

With these words he darted into the Castle ere Sir Patrick could speak, leaving him stupified by this unfortunate mistake, which had brought a fresh cause of shameful suspicion upon him.

“May she leave her posts noo!” demanded Duncan MacErchar with great coolness.

“Leave thy post!” cried Hepborne in a frenzy; “would thou hadst been in purgatory, knave, rather than that thou hadst wrought me this evil.”

“Oh, hoit-toit!” cried Duncan. “Spurgumstory! Uve, uve! and tat’s from Sir Patricks!”

“Forgive me, Duncan,” cried Hepborne, immediately recovering his self-command, and remembering whom it was he had so wounded, “forgive my haste. I do well know thy zeal. But here, by ill luck, thou hast fortuned to carry it farther than befitting. It will be but an evil report when it shall be told of Sir Patrick Hepborne that he did plant a partizan to assail and wound the friar with whom he had feud. But thou art forgiven, my friend, for I do well know that thine intention was of the best.”

“Phoo-oo-o!” cried Duncan, with a prolonged sound, “troth, and she doth see that she hath missed her marks, fan she did hit the friars a clour. But troth, she will see yet and mend the friar’s head; and sith she doth ken that she hath a feud wi’ her, och, but she will mak her quiet wi’ the same plaisters that did the ills.”

“On thy life, touch him not again,” said Sir Patrick, “not as thou dost love me, Duncan. Let not the friar be touched, else thou dost make me thy foe for ever.”

“Phoo, ay, troth she’s no meddles mair wi’ her,” said Duncan; “ou ay, troth no, she’ll no meddles.”

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LXXIV. The missing Lady Beatrice

Whilst preparations are making for the duel, it may not be improper to relieve the reader’s mind regarding the Lady Beatrice, who had thus unwittingly become the subject of a feud likely to terminate so fatally. After having providentially effected her escape, first from the flames of the Hospital of the Maison Dieu, and then from the base and treacherous protection of Sir Andrew Stewart, she fled through the garden, and, being bewildered by a complication of terrors, she ran she knew not whither, and unwittingly taking the direction of the town, rushed wildly through the streets. Terror-struck by the blaze of the Cathedral and the shouts of those who were engaged in its destruction, some of whom her fears led her to imagine had joined in the pursuit which she believed Sir Andrew Stewart still held after her, she darted onwards with inconceivable rapidity, until she passed quite through the town. A little beyond its western entrance, she beheld a light at some distance before her, and believing that it proceeded from the casement of some cottage, she sprang towards it with renewed exertion. To her great disappointment, it turned out to be one of those lamps kept burning within a shrine of the Virgin that stood by the wayside. She sank down exhausted before the image it contained, and clasping her hands together, implored protection from her whom the figure represented.

While she was occupied in devotion, she heard the distant tramp of a horse. At first she was doubtful of the reality of the sound, confounded as it was with the far-off shouts of the Wolfe of Badenoch’s people; but it soon became too distinct to be mistaken. It came not very quick, however, and she had yet time to flee. Filled with fresh alarm, she again sprang to her feet; but, alas! their strength was gone. Her limbs refused to do their office, and, tottering for a step or two, she again sank down on the ground, under the half shadow at the base of the little Gothic building. As she fell the horseman came on. He halted in doubt whether that which he beheld sink so strangely was corporeal or spiritual. His horse, too, seemed to partake of his alarm; for when he tried to urge the animal to pass by, he snorted and backed, and could not be persuaded or compelled to advance by any means the rider could use.

Meanwhile, the Lady Beatrice, believing that the man who rode the horse had halted for the purpose of dismounting, lay trembling with apprehension that Sir Andrew Stewart was about to seize her. Fear robbed her for some moments of recollection, from which temporary stupor she was roused by feeling her waist powerfully encircled by two arms of no pigmy size or strength, upon which she screamed aloud and fainted away.

When the Lady Beatrice regained her recollection, she found herself seated on the saddle, and travelling at a good round pace. She was held in her place, and supported by the same sinewy arms, which were also employed in guiding the reins, and pressing on the steed.

“Mercy, mercy, Sir Andrew Stewart,” shrieked she; “oh, whither dost thou carry me?”

“St. Lowry be praised that thou hast gathered thysel back frae the warld o’ sauls, my leddy! Of a truth I did greatly fear that thy spirit had yode thither.”

“Merciful Providence, Rory Spears!” cried the Lady Beatrice, almost doubting the evidence of her ears. “The holy Virgin be praised, if it be thee indeed!”

“Yea, in good truth, it is assuredly me, Roderick Spears, esquire, at the humble service of thy leddyship,” replied Rory.

“Then thanks be to the blessed Virgin, I am safe!” replied Beatrice.

“Safe!” cried Rory; “yea, as safe as the bold heart of ane esquire can make thee. Trust me, they sall take measure o’ ane ell and ane half o’ this lance that hangs ahint me here, that may essay to do thee aught o’ harm between this and Tarnawa, whither my shalty Brambleberry shall speedily convey us.”

“May the saints unite to shower their blessings upon thee, Rory, for thy timely aid!” cried the Lady Beatrice; “but how, I pray thee, didst thou chance to rescue me from the power of Sir Andrew Stewart?”

“What!” cried Rory, “so that ill-doing, misbegotten fumart hath been besetting thee again with this accursed traiterie. By St. Lowrie, but I did ance tak measure o’ him afore.”

“Yea, he encountered me as I did escape from the flames of the Maison Dieu, and he pursued me to the shrine of the Virgin, where he was in the act of laying his impure hands on me, when I did faint away.”

“Na, troth, my leddy,” said Rory, “the hands that war laid on thee war my hands; and, though I should speak weel o’ that the which be’s mine ain, I do boldly avow that they are purer than the scartin’ claws o’ that mouldwarp, although they hae handled mony a foul fish, and I wad be sair ashamed an they waur no teucher. It was me that took haud o’ ye, my leddy, and I made bauld to do that same (being ane esquire) that I might succour ye, distressed damsel that thou wert, by lifting thy dead body into the saddle, that wi’ a sair heart I mought bring thee aff to Tarnawa, where, an thou didst not recover thee, thou mightest have had ane honourable yirdin’.”

“But tell me, I pray thee, how thou didst chance to come there?” demanded Beatrice.

“I’ll tell thee,” said Rory. “My master, the Yearl, did send me to Aberdeen wi’ a flight o’ falcons he had promised till the King’s Majesty; so I hae been there, yea, and did behold his Royal Grace afore he depairted for his Palace of Scone. I wot he was weel pleased wi’ the birds, and he did show me the fair side o’ his Royal favour for bringing them, partly, nae doot, for the sake o’ my noble master the Yearl o’ Moray, and partly, I do opine, because I am noo an esquire admitted and acknowledged, the which the King himsel did alswa most graciously confirm out o’ his ain mouth. For, says he to me, ‘Squire Rory,’ says he, ‘are the falcons well mewed, and hast thou reclaimed them to purpose?’ To the which I did answer, ‘Try ye them, my Royal Liege, and ye’ll see gin there be ony Royal hern that’ll mount wi’ them. Trust me, my Lord King, that they have a wing that will carry them up to the very riggin’ o’ the lift, an ye can find a hern that ’ill gang there before them.’ The king gied a most gracious laugh thereupon, and so I did laugh too, and the Lords did laugh. At length the King telled ane o’ his fouk to see that Squire Roderick Spears was well feasted; and so I was in good troth, yea, and got handsome gurdeon I rauckon alswa. So, as I was on my way back from Aberdeen, I stopped late yestreen at the Spital o’ the Mason’s Due; but I had not lain long asleep until I was startled to my legs by the cry o’ fire, and the flames bursting out. I hurried on some of my garments, and grupping the rest in my hands, I made the best o’ my way to the stable; but there I could not get in for lack o’ the key. It was firm fast, and I had hard wark, I wis, till I could get something to break it open wi’. Then did I ride through a’ the town to see what destruction the Wolfe o’ Badenoch was doing. But as I was but ae man, and that it would ill become me to find faut wi’ the son o’ the King or the brother o’ my leddy Countess, I cam aff hot foot to tell the Yearl. So seeing thee moving in the light yonder, I maun just say, that, at the first, I did opine that thou wert something not o’ this warld; and had it not been for Brambleberry here, who would by no means pass thee by, and whose good sense therein did gie me time to see that thou were nae ghost, verily thou mightst ha’e lain there still for me.”

Under the protection of the faithful Rory Spears, the Lady Beatrice arrived safely at Tarnawa, where she was joyfully received by the Countess. Her converse with the Franciscan had been enough to inform her of the pleasing fact that she was indeed the daughter of the Lord of Dirleton; and the happy Jane de Vaux learned this much from her with a rapture that melted Beatrice’s heart with emotions of delight she had never before experienced. To her, who had grown up without knowing aught of the affectionate regard of a near relation, how soothing must have been the pure embrace of a sister, of a sister too who had already shown herself to be the kindest of friends. But the joy of Jane de Vaux and the Countess of Moray, who had fully participated in the felicity of her young friend, was converted into extreme anxiety about Beatrice, who was seized with a severe illness, the effect of the fatigue, shipwreck, dread, and agitation to which she had lately been exposed. To add to their distress, the Earl of Moray had been gone from home for some days. It is no wonder, then, that the Countess and the Lady Jane de Vaux should have been too much occupied with their patient to think of making inquiry about her uncle the Franciscan; nor was it until the Earl returned that he did what they should have done before; and then it was they learned from the Bishop of Moray that the friar had gone on his important mission to the Wolfe of Badenoch.

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LXXV. The Ordeal of Battle

Having thus seen the Lady Beatrice safe into the hands of friends, we must leave her to be recovered by their affectionate care, whilst we give some account of the preparations which were making for the duel between Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Halyburton.

The Lord of Dirleton, after some moments of cool reflection, began to regret that his feelings had so hurried him away, as to make him forget that his family honour could gain but little by the cause of the duel being made public. He therefore lost no time in beseeching the King that the lists might be erected in some situation where the vulgar, at least, could be excluded; and, in compliance with this request, a spot was fixed on, in the meadow below the Palace of Scone, and there workmen were employed in immense numbers to ensure their erection against the time fixed on. Even during the night they worked unceasingly, and the lights were seen flitting about, and the hatchets, saws, and hammers were heard in full operation, so that by the morning of the appointed day a rudely-constructed amphitheatre of combat was prepared.

The morning was beautiful, and although all about the court knew that the day must end in a tragedy, yet nothing could be more gay or brilliant than the prologue to the scene. The King’s pavilion was pitched close to the outside of the lists, and a private door and stair led up from it into a balcony over the centre of one of the sides of the enclosure, where the King took his seat, with the Regent, the Lord of Dirleton and his lady, together with the Franciscan and some others. Between the outer and the inner lists, a wide space extended all around on both sides, from one gate to the other, which was dedicated to the nobles and knights who sat on horseback, there to witness the combat. There were barriers in the inner circle of palisadoes, one opposite to each side of the gate.

The two knights arrived at the outside of the lists, each attended by his esquire, and armed at all points, both horse and man; and each of them waited at a different gate, that he might be admitted with all the ceremony of chivalry.

After the King was seated, the Constable, Marshal of the lists, and the heralds took their stand in the places allotted for them below. Then appeared Sir John Halyburton, attended by his esquire, at the east gate; which circumstance being formally announced to the Constable and Marshal, they went thither to receive him.

“Who art thou, and for what purpose art thou come hither?” demanded the Constable.

“I am Sir John Halyburton,” replied he; “and hither am I come, mounted and armed, to perform my challenge against Sir Patrick Hepborne, younger of Hailes, and to redeem my pledge. Wherefore do I humbly desire this gate to be opened, that I may be suffered to perform mine intent and purpose.”

“Thou shalt have way hither if thou be’st indeed he whom thou dost set thyself forth to be,” replied the Constable. “The Moor’s head proper on thy crest, and thy golden shield with those three mascles on a bend azure, do speak thee to be him whom thou dost say thou art. Yet must we behold thy face. Raise thy vizor, then, Sir Knight.”

Sir John Halyburton did as he was desired, and his identity being acknowledged, he was led into the lists, and placed opposite the King, where he was to remain until the defendant should appear.

He had to wait no longer than the nature of the ceremony required, when the Constable was called to the western gate to receive the defendant, who, on being formally questioned, declared himself to be Sir Patrick Hepborne, younger of Hailes.

“We do indeed behold the couped horse’s head with bridled neck on thy crest,” said the Constable; “and on thy shield gules, the chevron argent, with the two lions pulling at the rose, but we would have other proof that thou art in very deed Sir Patrick Hepborne. Raise thy vizor, Sir Knight, that we may behold thy countenance. Ay, now we do indeed see that thou art the very defendant in this duel. Enter;” and he was accordingly led into the lists, and placed by the side of his challenger.

Then were the weapons of each examined. These were a lance, a battle-axe, a sword, and a dagger. The lances were measured, and everything was adjusted in such a manner that neither should have any undue advantage over the other. The Constable next besought His Majesty’s pleasure, to know whether he would in person take the oaths of the combatants, or whether he would empower him and the Marshal to do it; and having received orders to proceed, they first addressed Sir John Halyburton, and demanded of him what were the terms of his challenge.

“I do appear as champion for William de Vaux, Lord of Dirleton,” replied Sir John; “he being of an age which doth render it impossible that he can take arms in his own person; also for John de Vaux, his brother, a friar of the order of St. Francis, to do battle against Sir Patrick Hepborne, younger of Hailes, whom, in their name, and upon their credit, I do accuse of having wronged them in certain matters well known to His Majesty, as also to the defendant, and to compel him to own his guilt, or to clear it by his arm.”

“Thou dost swear, then, on the holy Evangelists,” said the Constable, “that this is the true cause of thy coming hither, that thou dost thyself believe the averments of those for whom thou dost appear, and that thou art prepared, if it be God’s will, to support the same with thy life.”

“I do swear,” replied Sir John Halyburton.

“And thou, Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the Constable, “dost thou comprehend the charge that is brought against thee; and if thou dost, what hast thou to answer?”

“I do comprehend the charge,” replied Sir Patrick; “and I do deny it solemnly in all its parts. I do deny that I have ever done injury to the Lord of Dirleton, or to any person or thing of his; and I do declare, that both to him and to his I have borne, and do still bear, the strongest love. This do I swear on the holy Evangelists; and God so help me as I do speak the truth.”

Then the second oath—that they had not brought with them other armour or weapon than such as was allowed, nor any engine, instrument, herb, charm, or enchantment, and that neither of them should put affiance or trust in anything other than God and their own valour, as God and the holy Evangelists should help them—being solemnly sworn by both, each was led off to the barrier opposite to the gate he had entered by, where his banner and blazon were set up; and whilst both were in preparation, the usual proclamation was given forth by the heralds.

The lists were then cleared of every one save only of two knights and two esquires, one of each to wait upon the Constable and the Marshal. The knight who was assigned to the Constable was Sir William de Dalzel, and he who was appropriated to the Marshal was Sir John Assueton. To each was given a headless lance, and they sat mounted immediately before the place occupied by the Constable and the Marshal, and directly under the King’s balcony, that they might be ready to part the combatants, if it should so please the King.

When all was in readiness, the bugle-note of warning sounded from both barriers, and, after a short pause, the King issued the usual command, “Laissez les aller!” and, the signal being given by the heralds’ trumpets, the knights flew together. Halyburton and Hepborne had been, nay, were at that moment, warmly attached to each other, but his individual honour as a knight was dearer to each of them than even friendship. Whatever had been their feelings of regret, or unwillingness to engage in mortal strife, each now only remembered him of his own name and that of his lady as he spurred; and, throwing the blame on unhappy fate, which had thus doomed them to this unnatural struggle, each thought but of working the death of his opponent, as if it had been but the winning from him of some gaudy trophy in a tournament. The collision was tremendous; the clash resounded far and near, and a murmur of admiration burst from the assembled knights. Both lances were shivered, and both steeds were thrown so much back on their haunches, that, for the fraction of a second, it seemed to the spectators as if it were impossible that they could again recover themselves.

But the horses regaining their legs, the riders lost not an instant in seizing the battle-axes that hung at their saddle-bows; and then the fight became dreadful indeed. Their blows fell so thick and fast upon each other’s head and body, that the sound resembled that which may be supposed to come from the busy forge of an armourer; and desperate were the dints made in the plate-mail both of the horses and their riders. The noble quadrupeds reared and plunged, and, dexterously guided by the rein, leaped forwards and backwards, and from side to side, with as much precision, while the strokes were dealing, as if they had been but parts of the animals that combated on their backs. But this equestrian battle was not of long duration. A heavy blow from the axe of Sir John Halyburton fell upon the head of Hepborne’s favourite war steed, Beaufront, and, in defiance of his steel chamfront, the noble animal was so stunned by it that he staggered, and measured his length on the sod. But as his horse was sinking under him, Sir Patrick made his battle-axe tell heavily and loudly on the helmet of his opponent, who had leaned forward to give his stroke more weight, and he beat him fairly down from his saddle.

Sir Patrick extricated his feet from the stirrups with great agility as his horse was falling, and leaped on the ground. His antagonist, having taken some seconds to regain his legs, was completely in his power. But here friendship came into operation. Although he might, with perfect honour, have taken full advantage of Sir John Halyburton, he only brandished his battle-axe over him for an instant to mark that advantage, whilst the spectators shuddered, in expectation of the blow that was to put an end to the combat, and then dropping his arm harmlessly by his side, he retreated a few paces, to wait until his antagonist should be again equal with him. The King, and the knights who looked on, clapped their hands in sign of approbation.

And now the combatants again approached each other, and desperate was the encounter. The armour of both knights was battered so tremendously, that their helmets were soon shorn of their proud plumes and crests, which hung down in tattered fragments about their heads. Soon afterwards, the lacings of their head pieces were cut, and each, in his turn, lost his bassinet. Their surcoats were cut to shreds, and some of the fastenings of the most important defences of their bodies being also demolished, the plates dropped away piecemeal, and the persons of both were left comparatively exposed, having nothing to resist the blows but their hauberks and hauquetons. Still they fought with their battle-axes, until both becoming unable longer to wield them, they seemed to throw them away by mutual consent, and, drawing their swords and daggers, began to cut and stab, aiming at those places where their former weapons had opened breaches, through which they hoped to extract each other’s life’s blood.

And now, indeed, the combat assumed the character of a deadly strife. The most experienced warriors present declared, that so perfectly matched a contest had never before been witnessed, and a very general opinion prevailed, that, instead of one of them only being slain, the death of both the knights would probably be the result of this fierce and desperate duel. Despairing of the life of her champion, the Lady Dirleton had already fainted, and had been borne out to the King’s pavilion. The poor old Lord of Dirleton also began to picture to himself the melancholy scene which must take place on the return of his daughter, the Lady Jane de Vaux, to weep over the cold and bloody corpse of him whom she expected to find warmly waiting to salute her as his bride. As for John de Vaux the Franciscan, he inwardly regretted that he had not been his own champion; the apprehension of evil fortune that naturally arises where there is a doubt, having already led him to fear that Halyburton had much the worst of the combat. As for Assueton and Sang, they each sat silently in their saddles, in the places where they were posted, doubtful and unhappy. Their eyes being more turned upon Hepborne than upon his adversary, they trembled to remark each new wound he received, and each reeling step which the successful blows of Halyburton occasioned. His growing faintness was anxiously and fearfully noticed by them in secret, and every moment made an accession to their anxiety and their fear. The minstrel, Adam of Gordon, who was seated among the attendants behind the King, trembled, clasped his hands, groaned, and moved backwards and forwards on his place; and as Duncan MacErchar, who was there with his company of Guards, and who as yet knew little of the usages observed at such duels, it was with the utmost difficulty that he was prevented from rushing to Hepborne’s assistance, and he was at length only hindered from doing so by being seized by the order of the Marshal of the lists.

The combat was raging, though both the knights were evidently growing fainter and fainter, when a bugle sounded at one of the gates, and one of the marshalmen being sent to ascertain the cause, brought a message to the Constable that an esquire waited there who craved immediate admittance to the King; and the circumstance being signified to his Majesty, leave was granted to the stranger to enter. He no sooner appeared within the gate than he was seen to push his horse furiously along behind the drawn-up ranks of the mounted knights who were looking on, making directly for the stair that led up from thence to the King’s gallery. Some who recognized the face of this esquire knew him to be Rory Spears. Leaping from his froth-covered horse, he left him to pant, and, springing up the steps to the King’s gallery, he was seen to throw himself on his knees before His Majesty. What he said was known only to those who were near the Monarch’s person; indeed the sudden appearance of this messenger carried away the eyes of the spectators for a few moments only from the combat, which now appeared to be approaching nearer and nearer to that fatal termination which so many experienced heads had anticipated. Already both knights staggered and grew giddy with their numerous wounds and their loss of blood; and those generous bosoms who surrounded the lists cursed the interruption which the King’s attention was receiving, being persuaded, that if it had been still directed towards the combatants, he could not possibly have allowed the duel to proceed to the extinction of two such brave lives. They trembled with dread that he should not look and act until his interference would be of no avail; for it seemed as if every moment would see both the heroes extended dead upon the sod, that had been already rendered slippery with the blood they had spilt.

All at once a great confusion seemed to have taken place in the King’s gallery. His Majesty himself appeared to be much agitated, and a signal was given, in his name by the Regent to the Constable and Marshal, to stop the combat. Their two knights assistants, who had both been in misery for the fate of their friends who were fighting, gave their horses the spur, and darted forward like arrows, with their headless lances extended, to separate the combatants. The two champions, breathless and hardly able to support themselves, were yet not approached by any one, save by those who divided them by their lance-poles, for in this stage of the affair the duel was only stayed; and as it might yet be the King’s pleasure that they should renew their strife to the death, the law required that they should be left precisely in the same state, that if the combat should recommence, it might do so with each champion in the same circumstances, with relation to his adversary, as he had been in when the King had interfered. Faint, and ready to drop, therefore, they supported themselves on their well-hacked swords; and whilst the blood poured from many a wound, they panted, and silently surveyed each other’s grim and gory features, at the short distance by which they were divided, as if each read his own death legibly written in the death-like face of his opponent.

Female shrieks were now heard coming from the King’s pavilion without the lists, and all was commotion in the King’s gallery. Robert himself was seen moving away, supported by some of his people; and, in defiance of propriety, many were seen rushing out before him by the way that led down to the pavilion. In a few minutes the gallery was cleared.

Meanwhile the combatants still stood gazing with fixed and ghastly look at each other; and their two friends sat like equestrian statues, with their lance-shafts crossed between them, but uttering no word, and giving no sign; and, while they were thus grouped, a messenger came to announce to the Constable the King’s pleasure that the duel should be forthwith terminated and ended without further bloodshed, he having taken the quarrel into his own hand, and that he was prepared to decide it in his own pavilion, where the combatants were ordered immediately to attend him; that the two knights should be led forth of the lists, each by his own gate, the one by the Constable, and the other by the Marshal, and that both should make exit at the same moment, by signal from the heralds’ trumpets, that neither might suffer the disgrace of being the first to quit them.

The King’s command was no sooner made known than a loud shout burst from the brave and noble hearts who had witnessed this obstinate and sanguinary duel. His Majesty’s orders were punctually obeyed, and Sir Patrick Hepborne followed the marshalman with tottering steps, whilst Halyburton went staggering in the opposite direction, and as if he was groping his way in the dark after the Constable. The trumpets sounded, and they disappeared from the gates. Hepborne, supported by his guide and his faithful esquire, made the best of his way round to the external entrance to the King’s pavilion; but thither Sir John Halyburton never came, for he swooned away the moment he had crossed the threshold of the gateway. As Hepborne was entering the pavilion, a lady, frantic with grief and despair, rushed by him, and made her way towards the eastern gate, followed by several attendants.

Sir Patrick made his obeisance to the King, immediately upon coming into the pavilion, and His Majesty, with the Regent, came kindly towards him, to praise his valour and to inquire into his safety. A crowd, among whom he recognized the Lord and Lady Dirleton, the Earl and Countess of Moray, and the Franciscan, surrounded a lady who seemed to be overwhelmed with affliction.

“He is safe,” cried half a dozen voices to her immediately on perceiving him; and the circle opening at the moment, he beheld the Lady Beatrice de Vaux. At one and the same instant she screamed aloud when she saw him, and he sprang forward to throw himself at her feet, where he fainted away.

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