Chapter LXXVI
The Friar’s Tale—The Two Combatants—Lady Eleanore’s explanation—All is well that ends well.
It was not wonderful that a sudden ecstasy of joy, such as that which burst unexpectedly on Hepborne, coming after so much mental wretchedness, and when his bodily frame had been so weakened by fatigue, wounds, and loss of blood, should have thrown him into a swoon, from which he only awakened to show symptoms of a feverish delirium. He passed some days and nights under all the strange and fluctuating delusions of a labouring dream, during which the angelic image of her he loved, and the hated form of the Franciscan, appeared before him, but in his delirium he knew them not.
It was after a long and deep sleep that he opened his eyelids, and felt, for the first time, a consciousness of perfect calmness and clearness of intellect, but combined with a sense of great exhaustion. He turned in bed, and immediately he heard a light step move towards it from a distant part of the room. The drapery was lifted up, and the lovely, though grief-worn countenance of Beatrice looked anxiously in upon him.
“Blessed angel,” said Sir Patrick, clasping his hands feebly together, and looking upwards with a heavy languid eye, that received a faint ray of gladness from what it looked upon; “blessed angel, is it a fair vision that deceives me, or is it a reality I behold? I have dreamed much and fearfully of thee and of others; tell me, do I dream still, or art thou in truth Beatrice, the lady of my heart?”
“Hush, Sir Knight,” replied the lady, a smile of pleasure delicately blending on her countenance, with a rich blush of modesty; “I am indeed Beatrice. It joyeth me much to hear thee talk so calmly, seeing that it doth argue thy returning health; but quiet and repose are needful for thee, therefore must I leave thee.”
“Nay, if thou wouldst have me repose in peace, repeat again that thou art Beatrice, that thou art mine own Beatrice,” cried Sir Patrick feelingly. “Say that thy beauteous form shall never more flit from my sight; and that we shall never, never part.”
“Do but rest thee quietly, Sir Patrick,” said Beatrice. “Trust me, thine own faithful Maurice de Grey shall be thy page still, and shall never quit the side of thy couch until health shall have again revisited those wan and wasted cheeks.”
“’Tis enough,” exclaimed Sir Patrick, rapturously snatching her hand and devouring it with kisses; “thou hast already made me well. Methinks I do almost feel strong enow to quit this couch; and yet I could be ill for ever to be blessed with such attendance.”
“Nay, thou must by no means think of rashly quitting thy sick-bed,” said the Lady Beatrice, withdrawing her hand, and looking somewhat timorous at his impetuosity, as she dropped the curtain.
A stirring was then heard in the apartment, then a whispering, and immediately Assueton and Sang appeared, with anxious looks, at his bedside.
“My dearest friend, and my faithful esquire,” said Hepborne, with a face of joy, and with so collected and rational an expression, that they could hardly doubt the perfect return of his senses; though they soon began to believe themselves deceived, for his features suddenly became agitated; “but what eye is that which doth glare from between you? Ha! the face of mine arch enemy—of that demon, the enemy of the Lady Beatrice. Doth he come to snatch her from me again? Seize him, my beloved Assueton—seize him, my faithful esquire—let him not escape, I entreat thee, if thou wouldst have me live.”
“We have been in terror, my dearest Hepborne,” said Assueton, calmly, after having ascertained that it was the Franciscan, who had been looking over his shoulder, that had excited Hepborne’s apparent fit of frenzy; “this Franciscan, this friar, John de Vaux, hath now no evil thought or wish against thee or the Lady Beatrice. He was worked upon by false impressions, which were not removed until that Providential discovery, the which did put a stop to thine unfortunate duel with Sir John Halyburton. But sith that all is now cleared up, the holy Franciscan hath made good reparation for all the evil his misjudgment did occasion thee; for sith that thou wert laid here, he hath never ceased day or night to watch by thy bedside, save when called to that of another; and to him, under God, do we now owe the blessed hope of thy speedy recovery.”
“Strange,” cried Hepborne; “but didst thou not say unfortunate duel? I beseech thee speak—Hath my beloved friend, Halyburton, against whom fate did so cruelly compel me to contend—oh, say not, I beseech thee, that aught hath befallen him! What, thou dost hesitate! Oh, tell me not that he hath died by my hand, or happiness shall ne’er again revisit this bosom.”
“He is not dead,” said the Franciscan, “but he is still grievously sick of his wounds; yet may we hope that he will soon recover as thou dost.”
“Thank God, he is not dead,” cried Hepborne with energy; “thank God, there is hope of his recovery.”
“Nay, this good Friar John will keep him alive, as he hath done thee,” said Assueton.
“Strange,” said Hepborne, “to see thee, my truest friend, Assueton, thus in league with the man whom I did esteem my bitterest foe; wonderful to learn from thee that he hath exerted himself to recall me from death. Of a truth, then, I must of needscost yield me to conviction so strong, and pray him and God to forgive me for the hatred I did harbour against him.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the Franciscan, “of a truth much hatred and misjudging doth need forgiveness on both our parts, and I do grieve most sincerely and heavily for mine, as well as for the mischief it hath occasioned.”
“But I do earnestly entreat thee to clear up my way through this strange wilderness of perplexity in which I am still involved,” said Sir Patrick.
“That will I most readily do for thee, Sir Knight,” replied the Franciscan; “but anxiety for thy certain and speedy return to health would lead me to urge thee to postpone thy curiosity, until thou shalt have gained further strength.”
“Nay,” said Sir Patrick, “of a truth I shall have more ease and repose of body after that my mind shall have been put at rest.”
“In truth, what thou hast said hath good reason in it,” replied the Franciscan; “then shall I no longer keep thee in suspense, but briefly run over such circumstances as it may be necessary for thee to know.
“My brother, the Lord of Dirleton, hath told me that thou art already possessed by him of the story of the loss of his first-born infant daughter. It was I, John de Vaux, his brother, to whom he did ever play the part of a kind benefactor and an affectionate father—it was I who repaid all the blessings I received from him by robbing him of his child. My mother (’tis horrible to be compelled thus to allow it) was the worst of her sex. I was young and violent of temper, and not being at that time aware of her infamy, I was hurt by the neglect with which she was treated, and, instigated by her, I boldly attempted to force her into the hall of my brother’s Castle, then thronged by all the nobility and chivalry of the neighbourhood, to witness the ceremonial baptism of the little Beatrice. My brother was justly enraged with mine impudence; he did incontinently turn both of us forth with disgrace, and in doing so he struck me a blow. Stung with the affront, I gave way to the full fury of my passion, and vowed to be revenged. My mother wickedly fostered mine already too fiery rage, till it knew no bounds. She urged me to watch mine occasion to murder the child; and although my young soul revolted at a crime so horrible, yet did her proposal suggest a plan of vengeance, which, with less of guilt to me, should convey as much of misery to my brother, and especially to his wife, against whom we had a peculiar hatred.
“It was long ere a fitting opportunity offered for carrying my purpose into effect. At length, after frequent watching, I did one evening observe the nurse walking in a solitary place, with the babe in her arms. With my face concealed beneath a mask, and my person shrouded in a cloak, I came so suddenly on her, that I snatched the child from her arms before she was aware. Ere I could flee from the woman, she sprang on me like a she-wolf robbed of her young—pulled the mantle from the child in a vain attempt to reach her, and clung to me so firmly as I fled, that, to rid myself of her, I was compelled to wound her hand deeply with my dagger. My horse was at hand, and, to put the child equally beyond the reach of the affection of its fond parents or the cruelty of my mother, I wrapt it in my cloak, and, riding with it over to Lammermoor, consigned it to the care of a shepherd’s wife. To avoid suspicion, I returned home immediately; but conscious guilt would not permit me to remain long near those I had injured. I withdrew myself secretly, and entered on board the privateer of the brave Mercer, where for six or eight years of my life I encountered many a storm, and bore my part in many a desperate action. I was a favourite with the old man, and did gain considerable wealth with him; but my proud spirit would not brook command, so I quitted the sea-service, and travelled through foreign lands as a knight, when I did share in many a stubborn field of fight, and won many a single combat. Yet was I not always successful; and, having been overthrown in a certain tournament, I was so overwhelmed with mortification at the disgrace that followed me, that I became soured with the world, and straightway resolved to exchange the helmet and the cuirass for the Franciscan’s grey cowl and gown, vainly hoping to humble my haughty temper by the outward semblance of poverty. But my towering soul was not to be subdued by a mere garb of penance.
“From the foreign convent into which I entered, I chanced to be sent to England, and, having been recommended as a proper person for confessor in the family of the Earl of Northumberland, mine ambitious and proud heart did again begin to show itself. Sir Rafe Piersie, to whom I was more especially attached, made me large promises of future promotion in the Church; and, having set his affections on the Lady Eleanore de Selby, he did employ me to further his suit. To effect this, I bribed a certain villainous pretender to necromancy, who was well known to have much influence over the old knight. But the villain deceived me. Sir Rafe Piersie had a flat denial, as well from the father as the daughter, and this did I partly attribute to the traiterie of the impostor, whose services I paid for, and partly to the interposition of Sir Walter de Selby’s adopted daughter, whom I did not then know to be my niece, the Lady Beatrice. Sir Rafe Piersie, believing that I had been playing the cheat with him, drove me indignantly away. I burned to be revenged against those who had occasioned this overthrow of my hopes, and soon afterwards I had nearly glutted my rage against the Ancient by a cruel death, from which he most narrowly escaped. I did then journey northwards to the Franciscan Convent at Elgin, where I arrived at the very time the Bishop of Moray was sorely lacking some one bold enough to beard the Wolfe of Badenoch. It was a task quite to my mind, and I accordingly readily undertook that, the which all others did most anxiously shun. Thou, who wert present at Lochyndorbe, mayest well remember how mine attempt was likely to have ended. As they dragged me from the hall I did detect the companion of the Lady Eleanore de Selby under her page’s disguise, having seen her by accident at Norham. One of mine old seamates, who chanced to be among the number of Lord Badenoch’s men, procured me admission to the Castle, and he it was who effected mine escape from the horrors of the Water Pit Vault. He would fain have had me flee instantly, but, much against his will, I did insist on his showing me the page’s chamber; and I went thither, determined to question closely her whom I did then only know to be the companion of the Lady Eleanore de Selby, as to what share she had in persuading her friend against an union with the Piersie. I sought her chamber with my mind rankling with the remembrance of my disgrace, inflamed and full of prejudice against her, and, Heaven pardon me, it is in truth hard to say how far my blind rage might have hurried me, had she not fled from me at the sight of my dagger.
“It was soon after this that my brother, William de Vaux, came to Elgin. The remembrance of my ingratitude to him came powerfully upon me. I contrived to bring him, at night, into the Church of the Franciscan Convent, and then it was I discovered that his heart, instead of being filled with a thirst of revenge against me, was full of charity, compassion, and forgiveness. This discovery so worked upon my soul, already beginning to feel compunction for mine early wickedness, that I should have confessed all to my much-injured brother, had not some one, accidentally approaching at that moment, unluckily interrupted the conference and compelled me to retreat. But I went straightway to the good Bishop of Moray, with whom by this time I stood in high favour for my bold service, and to him did I fully confess my sins against my brother, of the which, until now, I had but little thought, and had never repented. I did then forthwith solemnly vow to do all that might be in my power to restore his child to him, if that she did yet live. In this good resolution the Bishop encouraged me; yea, and he did moreover lend me ample means for effectuating the purpose I had in view. I hastened to the South of Scotland, to find out the woman with whom I had left the baby. From her I learned that poverty and my neglect had induced her to part with Beatrice to Sir Walter de Selby. Then did I shudder to think of the scene at Lochyndorbe, where, but for the providence of God, I might have murdered mine own niece, and I secretly blessed a merciful Being who had snatched her from my hands.
“But now another cause of affliction took possession of me. Believing, as I did, that Beatrice was the unworthy partner of thy journey, and that thou hadst taken her with thee, by her own guilty consent, from Norham, where I did well know thou hadst been, I cursed my villainy, which had removed an innocent babe from that virtuous maternal counsel and protection, the lack of which, I believed, had been her undoing. My suspicions were confirmed when I beheld thee among the crowd at the funeral of Sir Walter de Selby in Norham Church. I doubted not but thou hadst come thither to meet with Beatrice, and by her own consent to carry her off. Her eyes encountered mine as I stood near the altar, and, as they were full of severity from the impressions then on my mind, it is little marvel that the sight of me should have produced the fainting fit into which she fell. That night I was deprived of all chance of an interview with her; and when I sought for one in the morning, I found that she had departed, no one knew whither. After seeking her for many days, I at last returned to Dunbar in despair, where I did by chance meet with the son of mine old sea captain, Mercer, and from him I learned that she had been sojourning for some time at Newcastle, but that she had sailed for London. Having heard of the expedition of the Scottish knights thither, I readily believed that her errand was for the purpose of meeting him who had so won her heart from virtue. My soul boiled within me to rescue her from so base an intercourse, and mine old sea-mate having offered to carry me to the Thames in his ship, I did accept his aid, and did take her from thence, as thou dost already know, Sir Knight; but instead of making the port whence we had sailed, we were driven northward by a storm, and, after much tossing, we suffered wreck on the eastern coast of Moray Land, whence I conveyed Beatrice to the Hospital of the Maison-Dieu at Elgin, on that night the place was burnt by the Wolfe of Badenoch. As I was well assured that the lady had escaped from the fire, and that I could nowhere hear tidings of her, it was no wonder that I believed she had fled to thee; for our stormy voyage had left me no leisure to undeceive myself by the discovery of her innocence.”
The Franciscan then went on to give Sir Patrick such other explanations as his eager questions called for. But his patient seemed to be insatiable in his thirst of information. Afraid that he might do himself an injury, the learned leech forbade him further converse, and, having ordered some proper nourishment for the invalid, desired that he should be left quiet. Sir Patrick accordingly fell into a deep and refreshing sleep, from which he next day awakened, with pleasing dreams of future happiness.
Sir Patrick Hepborne the elder had not yet returned to Scone. The younger Sir Patrick saw less of the Franciscan after he became convalescent; but his friend, Assueton, was indefatigable in his attendance on him, and Mortimer Sang did not even permit his love for Katherine Spears to carry him away from the affectionate duty he paid his master. It was not surprising, then, that his cure went on rapidly, being so carefully looked to. As he got better, he was visited by many. The King sent daily inquiries for him; the Regent came himself; and the Wolfe of Badenoch, though his impatient temper would never permit him to make his visit long, generally called three or four times a day to see how he did. But the grateful Duncan MacErchar lay in the ante-room, like an attached dog, from the moment that Hepborne was carried into the Palace, and never quitted the spot save when he thought he could run off for something that might do him good or give him ease.
Hepborne was a good deal surprised, and even a little hurt, that, amongst all those who came to see him in his wounded state, he had never beheld the old Lord of Dirleton, who had ever shown so warm a heart towards him until the late unfortunate misunderstanding. The Franciscan, too, came but to dress his numerous wounds, which were fast healing up, and then left him in haste. But when some days more had passed away, and he was enabled to quit his bed, he learned intelligence that explained this seeming neglect of the De Vaux, and filled him with grief and anxiety. It was the anticipation of its producing this effect upon him, indeed, which had occasioned the concealment of it, as the Franciscan feared that his recovery might have been retarded by the communication. Sir John Halyburton’s case had been much less favourable than Hepborne’s. His life still hung quivering in uncertainty. The Lord of Dirleton, his lady, and the unhappy Lady Jane de Vaux never left him; and the Franciscan, who had been the unfortunate cause of bringing it into its present peril, was reduced to the deepest despair.
No sooner had Sir Patrick learned those doleful tidings, than, calling to his esquire, he put on his garments, and demanded to be instantly led to the apartment of Sir John Halyburton, where he found those who were so deeply interested in him sitting drowned in affliction, believing that they should soon see him breathe his last. Sir Patrick mingled his tears with theirs; but he did more—he spoke the words of hope, comfort, and encouragement; and the Franciscan and the others being worn out, and almost rendered unserviceable with watching, he took his instructions from the learned leech, and then seated himself by the wounded knight’s bedside. It seemed as if a kind Providence had blessed the hand which had inflicted the wounds with a power of healing them. From the moment that Sir Patrick sat down by his friend’s couch, he had the satisfaction of finding his disease take a favourable turn. He never left his patient, who continued to improve hourly. In less than a week he was declared out of danger, and in a few days more he was able to join Hepborne and the two happy sisters, Beatrice and Jane de Vaux, in their walks on the terrace of the Palace.
The reader may easily fancy what was the subject of conversation that gave interest to these walks. It was during one of them that the Lady Beatrice de Vaux was suddenly met by a woman of the most graceful mien, who, standing directly in her path, threw aside a mantle that shrouded her face. Astonishment fixed Beatrice to the spot for an instant, when, recovering herself, she sprang into the arms of the stranger, exclaiming—
“Eleanore—my beloved Eleanore de Selby!”
The meeting was overpowering, and Hepborne hastened to conduct the two friends into the Palace, where they might give full way to their feelings without observation. After their transports had in some degree subsided, the Lady Beatrice eagerly inquired into the history of her friend.
“Proud as thou knowest me to be, Beatrice,” replied Eleanore, “I do here come to thee as a suppliant, nor do I fear that I come in vain; albeit I have peraunter but ill deserved a favour at thy hands, since I did deceive thee into being the propagator of a falsehood, by telling thee that he with whom I fled from Norham was Sir Hans de Vere——”
“Ah! if thou didst but know into what wretchedness that falsehood had nearly betrayed me,” exclaimed Beatrice; “but who then was thy lover?”
“Thou dost well know that my poor father was early filled by a wicked and lying witch with a superstitious dread of the union of his daughter with a Scottish knight, the cunning fortune-teller having discovered his prejudice, and fostered it by prophesying that such a marriage would lead to certain misery. So he did ever study to keep me from all sight of Scottish chevaliers. But, when visiting my aunt at Newcastle, I did chance to meet with Sir Allan de Soulis, who had fled from Scotland for having killed a knight in a hasty brawl, and to him did I quickly resign my heart. ’Twas this which made me despise the splendid proposals of the proud Sir Rafe Piersie, and which rendered the thought of the horrid union with the Wizard Ancient, if possible, even yet more insupportable. I agreed to fly into the arms of Sir Allan; but, to effect mine escape, thy connivance was indispensable, nay, without thine aid it would have been impossible to have carried my scheme into execution. I did well know thine attachment and devotion to my father, and I felt how difficult it would be to shake thee from what thou wouldst conceive to be thy duty to him. I saw, however, that I had thy full pity for the unwonted harshness I was enduring; yet I feared that if thou shouldst discover the country of my lover, thou wouldst never consent to keep my secret, far less to become my accomplice in an act that would tend to make Sir Walter so unhappy. I was therefore compelled to resort to falsehood. I did introduce Sir Allan to thee as Sir Hans de Vere, one who, from being kinsman to King Richard’s favourite, De Vere, Duke of Ireland, was likely to rise to high honours. By doing this, I hoped to weaken thine objections to the step I was about to take. Nor was I wrong in my conjecture, for thou didst at last kindly agree to facilitate my flight.”
“And whither didst thou fly, then?” demanded Beatrice.
“First to Newcastle,” replied the Lady de Soulis, “and then to Holland. Being banished from his own country, and dreading to remain in England, where he, too, could not tarry during war without proving himself a traitor to Scotland, we were compelled to retreat beyond sea for a time. It is not long since that the sad news of my father’s death did reach me. I was struck with deep remorse for my desertion of him. We hastened back to Norham. There I found that some low-born kinsmen of my father’s, trusting that I should never return, had seized on the greater part of his effects and divided the spoil. The small remnant that was left me was saved by the fidelity of the trusty Lieutenant Oglethorpe. There doth yet remain for us Sir Allan’s paternal lands in Scotland, the which have not yet been forfaulted; but without the Royal remission he dare not return to claim them. To thee, then, my Beatrice, do I look to use thine influence with the merciful King Robert in behalf of the gallant De Soulis, that he may be restored to his country, his estates, and the cheering countenance of his Sovereign.”
We need push the conversation between these two friends no farther. It is enough to say that the united entreaties of Hepborne, Halyburton, and the two Ladies de Vaux, soon prevailed in moving the clemency of the good old King, and the happy Lady de Soulis flew to England to be the bearer of her own good news to the brave Sir Allan.
The joy of the old Lord of Dirleton and his lady in contemplating the happiness that awaited their children may be imagined; and it will also be readily believed that the delight of the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne was no less, when he returned to Scone, and found that he had lost his share of the general misery, and had arrived just in time to have full enjoyment in the unalloyed pleasure that spread itself throughout the whole Court.
The King resolved that the double nuptials should be celebrated in his presence, with all the splendour that he could shed upon them. The Bishop of Moray came from his diocese, at His Majesty’s particular request, to perform the marriage rites; and the Wolfe of Badenoch, to mark his respect for the good man, actually made one of his rapid journeys into Buchan, to bring thence his neglected spouse, Euphame, Countess of Ross, that she might be present with him on the happy occasion. So magnificent and proudly attended a ceremonial had not been witnessed in Scotland for many a day. Old Adam of Gordon, who was now a member of the younger Sir Patrick Hepborne’s household, composed and performed an epithalamium that put all the other minstrels to shame; and as for Squire Rory Spears, and Captain MacErchar, of His Majesty’s Guards, their joy was so totally beyond all restraint, that, much to the amusement of the company, they performed a bargaret together—a sort of dance of these days which antiquarians have supposed to have borne some resemblance to the fandango of Spain, or the saltarella of Italy.
If the two knights who thus married the co-heiresses of Dirleton were friends before, they now became attached to each other with an affection almost beyond that of brothers, and Sir John Assueton was united with them in the same strict bonds. Sir Patrick Hepborne being aware that the unexpected discovery of Beatrice had diminished the prospect of wealth which would have eventually accrued to Halyburton, had Jane de Vaux been the sole heiress of her father, privately influenced the old Lord to leave his Castle, and the larger part of his estates, to his brother-in-law. On the death of William De Vaux, therefore, Sir John Halyburton became Lord of Dirleton. For the descendants from these marriages, those who are curious in such matters may consult “Douglas’s Peerage,” vol. i., pp. 223 and 687. [2]
We must not forget to mention that Rory Spears and Captain MacErchar were called on soon afterwards to repeat their dancing exhibition which had met with so much applause; and this was on occasion of the wedding of Squire Mortimer Sang and the lovely Katherine Spears. Many a happy hour had Squire Roderick afterwards, in teaching his grandson the mysteries of wood and river craft, whilst the youth’s father, the gallant Sir Mortimer, was gathering wreaths of laurel in foreign lands, whither he travelled as a valiant knight.
One of the last acts of King Robert was to bestow a small estate in the valley of the Dee upon the veteran MacErchar. Thither he retired to spend a comfortable and respectable old age, and, having married, became the head of a powerful family.
It has always been a very common belief in Scotland that, when a wicked man becomes unexpectedly good, the circumstance is a forewarning of his approaching death. It was so with the Wolfe of Badenoch, for he lived not above two or three years after the reformation that was so surprisingly worked in him. The Franciscan, who still continued with the Earl as his confessor, gained a great ascendancy over his ferocious mind; and his endeavours to subdue it to reason had also the good effect of enabling him the better to command his own proud spirit, which he every day brought more and more under subjection. The happy effects of this appeared after the demise of him to whom he had been so strangely linked; for, despising that Church advancement which was now within his grasp, he retired into the Franciscan Convent at Haddington, where he subjected himself to the penance of writing the Chronicle from which these volumes have been composed; and those who have suffered the tedium of reading the produce of it, may perhaps be judges of the severity of this self-inflicted punishment. That the Wolfe of Badenoch had not failed to make good use of the remnant of his life, in wiping off old scores with the Church by making it large donations, we may well guess, from the following epitaph, which may yet be read in well-raised, black-letter characters sculptured around the edge of the sarcophagus in which his body was deposited in the Cathedral of Dunkeld; but where now, alas! there remains not as much of the dust of Alister-more-mac-an-righ as might serve to make clay sufficient for the base purpose to which the fancy of our immortal dramatic Bard has made his moralizing Prince of Denmark trace a yet mightier Alexander, and an Imperial Cæsar,
To stop a hole to keep the wind away.
The Epitaph is:—
Hic Jacet Dominus Alexander Seneschallus Comes de Buchan et Dominus de Badenoch, Bonæ Memoriæ, Qui Obiit xx Die Mensis Februarii, Anno Domini MCCCXCIV. [3]
THE END.
NOTES
[1] Having some debates with the Earl of Huntly, he laid him under ecclesiastical censure, which so provoked the Gordons that they threatened to pull the Bishop out of his pigeon-holes. “I will build a house,” said the Bishop, “out of which neither the Earl nor his clan shall pull me,” and he accordingly erected that strong tower still known by the name of Davy’s Tower. Even the present walls were of date posterior to that alluded to in the text.
[2] The reader, on consulting the second reference of our text, will find that Douglas has run into much confusion in regard to the Halyburtons. The Sir John Halyburton who married the co-heiress of Dirleton, he kills at the battle of Nisbet in 1355. Now, by consulting the first reference, p. 223, it will be found that Sir Patrick Hepborne, younger of Hailes, who married the other sister, was killed at the battle of Nisbet in 1402, at which time Sir Patrick Hepborne, sen., was alive. This we know to be true, and perfectly according to history; but to suppose that Sir Patrick Hepborne’s brother-in-law could have been killed in 1355 is a glaring absurdity. The inconsistency is easily explained, however, for there were several Sir John Halyburtons, and two battles of Nisbet. There was a Sir John Halyburton killed at the battle of Nisbet in 1355, and there was a Sir John Halyburton taken at the battle of Nisbet in 1402. On this last occasion Sir Patrick Hepborne commanded. It is therefore quite natural that his brother-in-law should have had a share in this expedition.—Vid. Fordun, II., p. 433.
[3] This monument is still in tolerable preservation, though it suffered mutilation by a party of Cameronians about the time of the Revolution.