CHAPTER LII.

[Contents]CHAPTER LII.The Wolfe of Badenoch at Aberdeen—Father and Son.Duncan MacErchar’s intellect was so much confused by the unexpected discovery that he had been standing and talking before his King, a being whom he had always conceived to be something more than man, and whose image had floated like a spirit before his misty eyes, that it was some time ere Sir Patrick Hepborne could make him comprehend the good fortune that had befallen him. He then inquired eagerly into the nature and advantages of the situation which had been so graciously bestowed upon him by His Majesty; and finding that he was to be an officer in that corps of stipendiaries who were always on Royal duty, with the best possible pay and perquisites, and superb clothing, he asked Hepborne, with some degree of earnestness, what became of the corps during the time of war.“They never go to war, unless when the King appears in the field in person,” replied Sir Patrick; “and of that I well wot there is but little chance during this reign.”[367]“Uve, uve,” cried MacErchar, with a look that showed he was but half satisfied; “and is she never to see the English loons again? Sure, sure, of what use will be the pay and the harness, an she must liggen at home while tothers folks be at the wars? And is she never to have the good luck to fight at the back of the good Sir Patrick again! Oich, oich, she would like full weel to see her down, and ane Englishman cleavin’ her skull, and her nainsel wi’ a pike in the body o’ the chield—oich, hoich! it would be braw sport. Sure, she would rather fight for Sir Patrick, yea, and albeit she got nothing but cuffs and scarts for her pains, than sit wi’ her thumbs across serving a king himsel, though she got goupins of gold for her idleness. Troth, she would die for Sir Patrick.”“And wouldst thou sacrifice the honour, yea, and the weighty emolument of a commission in the King’s Guards, with all the fair promise of advancement the which it doth hold forth to thee, for the mere gratification of a chivalric self-devotion to my father?” demanded Hepborne, desirous to try him.“Out ay—surely, surely, she would do that; and little wonder o’ her, too, she would think it,” replied MacErchar.“Wouldst thou, then, that I do resign thy commission to the King, and that I do obtain for thee a lance among my father’s spears?” asked Hepborne.“Oich, oich!” cried MacErchar, rubbing his hands, and with his eyes sparkling with delight; “surely her honour is ower good—ower good, surely. But if her honour will do that same, oich, oich! Duncan MacErchar will be happy—oop, oop, happy. Troth, she will dance itsel for joy. Oit, she may need look for no more till she dies; God be good unto her soul then! Oich, will her honour do this for her?” demanded Duncan eagerly of Hepborne, and in his more than usual keenness, taking the knight’s hand, and squeezing it powerfully; “will her honour do but this for her?”“Verily, I shall at least do for thee what I can,” replied Hepborne, heartily shaking his hand; “albeit so honourable a gift from thy King may not be lightly rejected. Yet will I do what I may for thee. Let me find thee with mine esquire to-morrow morning; thou shalt then hear the result of mine application to the King.”Hepborne was as good as his word. He craved an audience of the King, and, being admitted to his couchee, the good monarch was pleased with the singularly disinterested wish of the Highlander, and immediately signified his gracious pleasure that MacErchar should retain the commission in his Guards, whilst[368]he should be permitted to follow the banner of Sir Patrick Hepborne to the wars. The old knight, who happened to be present, was much touched by Duncan’s devotion to him, and very gladly admitted him among his followers, so that every wish of MacErchar’s heart was more than gratified.As Sir Patrick Hepborne was quitting the Royal apartments, and as he was passing through a small vestibule feebly illumined by a single lamp, he was almost jostled by a tall figure, who, enveloped in an ample mantle, was striding hastily forward towards the door of the room whence he had issued, the metal of his harness clanging as he moved.“Ha! Sir Patrick Hepborne,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, for it was he—“by the blessed bones of my grandfather, but thou art right far ben already in the old man’s favour, that I do thus meet thee ishing forth from his chamber at an hour like this; but thou art more welcome, peraunter, than his son the Earl of Buchan—Is the King alone?”“By this time I do ween that he is, my Lord; for, as I left him, the Earl of Fife, the Earl of Moray, and my father, who had been in conference with him, were preparing to take their leave by another door, and the King was about to retire into his bed-chamber, with the gentlemen in waiting on his person.”“Ha!” said the Wolfe—“John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, saidst thou?—By my word, but he seemeth to be eternally buzzing about the King, ay, and he doth buzz in his ear too, I warrant me. Hast thou seen or heard aught of the Bishop of Moray being here?”“The Bishop of Moray had an audience of His Majesty this very day, on his arrival,” replied Hepborne; “and if I mistake not, he did take his leave, and hath already departed on his homeward journey.”“Ha! ’tis well,” replied the Wolfe hoarsely, and gnashing his teeth as he said so. “Good night, Sir Patrick, I may, or I may not, see thee in Aberdeen at this time, for I know not whether I may, or may not, ride hence again anon.” So saying, he passed hastily towards the door leading to the King’s private chamber, to reach which he had several apartments to pass through.The aged Robert, tired by the unusual fatigue he had that day undergone, was alike glad to get rid of business and of his privy councillors. Retiring into his bed-chamber, and laying aside the dignity of his high estate, his two attendants assisted him to put on his robe-de-chambre, and he immediately descended to the more humble level of a mere man, to which even[369]the greatest and most heroic potentate is reduced by the operations of his valet. His legs had been already relieved from those rolls of woollen which had been employed to cherish and to support them during the day; and being seated in an easy chair of large dimensions, among ample crimson cushions, his pale countenance showed yet more wan and withered under the dark purple velvet cap he wore, from beneath which his white hair curled over his shoulders. Though his eyes were weak and bleared, their full and undimmed pupils beamed mildly, like the stars of a summer twilight. He had just inserted his limbs knee-deep into a warm foot-bath, which one of his people had placed before his chair, when a loud tap was heard at the door.“Ha!” said the King, starting, “get thee to the door, Vallance, and see who may knock so late. By the sound, we should opine that either rudeness or haste were there.”Vallance did as he was ordered, and, on opening the door, the Wolfe of Badenoch stepped into the apartment, and made a hasty and careless obeisance before his father. The old King’s feeble frame shook from head to foot with nervous agitation when he beheld him.“Son Alexander, is it thou?” demanded Robert with astonishment. “We looked not to have our sacred privacy disturbed at so unseemly an hour, yea, and still less by thee, whose head, we did ween, was shrouded by shame in the darkness of thine own disgrace, or rather buried, as we had vainly hoped, amid the dust and ashes of ane humble repentance. What bringeth thee hither?—what hath”——He stopped, for he remembered that they were not alone. “Vallance, and you, Seyton, retire. Wait without in the vestibule; we would be private. What hath brought thee hither, son Alexander?” repeated he, after the door was shut upon them. “I wot thou art but a rare guest at our Court, and methinks that, infected as thou art at this present time, thou art but little fitted for its air.”Naturally violent and ferocious as was the Wolfe of Badenoch, he now stood before his father and his King, a presence in which he never found himself without being in a certain degree subdued by the combination of awe, early inspired into his mind by this twofold claim on his respect, and to which he had been too long accustomed, to find it easy to rid himself of it. The grim Earl moved forward some steps towards the chair where His Majesty was seated, and again louting him low, he repeated the obeisance which the venerable form of his parent and Sovereign commanded.[370]“My liege-father,” said he at length, “I do come to pay mine humble duty to your grace, and——”“Nay, methinks thou shouldst have bethought thee of humbling thy fierce pride before another throne than ours, ere thou didst adventure to wend thee hither,” interrupted the King with indignation. “It would have well become thee to have bowed in humble contrition before the episcopal chair of our Right Reverend Bishop of Moray, yea, to have licked the very dust before his feet. Then, with his absolution on thy sinful head, mightest thou have approached the holy altar of God, and the shrine of the Virgin, in penitence and prayer; and after these, and all other purifications, we mought have been again well pleased to have seen our reclaimed son mingling with the nobles of our Court.”“I do see that the Bishop of Moray hath outrode me,” said the Wolfe of Badenoch, his eye kindling, and his cheek darkly reddening, the flame of his internal ire being rendered more furious by the very exertions he was making to keep down all external symptoms of it. “The Bishop hath already effunded his tale in the Royal ear; but yet do I hope that thou wilt hesitate to condemn me, yea, even on the Bishop’s saying, without hearing what I may have to declare in mine own defence.”“Son Alexander,” said the old King mildly, and at the same time slowly shaking his head as he spoke, “we do fear much that thou canst have but little to tell that may undermine what the soothfast Bishop, Alexander Barr, hath possessed us of.”“He hath been with thee, then, my liege-father?” said the Wolfe, in a voice of eager inquiry, and at the same time biting his nether lip.“Yea, the godly Bishop of Moray hath been with us this very day,” replied the King. “He hath harrowed up our soul with the doleful tale of the brenning of our good burgh of Forres—of the great devastation of men’s dwellings, goods, and mœubles, the which thy fury hath created—the sacrilege of the which thou hast been guilty in reducing God’s house and altar to ashes, as also the house of his minister—the wicked and as yet unestimated sacrifice of the lives of our loving subjects, the which thou hast occasioned.”“As God is my judge, my liege,” replied the Earl impatiently, “as God is my judge, there was not a life lost—credit me, not one life. The hour of the night was early when the deed was done; yea, it was done openly enough, so that there was little chance of mortal tarrying to be food for the devouring flames. Trust me, my liege-father, I did secretly send to certify[371]myself, as I can now truly do thee, on the honour of a knight, that not a life was lost.”“Nay, in truth, it must be confessed that the Bishop spake only from hearsay as to this head of charge against thee,” replied the King, “and, of a truth, thou hast lightened our mind of a right grievous part of its burden by thy solemn denial of this cruel part of the accusation against thee. Verily, it was to my soul like the hair-shirt to the back that hath been seamed by the lash of penance, to think that flesh of ours could have done such wanton murder on innocent and inoffensive burghers. But yet, what shall we say to thy brenning of God’s holy house—of the gratification of thy blind and brutal thirst of vengeance even by the destruction of his altars, and of the images of his saints?”“Nay, mine intent was not against the Church,” replied the Wolfe, “but rage reft me of reason, and I deny not that it was with mine own hand that I did fire it; yet was it soon extinguished, and the choir only hath suffered. But,” continued he, as he turned the subject with increasing irritation, “but had not an excommunication gone forth so rashly against me, yea, and poured out alswa by him who hath ever been mine enemy, the flood of my vengeance had not flowed; and if it had swept all before it, by the Rood, but Bishop Barr himself must bear the coulpe of what evil it may have wrought.”“Speak not so horribly, son Alexander,” said the King, with emotion. “Thine impious words do shock mine ear. Lay not blame to Bishop Barr for at last hurling upon thee the tardy vengeance of the Episcopal chair, which thine accumulated insults did loudly call for, long ere his long-suffering temper did permit him to employ them. Didst thou not outrageously and sacrilegiously ravish and usurp the lands of the Church in Badenoch? and didst thou not refuse to restore them to the righteous possession of our holy Mother when called on so to do?”“Yea,” replied the Wolfe of Badenoch, waxing more angry, and less scrupulous in his manner of speaking, as well as in his choice of terms, as his father thus began to approach nearer to the source of all his heart-burnings with the Bishop—“yea, I did indeed seize these lands, but, by the mass, it was not against the Church that I did war in so doing, but against mine insidious enemy, Alexander Barr, who did feed himself fat upon their revenues. And well I wot hath he worked for my vengeance. Hath he not poisoned thine ear against me?—hath he not been ever my torment?—hath he not been eternally meddling with[372]my domestic, with my most private affairs?—hath he not sported with my most tender feelings?—hath he not done all that in him lay to rend the ties of my dearest affections?”“Ah, there, there again hast thou touched a chord the which doth ever vibrate to our shame,” replied the King, deeply distressed by the remembrance of the subject which the Wolfe had awakened. “That disgraceful connection with thy leman Mariota Athyn—’tis that which hath poisoned the source of all thine actings, and that hath thereby transmewed the sweet waters of our life into bitterness and gall. Did we not write to thee with our own hand, urging thee to repentance, and beseeching thee to dismiss thy sinful and impure mate, and cleave to thy lawful wife, Euphame, Countess of Ross? and——”“Nay, my liege-father, I wot this is too old a wound to be ripped up now,” interrupted the Wolfe of Badenoch, beginning to wax more and more ireful; “ha! by the Rood, but ’tis sore to bear—cruelly sore. I did come hither to complain of the evil usage, of the disgrace, of the insults which this upstart priest hath thrown on me, hoping for a father’s lenient interpretation of mine actings; yea, and that some salve might have been put to the rankling sores this carrion hath wrought on me; but the croaking raven hath been here before me—he hath already sung his hoarse and evil-omened song in thine ear, and all that I may now say cannot purge it of the poison with which it has been filled. By my trusty burly-brand, but thou hast forgotten the mettle of thy son Alexander.”“Oh dole, dole, dole!” cried the old King, clasping his hands in bitter affliction at the obstinacy shown by his son; “what can be done with a heart which beareth itself so proudly, which refuseth to listen to the voice of reason, which despiseth a father’s counsels, and which resolveth to abide in its wickedness.”“Wickedness!” replied the Wolfe fiercely, and enchafing more and more as he went on; “by the holy Rood, but I do think that the word is ill applied. Meseems that to throw her off who hath borne me five lusty chields, and who hath stuck to me through sun and wete, would savour more of wickedness than to continue her under the shadow of my protection. Ha! by my beard, but the voice of reason—ha, ha, ha!—is like to be as much with me in this case as against me. Thank God, I have reason—yea, and excellent reason too—full, vigorous, and perfect reason—whilst thou hast thine, old man, far upon the wane. Whatsoever mountaunce of reason thou mayest have once had, by Heaven, thou dost now begin to dote. Yet what[373]was thy reason in like matters when it was at the best? Didst thou not thyself live a like light life in thy youthhood, and dost thou school me for having followed thine example?”“Oh, dole, dole!—oh, woe for my sins!” cried the old man, agonized by his son’s intemperate accusation of him; “’tis bitter, I wot, to bear the reproach of a wicked and undutiful son. O, alas for my sins! yet sure, if I have had any, as the blessed Virgin knoweth, I do humbly confess them, and may her holy influence cleanse me from them; if I have had sins, surely I have dreed a right sore penance for them in having thee as an everlasting scourge to my spirit. God, doubtless, gave thee to me for the gracious purpose that thou mightest be as bitter ligne-aloes to purge away the disease of my soul; and may He sanctify the purposes of mine affliction! But what art thou, sinful wretch that thou art, who wouldst thus cast blame on thy father, yea, and ignominy on thyself? If I sinned in that matter, did I not awaken from my sin and repent me? did I not do all that mortal could do to salve the misery I had begotten? did I not——. But thou art a cruel and barbarous wretch, a disgrace and infamy to thy father—a diseased, polluted, and festering limb, the which should be cut off and buried out of sight.”“Old dotard,” cried the Wolfe, his fury now getting completely the better of him, “talk not thus—I—I—I—ha!—provoke me not—thou hadst better——”“Get thee to thy home,” replied the King; “turn thy vile strumpet forth, and, above all, humble thyself in penitence before the good Bishop Barr, who, godly man, hath been unwearied in his pious endeavours to reclaim thee from thy sinful and polluted life. Lick the dust from the very shoes of the saintly Bishop of Moray; in his Christian mercy he may forgive thee, and thou mayest then hope for restoration to our Royal favour; but if thou dost not this, by the word of a King, I will have thee thrown into prison, and there thou shalt liggen until thou shalt have made reparation to God and man for all thine impurities and all thine outrages and sacrileges.”“Ha!” cried the enraged Earl of Buchan, half drawing his dagger, and then returning it violently into its sheath, and pressing it hard down, as if to make it immovable there were the only security against his using it; whilst, at the same time, he began to pace the apartment in a furious manner; “ha! what! confine the eagle of the mountain to a sparrow’s cage? chain down the Wolfe of Badenoch to some walthsome den? threaten thy son so, and all for an accursed, prating, papelarde priest?[374]Old man,” said he, suddenly halting opposite to his father, and putting a daring hand rudely on each shoulder of His Majesty, while his eyes glared on him as if passion had altogether mastered his reason—“old dotard carle that thou art, art thou not now within my grasp? art not thine attendants beyond call? is not the puny spark of life that feebly brens in that wintry frame now within the will of these hands? What doth hinder that I should put thee beyond the power of executing thy weak threats?—what doth hinder me to——”He stopped ere he had uttered this impious parricidal thought more plainly. The old man blenched or quailed not; nay, even the agitation which he had before exhibited—an agitation which had been the result of anger and vexation, but not of fear—was calmed by the idea of approaching death; and, pitying his son more than himself, he sat immovable like some waxen figure, his mild eyes calmly and steadily fixed upon the red and starting orbs of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The group might have been copied for the subject of the martyrdom of a saint.“’Tis the hand of God that hindereth thee, son Alexander,” said the aged Monarch, slowly and distinctly.The ferocious Wolfe could not withstand the saint-like look of his venerable father. The devil that had taken possession of Lord Badenoch’s heart was expelled by the beam of Heaven that shot from the eyes of the good King Robert. Those of his son fell abashed before them, and the succeeding moment saw the hard, stern, and savage Earl on his bended knees, yea, and weeping before the parent of whom his ungovernable rage might have made him the murderer. There was a silence of a minute.“Forgive me, forgive me, father. I knew not what I did; I was reft of my reason,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, groaning with deep agony and shame.“Son Alexander,” said the King firmly, yet as if struggling to keep down these emotions of tenderness for his son which his sudden and unexpected contrition had excited; “Son Alexander, albeit the consideration that the outrage was done by the hand of a son against a father doth rather aggravate the coulpe of the subject against the King, yet as it doth regard our own Royal person alone, we may be permitted to allow the indulgent affection of the parent to assuage the otherwise rigorous justice of the Monarch. So far as this may go, then, do we forgive thee.”The Wolfe remained on the ground, deeply affected, with his head buried within his mantle.“But as for what the duty of a Sovereign doth demand of[375]us,” continued Robert, “in punishing these malfaitours who do flagrantly sin against the laws of our realm, and those, above all, who do sacrilegious outrage against our holy religion and Church, be assured that our hand will be as strong and swift in its vengeance on thee as on any other; nor shall these thy tears make more impression on us than thine ungovernable fury did now appal us. Doubt not but thou shalt feel the full weight of our Royal displeasure, yea, and thou shalt dree such punishment as befits the crimes thou hast committed against God and man, unless thou dost straightway seek the footstool of the injured Bishop of Moray. Nay, start not away, but hear us; for thou shalt suffer for thy crime, unless thou dost straightway seek the injured Bishop’s footstool, and, bowing thy head in the dust before it, submit thee to what penance he in his great mercy and wisdom may hold to be sufficient expiation for thy wickedness.”The Wolfe of Badenoch started up and again began to pace the room in a frenzy; and as Robert went on he became more and more agitated by passion, gnashing his teeth from time to time, and setting them against each other, as if afraid to permit himself the use of speech, and with his arms rolled up tight into his mantle, as if he dreaded to trust them at liberty.“Nay, never frown and fret, son Alexander,” continued the King. “By St. Andrew, ’tis well for thee that thou didst come to us thus in secret, for hadst thou but had the daring to appear before us when surrounded by the Lords of our Court, verily our respect for justice must of needscost have coarted us to order thee to be forthwith seized and subjected to strict durance. As it is, thou mayest yede thee hence for this time, that thou mayest yet have some space left thee to make thy peace with the holy Bishop Barr; for without his pardon, trust me, thou canst never have ours. And we do earnestly counsel thee to hasten to avail thyself of this merciful delay of our Sovereign vengeance, for an thou dost not speedily receive full absolution from the godly prelate whom thou hast so grievously offended, by the word of a King I swear that thou shalt liggen thee in prison till thou diest.”The Wolfe of Badenoch heard no more. He relieved his hands in a hurried manner from the thraldom in which he had imprisoned them—halted in his walk, and glared fiercely at the King—groped again at the handle of his dagger—threw up his arms in the air with frenzied action—dashed his clenched fists against his head—and then rushed from the Royal presence with a fury which was rendered sufficiently evident by the clanging of the various doors through which he retreated.[376]The King folded his hands, groaned with deep agony, looked up to Heaven, uttered a short petition to the Virgin to have mercy on the disordered and polluted soul of his unhappy son, and to beseech her to shed a holy and healing influence over it that might beget a sincere repentance; and then giving way to all the feelings of a father, he burst into tears, which he in vain attempted to hide from the attendants, who soon afterwards appeared.

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

The Wolfe of Badenoch at Aberdeen—Father and Son.

Duncan MacErchar’s intellect was so much confused by the unexpected discovery that he had been standing and talking before his King, a being whom he had always conceived to be something more than man, and whose image had floated like a spirit before his misty eyes, that it was some time ere Sir Patrick Hepborne could make him comprehend the good fortune that had befallen him. He then inquired eagerly into the nature and advantages of the situation which had been so graciously bestowed upon him by His Majesty; and finding that he was to be an officer in that corps of stipendiaries who were always on Royal duty, with the best possible pay and perquisites, and superb clothing, he asked Hepborne, with some degree of earnestness, what became of the corps during the time of war.“They never go to war, unless when the King appears in the field in person,” replied Sir Patrick; “and of that I well wot there is but little chance during this reign.”[367]“Uve, uve,” cried MacErchar, with a look that showed he was but half satisfied; “and is she never to see the English loons again? Sure, sure, of what use will be the pay and the harness, an she must liggen at home while tothers folks be at the wars? And is she never to have the good luck to fight at the back of the good Sir Patrick again! Oich, oich, she would like full weel to see her down, and ane Englishman cleavin’ her skull, and her nainsel wi’ a pike in the body o’ the chield—oich, hoich! it would be braw sport. Sure, she would rather fight for Sir Patrick, yea, and albeit she got nothing but cuffs and scarts for her pains, than sit wi’ her thumbs across serving a king himsel, though she got goupins of gold for her idleness. Troth, she would die for Sir Patrick.”“And wouldst thou sacrifice the honour, yea, and the weighty emolument of a commission in the King’s Guards, with all the fair promise of advancement the which it doth hold forth to thee, for the mere gratification of a chivalric self-devotion to my father?” demanded Hepborne, desirous to try him.“Out ay—surely, surely, she would do that; and little wonder o’ her, too, she would think it,” replied MacErchar.“Wouldst thou, then, that I do resign thy commission to the King, and that I do obtain for thee a lance among my father’s spears?” asked Hepborne.“Oich, oich!” cried MacErchar, rubbing his hands, and with his eyes sparkling with delight; “surely her honour is ower good—ower good, surely. But if her honour will do that same, oich, oich! Duncan MacErchar will be happy—oop, oop, happy. Troth, she will dance itsel for joy. Oit, she may need look for no more till she dies; God be good unto her soul then! Oich, will her honour do this for her?” demanded Duncan eagerly of Hepborne, and in his more than usual keenness, taking the knight’s hand, and squeezing it powerfully; “will her honour do but this for her?”“Verily, I shall at least do for thee what I can,” replied Hepborne, heartily shaking his hand; “albeit so honourable a gift from thy King may not be lightly rejected. Yet will I do what I may for thee. Let me find thee with mine esquire to-morrow morning; thou shalt then hear the result of mine application to the King.”Hepborne was as good as his word. He craved an audience of the King, and, being admitted to his couchee, the good monarch was pleased with the singularly disinterested wish of the Highlander, and immediately signified his gracious pleasure that MacErchar should retain the commission in his Guards, whilst[368]he should be permitted to follow the banner of Sir Patrick Hepborne to the wars. The old knight, who happened to be present, was much touched by Duncan’s devotion to him, and very gladly admitted him among his followers, so that every wish of MacErchar’s heart was more than gratified.As Sir Patrick Hepborne was quitting the Royal apartments, and as he was passing through a small vestibule feebly illumined by a single lamp, he was almost jostled by a tall figure, who, enveloped in an ample mantle, was striding hastily forward towards the door of the room whence he had issued, the metal of his harness clanging as he moved.“Ha! Sir Patrick Hepborne,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, for it was he—“by the blessed bones of my grandfather, but thou art right far ben already in the old man’s favour, that I do thus meet thee ishing forth from his chamber at an hour like this; but thou art more welcome, peraunter, than his son the Earl of Buchan—Is the King alone?”“By this time I do ween that he is, my Lord; for, as I left him, the Earl of Fife, the Earl of Moray, and my father, who had been in conference with him, were preparing to take their leave by another door, and the King was about to retire into his bed-chamber, with the gentlemen in waiting on his person.”“Ha!” said the Wolfe—“John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, saidst thou?—By my word, but he seemeth to be eternally buzzing about the King, ay, and he doth buzz in his ear too, I warrant me. Hast thou seen or heard aught of the Bishop of Moray being here?”“The Bishop of Moray had an audience of His Majesty this very day, on his arrival,” replied Hepborne; “and if I mistake not, he did take his leave, and hath already departed on his homeward journey.”“Ha! ’tis well,” replied the Wolfe hoarsely, and gnashing his teeth as he said so. “Good night, Sir Patrick, I may, or I may not, see thee in Aberdeen at this time, for I know not whether I may, or may not, ride hence again anon.” So saying, he passed hastily towards the door leading to the King’s private chamber, to reach which he had several apartments to pass through.The aged Robert, tired by the unusual fatigue he had that day undergone, was alike glad to get rid of business and of his privy councillors. Retiring into his bed-chamber, and laying aside the dignity of his high estate, his two attendants assisted him to put on his robe-de-chambre, and he immediately descended to the more humble level of a mere man, to which even[369]the greatest and most heroic potentate is reduced by the operations of his valet. His legs had been already relieved from those rolls of woollen which had been employed to cherish and to support them during the day; and being seated in an easy chair of large dimensions, among ample crimson cushions, his pale countenance showed yet more wan and withered under the dark purple velvet cap he wore, from beneath which his white hair curled over his shoulders. Though his eyes were weak and bleared, their full and undimmed pupils beamed mildly, like the stars of a summer twilight. He had just inserted his limbs knee-deep into a warm foot-bath, which one of his people had placed before his chair, when a loud tap was heard at the door.“Ha!” said the King, starting, “get thee to the door, Vallance, and see who may knock so late. By the sound, we should opine that either rudeness or haste were there.”Vallance did as he was ordered, and, on opening the door, the Wolfe of Badenoch stepped into the apartment, and made a hasty and careless obeisance before his father. The old King’s feeble frame shook from head to foot with nervous agitation when he beheld him.“Son Alexander, is it thou?” demanded Robert with astonishment. “We looked not to have our sacred privacy disturbed at so unseemly an hour, yea, and still less by thee, whose head, we did ween, was shrouded by shame in the darkness of thine own disgrace, or rather buried, as we had vainly hoped, amid the dust and ashes of ane humble repentance. What bringeth thee hither?—what hath”——He stopped, for he remembered that they were not alone. “Vallance, and you, Seyton, retire. Wait without in the vestibule; we would be private. What hath brought thee hither, son Alexander?” repeated he, after the door was shut upon them. “I wot thou art but a rare guest at our Court, and methinks that, infected as thou art at this present time, thou art but little fitted for its air.”Naturally violent and ferocious as was the Wolfe of Badenoch, he now stood before his father and his King, a presence in which he never found himself without being in a certain degree subdued by the combination of awe, early inspired into his mind by this twofold claim on his respect, and to which he had been too long accustomed, to find it easy to rid himself of it. The grim Earl moved forward some steps towards the chair where His Majesty was seated, and again louting him low, he repeated the obeisance which the venerable form of his parent and Sovereign commanded.[370]“My liege-father,” said he at length, “I do come to pay mine humble duty to your grace, and——”“Nay, methinks thou shouldst have bethought thee of humbling thy fierce pride before another throne than ours, ere thou didst adventure to wend thee hither,” interrupted the King with indignation. “It would have well become thee to have bowed in humble contrition before the episcopal chair of our Right Reverend Bishop of Moray, yea, to have licked the very dust before his feet. Then, with his absolution on thy sinful head, mightest thou have approached the holy altar of God, and the shrine of the Virgin, in penitence and prayer; and after these, and all other purifications, we mought have been again well pleased to have seen our reclaimed son mingling with the nobles of our Court.”“I do see that the Bishop of Moray hath outrode me,” said the Wolfe of Badenoch, his eye kindling, and his cheek darkly reddening, the flame of his internal ire being rendered more furious by the very exertions he was making to keep down all external symptoms of it. “The Bishop hath already effunded his tale in the Royal ear; but yet do I hope that thou wilt hesitate to condemn me, yea, even on the Bishop’s saying, without hearing what I may have to declare in mine own defence.”“Son Alexander,” said the old King mildly, and at the same time slowly shaking his head as he spoke, “we do fear much that thou canst have but little to tell that may undermine what the soothfast Bishop, Alexander Barr, hath possessed us of.”“He hath been with thee, then, my liege-father?” said the Wolfe, in a voice of eager inquiry, and at the same time biting his nether lip.“Yea, the godly Bishop of Moray hath been with us this very day,” replied the King. “He hath harrowed up our soul with the doleful tale of the brenning of our good burgh of Forres—of the great devastation of men’s dwellings, goods, and mœubles, the which thy fury hath created—the sacrilege of the which thou hast been guilty in reducing God’s house and altar to ashes, as also the house of his minister—the wicked and as yet unestimated sacrifice of the lives of our loving subjects, the which thou hast occasioned.”“As God is my judge, my liege,” replied the Earl impatiently, “as God is my judge, there was not a life lost—credit me, not one life. The hour of the night was early when the deed was done; yea, it was done openly enough, so that there was little chance of mortal tarrying to be food for the devouring flames. Trust me, my liege-father, I did secretly send to certify[371]myself, as I can now truly do thee, on the honour of a knight, that not a life was lost.”“Nay, in truth, it must be confessed that the Bishop spake only from hearsay as to this head of charge against thee,” replied the King, “and, of a truth, thou hast lightened our mind of a right grievous part of its burden by thy solemn denial of this cruel part of the accusation against thee. Verily, it was to my soul like the hair-shirt to the back that hath been seamed by the lash of penance, to think that flesh of ours could have done such wanton murder on innocent and inoffensive burghers. But yet, what shall we say to thy brenning of God’s holy house—of the gratification of thy blind and brutal thirst of vengeance even by the destruction of his altars, and of the images of his saints?”“Nay, mine intent was not against the Church,” replied the Wolfe, “but rage reft me of reason, and I deny not that it was with mine own hand that I did fire it; yet was it soon extinguished, and the choir only hath suffered. But,” continued he, as he turned the subject with increasing irritation, “but had not an excommunication gone forth so rashly against me, yea, and poured out alswa by him who hath ever been mine enemy, the flood of my vengeance had not flowed; and if it had swept all before it, by the Rood, but Bishop Barr himself must bear the coulpe of what evil it may have wrought.”“Speak not so horribly, son Alexander,” said the King, with emotion. “Thine impious words do shock mine ear. Lay not blame to Bishop Barr for at last hurling upon thee the tardy vengeance of the Episcopal chair, which thine accumulated insults did loudly call for, long ere his long-suffering temper did permit him to employ them. Didst thou not outrageously and sacrilegiously ravish and usurp the lands of the Church in Badenoch? and didst thou not refuse to restore them to the righteous possession of our holy Mother when called on so to do?”“Yea,” replied the Wolfe of Badenoch, waxing more angry, and less scrupulous in his manner of speaking, as well as in his choice of terms, as his father thus began to approach nearer to the source of all his heart-burnings with the Bishop—“yea, I did indeed seize these lands, but, by the mass, it was not against the Church that I did war in so doing, but against mine insidious enemy, Alexander Barr, who did feed himself fat upon their revenues. And well I wot hath he worked for my vengeance. Hath he not poisoned thine ear against me?—hath he not been ever my torment?—hath he not been eternally meddling with[372]my domestic, with my most private affairs?—hath he not sported with my most tender feelings?—hath he not done all that in him lay to rend the ties of my dearest affections?”“Ah, there, there again hast thou touched a chord the which doth ever vibrate to our shame,” replied the King, deeply distressed by the remembrance of the subject which the Wolfe had awakened. “That disgraceful connection with thy leman Mariota Athyn—’tis that which hath poisoned the source of all thine actings, and that hath thereby transmewed the sweet waters of our life into bitterness and gall. Did we not write to thee with our own hand, urging thee to repentance, and beseeching thee to dismiss thy sinful and impure mate, and cleave to thy lawful wife, Euphame, Countess of Ross? and——”“Nay, my liege-father, I wot this is too old a wound to be ripped up now,” interrupted the Wolfe of Badenoch, beginning to wax more and more ireful; “ha! by the Rood, but ’tis sore to bear—cruelly sore. I did come hither to complain of the evil usage, of the disgrace, of the insults which this upstart priest hath thrown on me, hoping for a father’s lenient interpretation of mine actings; yea, and that some salve might have been put to the rankling sores this carrion hath wrought on me; but the croaking raven hath been here before me—he hath already sung his hoarse and evil-omened song in thine ear, and all that I may now say cannot purge it of the poison with which it has been filled. By my trusty burly-brand, but thou hast forgotten the mettle of thy son Alexander.”“Oh dole, dole, dole!” cried the old King, clasping his hands in bitter affliction at the obstinacy shown by his son; “what can be done with a heart which beareth itself so proudly, which refuseth to listen to the voice of reason, which despiseth a father’s counsels, and which resolveth to abide in its wickedness.”“Wickedness!” replied the Wolfe fiercely, and enchafing more and more as he went on; “by the holy Rood, but I do think that the word is ill applied. Meseems that to throw her off who hath borne me five lusty chields, and who hath stuck to me through sun and wete, would savour more of wickedness than to continue her under the shadow of my protection. Ha! by my beard, but the voice of reason—ha, ha, ha!—is like to be as much with me in this case as against me. Thank God, I have reason—yea, and excellent reason too—full, vigorous, and perfect reason—whilst thou hast thine, old man, far upon the wane. Whatsoever mountaunce of reason thou mayest have once had, by Heaven, thou dost now begin to dote. Yet what[373]was thy reason in like matters when it was at the best? Didst thou not thyself live a like light life in thy youthhood, and dost thou school me for having followed thine example?”“Oh, dole, dole!—oh, woe for my sins!” cried the old man, agonized by his son’s intemperate accusation of him; “’tis bitter, I wot, to bear the reproach of a wicked and undutiful son. O, alas for my sins! yet sure, if I have had any, as the blessed Virgin knoweth, I do humbly confess them, and may her holy influence cleanse me from them; if I have had sins, surely I have dreed a right sore penance for them in having thee as an everlasting scourge to my spirit. God, doubtless, gave thee to me for the gracious purpose that thou mightest be as bitter ligne-aloes to purge away the disease of my soul; and may He sanctify the purposes of mine affliction! But what art thou, sinful wretch that thou art, who wouldst thus cast blame on thy father, yea, and ignominy on thyself? If I sinned in that matter, did I not awaken from my sin and repent me? did I not do all that mortal could do to salve the misery I had begotten? did I not——. But thou art a cruel and barbarous wretch, a disgrace and infamy to thy father—a diseased, polluted, and festering limb, the which should be cut off and buried out of sight.”“Old dotard,” cried the Wolfe, his fury now getting completely the better of him, “talk not thus—I—I—I—ha!—provoke me not—thou hadst better——”“Get thee to thy home,” replied the King; “turn thy vile strumpet forth, and, above all, humble thyself in penitence before the good Bishop Barr, who, godly man, hath been unwearied in his pious endeavours to reclaim thee from thy sinful and polluted life. Lick the dust from the very shoes of the saintly Bishop of Moray; in his Christian mercy he may forgive thee, and thou mayest then hope for restoration to our Royal favour; but if thou dost not this, by the word of a King, I will have thee thrown into prison, and there thou shalt liggen until thou shalt have made reparation to God and man for all thine impurities and all thine outrages and sacrileges.”“Ha!” cried the enraged Earl of Buchan, half drawing his dagger, and then returning it violently into its sheath, and pressing it hard down, as if to make it immovable there were the only security against his using it; whilst, at the same time, he began to pace the apartment in a furious manner; “ha! what! confine the eagle of the mountain to a sparrow’s cage? chain down the Wolfe of Badenoch to some walthsome den? threaten thy son so, and all for an accursed, prating, papelarde priest?[374]Old man,” said he, suddenly halting opposite to his father, and putting a daring hand rudely on each shoulder of His Majesty, while his eyes glared on him as if passion had altogether mastered his reason—“old dotard carle that thou art, art thou not now within my grasp? art not thine attendants beyond call? is not the puny spark of life that feebly brens in that wintry frame now within the will of these hands? What doth hinder that I should put thee beyond the power of executing thy weak threats?—what doth hinder me to——”He stopped ere he had uttered this impious parricidal thought more plainly. The old man blenched or quailed not; nay, even the agitation which he had before exhibited—an agitation which had been the result of anger and vexation, but not of fear—was calmed by the idea of approaching death; and, pitying his son more than himself, he sat immovable like some waxen figure, his mild eyes calmly and steadily fixed upon the red and starting orbs of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The group might have been copied for the subject of the martyrdom of a saint.“’Tis the hand of God that hindereth thee, son Alexander,” said the aged Monarch, slowly and distinctly.The ferocious Wolfe could not withstand the saint-like look of his venerable father. The devil that had taken possession of Lord Badenoch’s heart was expelled by the beam of Heaven that shot from the eyes of the good King Robert. Those of his son fell abashed before them, and the succeeding moment saw the hard, stern, and savage Earl on his bended knees, yea, and weeping before the parent of whom his ungovernable rage might have made him the murderer. There was a silence of a minute.“Forgive me, forgive me, father. I knew not what I did; I was reft of my reason,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, groaning with deep agony and shame.“Son Alexander,” said the King firmly, yet as if struggling to keep down these emotions of tenderness for his son which his sudden and unexpected contrition had excited; “Son Alexander, albeit the consideration that the outrage was done by the hand of a son against a father doth rather aggravate the coulpe of the subject against the King, yet as it doth regard our own Royal person alone, we may be permitted to allow the indulgent affection of the parent to assuage the otherwise rigorous justice of the Monarch. So far as this may go, then, do we forgive thee.”The Wolfe remained on the ground, deeply affected, with his head buried within his mantle.“But as for what the duty of a Sovereign doth demand of[375]us,” continued Robert, “in punishing these malfaitours who do flagrantly sin against the laws of our realm, and those, above all, who do sacrilegious outrage against our holy religion and Church, be assured that our hand will be as strong and swift in its vengeance on thee as on any other; nor shall these thy tears make more impression on us than thine ungovernable fury did now appal us. Doubt not but thou shalt feel the full weight of our Royal displeasure, yea, and thou shalt dree such punishment as befits the crimes thou hast committed against God and man, unless thou dost straightway seek the footstool of the injured Bishop of Moray. Nay, start not away, but hear us; for thou shalt suffer for thy crime, unless thou dost straightway seek the injured Bishop’s footstool, and, bowing thy head in the dust before it, submit thee to what penance he in his great mercy and wisdom may hold to be sufficient expiation for thy wickedness.”The Wolfe of Badenoch started up and again began to pace the room in a frenzy; and as Robert went on he became more and more agitated by passion, gnashing his teeth from time to time, and setting them against each other, as if afraid to permit himself the use of speech, and with his arms rolled up tight into his mantle, as if he dreaded to trust them at liberty.“Nay, never frown and fret, son Alexander,” continued the King. “By St. Andrew, ’tis well for thee that thou didst come to us thus in secret, for hadst thou but had the daring to appear before us when surrounded by the Lords of our Court, verily our respect for justice must of needscost have coarted us to order thee to be forthwith seized and subjected to strict durance. As it is, thou mayest yede thee hence for this time, that thou mayest yet have some space left thee to make thy peace with the holy Bishop Barr; for without his pardon, trust me, thou canst never have ours. And we do earnestly counsel thee to hasten to avail thyself of this merciful delay of our Sovereign vengeance, for an thou dost not speedily receive full absolution from the godly prelate whom thou hast so grievously offended, by the word of a King I swear that thou shalt liggen thee in prison till thou diest.”The Wolfe of Badenoch heard no more. He relieved his hands in a hurried manner from the thraldom in which he had imprisoned them—halted in his walk, and glared fiercely at the King—groped again at the handle of his dagger—threw up his arms in the air with frenzied action—dashed his clenched fists against his head—and then rushed from the Royal presence with a fury which was rendered sufficiently evident by the clanging of the various doors through which he retreated.[376]The King folded his hands, groaned with deep agony, looked up to Heaven, uttered a short petition to the Virgin to have mercy on the disordered and polluted soul of his unhappy son, and to beseech her to shed a holy and healing influence over it that might beget a sincere repentance; and then giving way to all the feelings of a father, he burst into tears, which he in vain attempted to hide from the attendants, who soon afterwards appeared.

“They never go to war, unless when the King appears in the field in person,” replied Sir Patrick; “and of that I well wot there is but little chance during this reign.”[367]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hepborne was as good as his word. He craved an audience of the King, and, being admitted to his couchee, the good monarch was pleased with the singularly disinterested wish of the Highlander, and immediately signified his gracious pleasure that MacErchar should retain the commission in his Guards, whilst[368]he should be permitted to follow the banner of Sir Patrick Hepborne to the wars. The old knight, who happened to be present, was much touched by Duncan’s devotion to him, and very gladly admitted him among his followers, so that every wish of MacErchar’s heart was more than gratified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The aged Robert, tired by the unusual fatigue he had that day undergone, was alike glad to get rid of business and of his privy councillors. Retiring into his bed-chamber, and laying aside the dignity of his high estate, his two attendants assisted him to put on his robe-de-chambre, and he immediately descended to the more humble level of a mere man, to which even[369]the greatest and most heroic potentate is reduced by the operations of his valet. His legs had been already relieved from those rolls of woollen which had been employed to cherish and to support them during the day; and being seated in an easy chair of large dimensions, among ample crimson cushions, his pale countenance showed yet more wan and withered under the dark purple velvet cap he wore, from beneath which his white hair curled over his shoulders. Though his eyes were weak and bleared, their full and undimmed pupils beamed mildly, like the stars of a summer twilight. He had just inserted his limbs knee-deep into a warm foot-bath, which one of his people had placed before his chair, when a loud tap was heard at the door.

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

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

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

Naturally violent and ferocious as was the Wolfe of Badenoch, he now stood before his father and his King, a presence in which he never found himself without being in a certain degree subdued by the combination of awe, early inspired into his mind by this twofold claim on his respect, and to which he had been too long accustomed, to find it easy to rid himself of it. The grim Earl moved forward some steps towards the chair where His Majesty was seated, and again louting him low, he repeated the obeisance which the venerable form of his parent and Sovereign commanded.[370]

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As God is my judge, my liege,” replied the Earl impatiently, “as God is my judge, there was not a life lost—credit me, not one life. The hour of the night was early when the deed was done; yea, it was done openly enough, so that there was little chance of mortal tarrying to be food for the devouring flames. Trust me, my liege-father, I did secretly send to certify[371]myself, as I can now truly do thee, on the honour of a knight, that not a life was lost.”

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

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

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

“Yea,” replied the Wolfe of Badenoch, waxing more angry, and less scrupulous in his manner of speaking, as well as in his choice of terms, as his father thus began to approach nearer to the source of all his heart-burnings with the Bishop—“yea, I did indeed seize these lands, but, by the mass, it was not against the Church that I did war in so doing, but against mine insidious enemy, Alexander Barr, who did feed himself fat upon their revenues. And well I wot hath he worked for my vengeance. Hath he not poisoned thine ear against me?—hath he not been ever my torment?—hath he not been eternally meddling with[372]my domestic, with my most private affairs?—hath he not sported with my most tender feelings?—hath he not done all that in him lay to rend the ties of my dearest affections?”

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

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

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

“Wickedness!” replied the Wolfe fiercely, and enchafing more and more as he went on; “by the holy Rood, but I do think that the word is ill applied. Meseems that to throw her off who hath borne me five lusty chields, and who hath stuck to me through sun and wete, would savour more of wickedness than to continue her under the shadow of my protection. Ha! by my beard, but the voice of reason—ha, ha, ha!—is like to be as much with me in this case as against me. Thank God, I have reason—yea, and excellent reason too—full, vigorous, and perfect reason—whilst thou hast thine, old man, far upon the wane. Whatsoever mountaunce of reason thou mayest have once had, by Heaven, thou dost now begin to dote. Yet what[373]was thy reason in like matters when it was at the best? Didst thou not thyself live a like light life in thy youthhood, and dost thou school me for having followed thine example?”

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

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

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

“Ha!” cried the enraged Earl of Buchan, half drawing his dagger, and then returning it violently into its sheath, and pressing it hard down, as if to make it immovable there were the only security against his using it; whilst, at the same time, he began to pace the apartment in a furious manner; “ha! what! confine the eagle of the mountain to a sparrow’s cage? chain down the Wolfe of Badenoch to some walthsome den? threaten thy son so, and all for an accursed, prating, papelarde priest?[374]Old man,” said he, suddenly halting opposite to his father, and putting a daring hand rudely on each shoulder of His Majesty, while his eyes glared on him as if passion had altogether mastered his reason—“old dotard carle that thou art, art thou not now within my grasp? art not thine attendants beyond call? is not the puny spark of life that feebly brens in that wintry frame now within the will of these hands? What doth hinder that I should put thee beyond the power of executing thy weak threats?—what doth hinder me to——”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But as for what the duty of a Sovereign doth demand of[375]us,” continued Robert, “in punishing these malfaitours who do flagrantly sin against the laws of our realm, and those, above all, who do sacrilegious outrage against our holy religion and Church, be assured that our hand will be as strong and swift in its vengeance on thee as on any other; nor shall these thy tears make more impression on us than thine ungovernable fury did now appal us. Doubt not but thou shalt feel the full weight of our Royal displeasure, yea, and thou shalt dree such punishment as befits the crimes thou hast committed against God and man, unless thou dost straightway seek the footstool of the injured Bishop of Moray. Nay, start not away, but hear us; for thou shalt suffer for thy crime, unless thou dost straightway seek the injured Bishop’s footstool, and, bowing thy head in the dust before it, submit thee to what penance he in his great mercy and wisdom may hold to be sufficient expiation for thy wickedness.”

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

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

The Wolfe of Badenoch heard no more. He relieved his hands in a hurried manner from the thraldom in which he had imprisoned them—halted in his walk, and glared fiercely at the King—groped again at the handle of his dagger—threw up his arms in the air with frenzied action—dashed his clenched fists against his head—and then rushed from the Royal presence with a fury which was rendered sufficiently evident by the clanging of the various doors through which he retreated.[376]

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

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