[Contents]CHAPTER LXI.The Field of Otterbourne after the Fight.After Sir Patrick Hepborne had assisted to perform the last sad duties to the remains of Robert Lindsay and Ralpho Proudfoot, his attention was caught by the appearance of a solitary cluster of lights on the distant part of the field, where the slaughter of the English had been greatest. Curiosity led him to approach, when he perceived that they were borne by a party who followed a bier, that was slowly carried in the direction of Otterbourne Castle. Advancing to a point which they must necessarily pass, he saw, as the procession drew nearer, that the bier was supported by some English spearmen, and that it was followed by a group of women.Hepborne’s attention was particularly attracted by a lady in the midst of them, who walked with her head veiled in the folds of her mantle, and seemed to be deeply affected by that grief in which the others only sympathised. She took her mantle from her head, and threw her eyes upwards as if in inward ejaculation. Sir Patrick started, for he beheld that very countenance the charms of which, though seen but by glimpses at Norham, had made too deep an impression upon his heart ever to be forgotten; but now they seemed to be more than ever familiar to him, as he was disposed to believe, from their frequent presence to the eye of his imagination. He gazed in silent rapture. The strong resemblance between his page Maurice de Grey and the lady now struck him the more powerfully, that he had a full opportunity of perusing every trait; he was confounded; the mantle dropped over the alabaster forehead, and the countenance was again shrouded from his eyes. The procession moved on, and he followed, almost doubting whether it was not composed of phantoms, until it approached the gate of the Castle of Otterbourne, where the captain of the place, attended by his garrison, appeared to receive it. Still Hepborne had difficulty in convincing himself that the whole was not a waking vision—a belief warranted by the superstition of his country. It slowly entered the gateway. The lady in[466]whom he felt so deep an interest was about to disappear. He could bear suspense no longer.“Lady Eleanore de Selby—Lady de Vere,” cried he, in a frantic voice.The lady started at the sound of it, threw back the mantle from her head, and cast her eyes around in strong agitation, until they glanced on Hepborne’s face, when she uttered a faint scream, and fell back senseless into the arms of her attendants, who crowded around her, and hastily bore her within the gateway of the Castle, the defences of which being immediately closed, she was shut from his straining sight.Hepborne stood for some time in a state of stupefaction ere he could muster sufficient self-command to return to his tent. The abrupt termination of the scene, which still remained fresh on his mind, almost convinced him of the accuracy of his conjecture as to its having been some strange supernatural appearance he had beheld. He slowly found his way to his friends, his soul vexed by a thousand contending conjectures and perplexities, which he found it impossible to satisfy or reconcile.Meanwhile Mortimer Sang, who had been earnestly searching for the body of Rory Spears, of whose death he had begun to entertain great apprehensions, was surprised by the appearance of a damsel, whom he saw bearing a torch and bitterly weeping.“Holy St. Andrew!” exclaimed he; “Katherine Spears, can it be thee in very body—or is it thy wraith I behold? Speak, if thou be’st flesh and blood—for the love of the Holy Virgin, speak.”“Oh, dear Master Sang,” cried Katherine, running to him and proving by the gripe that she took of his arm, that she was indeed something corporeal, “the blessed St. Mary be praised that I have met with thee; thank Heaven, thou art safe at least. But, oh, tell me, tell me, hast thou seen aught of my dear father? Hath he ’scaped this dreadful field of death?”“Thy father, I trust, is well,” replied Sang, much perplexed; “but how, in the name of all that is wonderful, didst thou come here?”“I came with an English lady, who is now at the Castle of Otterbourne,” replied Katherine evasively. “But, oh, tell me, tell me, I entreat thee,” said the poor girl, earnestly seizing his hand, “tell me, hast thou seen my father sith the fight was over?”“He hath not appeared since the battle,” said Sang in a half-choked voice, and with considerable hesitation; “but we trust[467]he may be prisoner with the English, for as yet we have searched for him in vain among the slain scattered over the field. Yes,” continued he, in a firmer and more assured tone, as he observed the alarm that was taking possession of her; “yes, he hath not been found—and as he hath not been found, dear Katherine, it is clear that he must be a prisoner—so—and—and so thou wilt soon see him again; for as there must be a truce, the few prisoners ta’en by the English must speedily be sent home again.”“Nay, but do they seek him still, Sir Squire?” cried Katherine, but little satisfied with this attempt of Sang’s to soothe her apprehension.“Alas, I must seek for him.”“Nay, this is no scene for thee, dear Katherine,” replied Sang; “return I pray thee to the Castle, and I will search, and thou shalt quickly know all.”“Try not to hinder me, Sir Squire,” replied Katherine; “I will go seek for my father. I have already seen enow of those grim and ghastly faces not to fear in such a cause.”“Then shall I go with thee, Katherine,” cried Sang, seeing her determination. “Here, lean upon mine arm.”When they came into the thickest part of the field of slaughter, Katherine shuddered and shrank as they moved aside, from time to time, to shun the heaps of slain. Sang looked everywhere for his comrade Roger Riddel, and at last happily met him; but, alas! Riddel could give no intelligence of him they sought for. By this time they had approached the abattis of dead bodies which had been so hastily piled up for defence against the expected attack of the Bishop of Durham.“Come not this way, Katherine,” cried Sang; “this rampart of the dead is horrible.”Katherine’s heart was faint within her at the sight; she stopped and turned away, when, just at that moment, her ear caught the whining of a dog at a little distance.“That voice was Oscar’s,” cried she eagerly. “Oh, let us hasten, my father may be there.”They followed her steps with the lights, and there she beheld her father lying on the ground, grievously wounded, and half dead with want and loss of blood. Luckily for him, poor Oscar had been accidentally let out at the time that Sang and Riddel went forth to search among the slain, and having sought more industriously for his master than all the rest, he had discovered the unhappy Rory Spears built into the wall of the dead. Rory had fallen before the tremendous charge made by the English, when they burst through the line of entrenchment,[468]where he had fought like a lion himself, and inspired a something more than human courage into those around him. Having lost his basinet, he had received a severe cut on the head, besides many other wounds, which affected him not. But the thrust of a lance through his thigh was that which brought him to the ground; after which, he was nearly trampled to death by the rush of English foot and horsemen that poured over him. During the time that had passed since he was laid low, he had fainted repeatedly, and had been for hours insensible to his sufferings. Whilst lying in one of his mimic fits of death, he had been taken up by some of those who were employed in heaping the slain into a rampart, and who, having little leisure for minute examination, had made use of him as part of its materials. Fortunately his head was placed outwards, so that when he recovered he was enabled to breathe, and consequently was saved from suffocation. Oscar had no sooner found him than, seizing the neck of his haqueton with his teeth, he pulled him gently out upon the plain.“My father, my dear father!” cried Katherine Spears, running to support him, and much affected by the sight of his wan visage, the paleness of which, together with his sunken eye, showed more ghastly from the blood that had run down in such profusion from his wound, that the very colour of his beard was changed, and the hairs of it matted together by it.“What dost thou here, Kate?” demanded Rory, in a firmer voice than his appearance would have authorized the bystanders to have expected from him; “sure this be no place for a silly maiden like thee.”“Oh, father, father,” cried Katherine, embracing him, and doing her best to assist Sang in raising him up by the shoulders; “the holy Virgin be praised that thou art yet alive.”“Alive!” answered Rory; “troth, I’m weel aware that I’m leevin, for albeit that the agony o’ my head wad gi’e me peace enow to let me believe that I had really depairted in real yearnest, the very hunger that ruggeth so cruelly at my inside wad be enew to keep me in mind that I was still belonging to this warld. For the sake o’ the gude Saint Lawrence, Maister Sang, gar ane o’ them chields rin and see gif Mrs.Margaret MacCleareye can gi’e me a bit o’ cauld mutton or sike like, and a wee soup yill. Tell the woman I’ll pay her for the score o’ yestreen and a’ thegither. But, aboon a’ thing, see that they mak haste, or I’ll die ere they come back. What sould I hae done an it hadna been for the gude wife’s wee bit supper afore we fell to!”[469]Sang immediately despatched one of the camp followers who was standing by, and who quickly returned with the melancholy intelligence that Mrs.MacCleareye’s frail hut had been levelled with the earth by the press—that her provender had been scattered and pillaged—that her ale barrels had been rolled away and emptied—and that she herself had also disappeared.“Hech me,” cried Rory, altogether forgetful of his own craving stomach; “poor woman, I’m sorry for her loss; aboon a’, it erketh me sair that I paid her not her dues yestreen. But, an a’ live, she or her heirs shall hae it, as I’m a true esquire. But, och, I’m faunt!”“Take some of this, Master Spears,” cried Mortimer Sang, holding a leathern bottle to Rory’s mouth, and pouring a few drops of a cordial into it.“Oich, Maister Sang, that is reveeving!” said Rory. “A wee drap mair, for the love o’ St. Lowry. Mercy me! Weel, it’s an evil thing after a’ to be killed in battle (as I may be allowed to judge, I rauckon, wha has been half killed), was it no for the glory that is to be gotten by it. But to be cut down and then travelled ower like a mercat-causey, and then to be biggit up like a lump o’ whinstane intil a dyke—ay, and that, too, for the intent o’ haudin out the yenemy, and saving the craven carcages o’ ither fouk, and a’ to keep the dastard sauls in chields that ane is far frae liking as weel as ane’s sell—troth, there’s onything but honour or pleasure in’t to my fancy.”“Uve, uve! sore foolish speech, Maister Spears,” said a voice from the heap of dead bodies. “Great pleasures and high honours in troth, sure, sure.”“Captain MacErchar!” cried Sang. “Run, Roger, and yield him relief.”Squire Riddel hastened to the assistance of MacErchar, and drew forth his great body from the place it had occupied in the bottom of the fortification, where the skilful architect had, with much judgment, made use of him as a substantial foundation. His history had been something similar to that of Rory Spears, and he had not suffered less from wounds. He was brought forward and placed on a bank beside Rory, and a portion of Squire Sang’s life-inspiring bottle was given to him with the happiest effect.“Hech me,” cried Spears, looking round with great compassion on his companion in glory and misfortune—“hech me, Captain MacErchar, wha sould hae thought that thou wert sae near? Had we but kenn’d we mought hae had a crack thegither,[470]albeit hardly sae cosy as in Mrs.MacCleareye’s. Troth, I was sair weary and lonesome wi’ lying, and even the converse o’ the sagaciousome brute there was a comfort to me. This is but ane evil way o’ weeting a squireship. We sould hae done it in ane ither gate, I rauckon, had the English chields but defaured a wee. But I trust that neither have you disgraced your captaincy nor I my squireship. I saw you fighting like a very incarnate deevil, ay, and sending the Southrons back frae the rampyre like raquet ba’s frae a wa’, though it may be premeesed that nane o’ them ever stotted again.”“Ouch ay, troth ay,” replied MacErchar, “it was a bonnie tuilzie, Maister Spears. She did her pairts both—both, both. Ou ay; it was a great pleasures, in troth, to see her chap the chields on the crown.”“Poor Oscar, poor man,” said Rory, patting his dog’s head as he put his nose towards his face to claim his share of his master’s attention; “troth, I maun say that thou didst do me a good turn this blessed night. I was just thinking as I lay here that as I must now bear the proper armorial device of ane esquire, I sould take the effigy of ane allounde couchant beside his master sejant, with this motto, ‘Fair fa’ the snout that pu’d me out.’ ”“How couldst thou think of such things, my dear father, whilst thou didst lie in plight so pitiful!” cried Katherine Spears.“Troth, I had naething else to think o’, ye silly maiden, but that or hunger,” said Rory; “and that last, I’ll promise thee, was a sair sharp thought. And, by St. Lowry, it doth sore sting me at this precious moment.”“Uve, uve! sore hungry—sore hungry,” cried MacErchar.“Nay, then, let us hasten to carry both of them to camp without further let,” cried Sang.“Come, bestir ye, varlets,” said he to a crowd of camp-followers who were standing near; “lend us your aid.”“Nay,” said Katherine, “my father must be carried to Otterbourne Castle.”“Otterbourne Castle!” cried Rory; “what mean ye, silly quean?”Katherine bent over him, and put her mouth to his ear to whisper him.“Ay—aweel—poor thing!—very right—an it maun be sae, it just maun,” said he, after hearing what she had to say. “Aweel, Maister Sang, ye maun just tell the Yearl that as I can be o’ nae mair service in fighting at this present time, I[471]may as weel gae till the Castle o’ Otterbourne as ony ither gate to be leeched, mair especially as it is my belief that kitchen physic will be the best physic for me. Tell him that I’m gaun there wi’ my dochter Kate till a friend of his, and that he sall ken a’ about it afterhend.”Rory was accordingly carried straight to Otterbourne Castle, whither the gallant Mortimer Sang accompanied Katherine. Their parting at the gate was tender—but he could wring nothing from her that could elucidate the mystery of her present conduct.
[Contents]CHAPTER LXI.The Field of Otterbourne after the Fight.After Sir Patrick Hepborne had assisted to perform the last sad duties to the remains of Robert Lindsay and Ralpho Proudfoot, his attention was caught by the appearance of a solitary cluster of lights on the distant part of the field, where the slaughter of the English had been greatest. Curiosity led him to approach, when he perceived that they were borne by a party who followed a bier, that was slowly carried in the direction of Otterbourne Castle. Advancing to a point which they must necessarily pass, he saw, as the procession drew nearer, that the bier was supported by some English spearmen, and that it was followed by a group of women.Hepborne’s attention was particularly attracted by a lady in the midst of them, who walked with her head veiled in the folds of her mantle, and seemed to be deeply affected by that grief in which the others only sympathised. She took her mantle from her head, and threw her eyes upwards as if in inward ejaculation. Sir Patrick started, for he beheld that very countenance the charms of which, though seen but by glimpses at Norham, had made too deep an impression upon his heart ever to be forgotten; but now they seemed to be more than ever familiar to him, as he was disposed to believe, from their frequent presence to the eye of his imagination. He gazed in silent rapture. The strong resemblance between his page Maurice de Grey and the lady now struck him the more powerfully, that he had a full opportunity of perusing every trait; he was confounded; the mantle dropped over the alabaster forehead, and the countenance was again shrouded from his eyes. The procession moved on, and he followed, almost doubting whether it was not composed of phantoms, until it approached the gate of the Castle of Otterbourne, where the captain of the place, attended by his garrison, appeared to receive it. Still Hepborne had difficulty in convincing himself that the whole was not a waking vision—a belief warranted by the superstition of his country. It slowly entered the gateway. The lady in[466]whom he felt so deep an interest was about to disappear. He could bear suspense no longer.“Lady Eleanore de Selby—Lady de Vere,” cried he, in a frantic voice.The lady started at the sound of it, threw back the mantle from her head, and cast her eyes around in strong agitation, until they glanced on Hepborne’s face, when she uttered a faint scream, and fell back senseless into the arms of her attendants, who crowded around her, and hastily bore her within the gateway of the Castle, the defences of which being immediately closed, she was shut from his straining sight.Hepborne stood for some time in a state of stupefaction ere he could muster sufficient self-command to return to his tent. The abrupt termination of the scene, which still remained fresh on his mind, almost convinced him of the accuracy of his conjecture as to its having been some strange supernatural appearance he had beheld. He slowly found his way to his friends, his soul vexed by a thousand contending conjectures and perplexities, which he found it impossible to satisfy or reconcile.Meanwhile Mortimer Sang, who had been earnestly searching for the body of Rory Spears, of whose death he had begun to entertain great apprehensions, was surprised by the appearance of a damsel, whom he saw bearing a torch and bitterly weeping.“Holy St. Andrew!” exclaimed he; “Katherine Spears, can it be thee in very body—or is it thy wraith I behold? Speak, if thou be’st flesh and blood—for the love of the Holy Virgin, speak.”“Oh, dear Master Sang,” cried Katherine, running to him and proving by the gripe that she took of his arm, that she was indeed something corporeal, “the blessed St. Mary be praised that I have met with thee; thank Heaven, thou art safe at least. But, oh, tell me, tell me, hast thou seen aught of my dear father? Hath he ’scaped this dreadful field of death?”“Thy father, I trust, is well,” replied Sang, much perplexed; “but how, in the name of all that is wonderful, didst thou come here?”“I came with an English lady, who is now at the Castle of Otterbourne,” replied Katherine evasively. “But, oh, tell me, tell me, I entreat thee,” said the poor girl, earnestly seizing his hand, “tell me, hast thou seen my father sith the fight was over?”“He hath not appeared since the battle,” said Sang in a half-choked voice, and with considerable hesitation; “but we trust[467]he may be prisoner with the English, for as yet we have searched for him in vain among the slain scattered over the field. Yes,” continued he, in a firmer and more assured tone, as he observed the alarm that was taking possession of her; “yes, he hath not been found—and as he hath not been found, dear Katherine, it is clear that he must be a prisoner—so—and—and so thou wilt soon see him again; for as there must be a truce, the few prisoners ta’en by the English must speedily be sent home again.”“Nay, but do they seek him still, Sir Squire?” cried Katherine, but little satisfied with this attempt of Sang’s to soothe her apprehension.“Alas, I must seek for him.”“Nay, this is no scene for thee, dear Katherine,” replied Sang; “return I pray thee to the Castle, and I will search, and thou shalt quickly know all.”“Try not to hinder me, Sir Squire,” replied Katherine; “I will go seek for my father. I have already seen enow of those grim and ghastly faces not to fear in such a cause.”“Then shall I go with thee, Katherine,” cried Sang, seeing her determination. “Here, lean upon mine arm.”When they came into the thickest part of the field of slaughter, Katherine shuddered and shrank as they moved aside, from time to time, to shun the heaps of slain. Sang looked everywhere for his comrade Roger Riddel, and at last happily met him; but, alas! Riddel could give no intelligence of him they sought for. By this time they had approached the abattis of dead bodies which had been so hastily piled up for defence against the expected attack of the Bishop of Durham.“Come not this way, Katherine,” cried Sang; “this rampart of the dead is horrible.”Katherine’s heart was faint within her at the sight; she stopped and turned away, when, just at that moment, her ear caught the whining of a dog at a little distance.“That voice was Oscar’s,” cried she eagerly. “Oh, let us hasten, my father may be there.”They followed her steps with the lights, and there she beheld her father lying on the ground, grievously wounded, and half dead with want and loss of blood. Luckily for him, poor Oscar had been accidentally let out at the time that Sang and Riddel went forth to search among the slain, and having sought more industriously for his master than all the rest, he had discovered the unhappy Rory Spears built into the wall of the dead. Rory had fallen before the tremendous charge made by the English, when they burst through the line of entrenchment,[468]where he had fought like a lion himself, and inspired a something more than human courage into those around him. Having lost his basinet, he had received a severe cut on the head, besides many other wounds, which affected him not. But the thrust of a lance through his thigh was that which brought him to the ground; after which, he was nearly trampled to death by the rush of English foot and horsemen that poured over him. During the time that had passed since he was laid low, he had fainted repeatedly, and had been for hours insensible to his sufferings. Whilst lying in one of his mimic fits of death, he had been taken up by some of those who were employed in heaping the slain into a rampart, and who, having little leisure for minute examination, had made use of him as part of its materials. Fortunately his head was placed outwards, so that when he recovered he was enabled to breathe, and consequently was saved from suffocation. Oscar had no sooner found him than, seizing the neck of his haqueton with his teeth, he pulled him gently out upon the plain.“My father, my dear father!” cried Katherine Spears, running to support him, and much affected by the sight of his wan visage, the paleness of which, together with his sunken eye, showed more ghastly from the blood that had run down in such profusion from his wound, that the very colour of his beard was changed, and the hairs of it matted together by it.“What dost thou here, Kate?” demanded Rory, in a firmer voice than his appearance would have authorized the bystanders to have expected from him; “sure this be no place for a silly maiden like thee.”“Oh, father, father,” cried Katherine, embracing him, and doing her best to assist Sang in raising him up by the shoulders; “the holy Virgin be praised that thou art yet alive.”“Alive!” answered Rory; “troth, I’m weel aware that I’m leevin, for albeit that the agony o’ my head wad gi’e me peace enow to let me believe that I had really depairted in real yearnest, the very hunger that ruggeth so cruelly at my inside wad be enew to keep me in mind that I was still belonging to this warld. For the sake o’ the gude Saint Lawrence, Maister Sang, gar ane o’ them chields rin and see gif Mrs.Margaret MacCleareye can gi’e me a bit o’ cauld mutton or sike like, and a wee soup yill. Tell the woman I’ll pay her for the score o’ yestreen and a’ thegither. But, aboon a’ thing, see that they mak haste, or I’ll die ere they come back. What sould I hae done an it hadna been for the gude wife’s wee bit supper afore we fell to!”[469]Sang immediately despatched one of the camp followers who was standing by, and who quickly returned with the melancholy intelligence that Mrs.MacCleareye’s frail hut had been levelled with the earth by the press—that her provender had been scattered and pillaged—that her ale barrels had been rolled away and emptied—and that she herself had also disappeared.“Hech me,” cried Rory, altogether forgetful of his own craving stomach; “poor woman, I’m sorry for her loss; aboon a’, it erketh me sair that I paid her not her dues yestreen. But, an a’ live, she or her heirs shall hae it, as I’m a true esquire. But, och, I’m faunt!”“Take some of this, Master Spears,” cried Mortimer Sang, holding a leathern bottle to Rory’s mouth, and pouring a few drops of a cordial into it.“Oich, Maister Sang, that is reveeving!” said Rory. “A wee drap mair, for the love o’ St. Lowry. Mercy me! Weel, it’s an evil thing after a’ to be killed in battle (as I may be allowed to judge, I rauckon, wha has been half killed), was it no for the glory that is to be gotten by it. But to be cut down and then travelled ower like a mercat-causey, and then to be biggit up like a lump o’ whinstane intil a dyke—ay, and that, too, for the intent o’ haudin out the yenemy, and saving the craven carcages o’ ither fouk, and a’ to keep the dastard sauls in chields that ane is far frae liking as weel as ane’s sell—troth, there’s onything but honour or pleasure in’t to my fancy.”“Uve, uve! sore foolish speech, Maister Spears,” said a voice from the heap of dead bodies. “Great pleasures and high honours in troth, sure, sure.”“Captain MacErchar!” cried Sang. “Run, Roger, and yield him relief.”Squire Riddel hastened to the assistance of MacErchar, and drew forth his great body from the place it had occupied in the bottom of the fortification, where the skilful architect had, with much judgment, made use of him as a substantial foundation. His history had been something similar to that of Rory Spears, and he had not suffered less from wounds. He was brought forward and placed on a bank beside Rory, and a portion of Squire Sang’s life-inspiring bottle was given to him with the happiest effect.“Hech me,” cried Spears, looking round with great compassion on his companion in glory and misfortune—“hech me, Captain MacErchar, wha sould hae thought that thou wert sae near? Had we but kenn’d we mought hae had a crack thegither,[470]albeit hardly sae cosy as in Mrs.MacCleareye’s. Troth, I was sair weary and lonesome wi’ lying, and even the converse o’ the sagaciousome brute there was a comfort to me. This is but ane evil way o’ weeting a squireship. We sould hae done it in ane ither gate, I rauckon, had the English chields but defaured a wee. But I trust that neither have you disgraced your captaincy nor I my squireship. I saw you fighting like a very incarnate deevil, ay, and sending the Southrons back frae the rampyre like raquet ba’s frae a wa’, though it may be premeesed that nane o’ them ever stotted again.”“Ouch ay, troth ay,” replied MacErchar, “it was a bonnie tuilzie, Maister Spears. She did her pairts both—both, both. Ou ay; it was a great pleasures, in troth, to see her chap the chields on the crown.”“Poor Oscar, poor man,” said Rory, patting his dog’s head as he put his nose towards his face to claim his share of his master’s attention; “troth, I maun say that thou didst do me a good turn this blessed night. I was just thinking as I lay here that as I must now bear the proper armorial device of ane esquire, I sould take the effigy of ane allounde couchant beside his master sejant, with this motto, ‘Fair fa’ the snout that pu’d me out.’ ”“How couldst thou think of such things, my dear father, whilst thou didst lie in plight so pitiful!” cried Katherine Spears.“Troth, I had naething else to think o’, ye silly maiden, but that or hunger,” said Rory; “and that last, I’ll promise thee, was a sair sharp thought. And, by St. Lowry, it doth sore sting me at this precious moment.”“Uve, uve! sore hungry—sore hungry,” cried MacErchar.“Nay, then, let us hasten to carry both of them to camp without further let,” cried Sang.“Come, bestir ye, varlets,” said he to a crowd of camp-followers who were standing near; “lend us your aid.”“Nay,” said Katherine, “my father must be carried to Otterbourne Castle.”“Otterbourne Castle!” cried Rory; “what mean ye, silly quean?”Katherine bent over him, and put her mouth to his ear to whisper him.“Ay—aweel—poor thing!—very right—an it maun be sae, it just maun,” said he, after hearing what she had to say. “Aweel, Maister Sang, ye maun just tell the Yearl that as I can be o’ nae mair service in fighting at this present time, I[471]may as weel gae till the Castle o’ Otterbourne as ony ither gate to be leeched, mair especially as it is my belief that kitchen physic will be the best physic for me. Tell him that I’m gaun there wi’ my dochter Kate till a friend of his, and that he sall ken a’ about it afterhend.”Rory was accordingly carried straight to Otterbourne Castle, whither the gallant Mortimer Sang accompanied Katherine. Their parting at the gate was tender—but he could wring nothing from her that could elucidate the mystery of her present conduct.
CHAPTER LXI.The Field of Otterbourne after the Fight.
The Field of Otterbourne after the Fight.
The Field of Otterbourne after the Fight.
After Sir Patrick Hepborne had assisted to perform the last sad duties to the remains of Robert Lindsay and Ralpho Proudfoot, his attention was caught by the appearance of a solitary cluster of lights on the distant part of the field, where the slaughter of the English had been greatest. Curiosity led him to approach, when he perceived that they were borne by a party who followed a bier, that was slowly carried in the direction of Otterbourne Castle. Advancing to a point which they must necessarily pass, he saw, as the procession drew nearer, that the bier was supported by some English spearmen, and that it was followed by a group of women.Hepborne’s attention was particularly attracted by a lady in the midst of them, who walked with her head veiled in the folds of her mantle, and seemed to be deeply affected by that grief in which the others only sympathised. She took her mantle from her head, and threw her eyes upwards as if in inward ejaculation. Sir Patrick started, for he beheld that very countenance the charms of which, though seen but by glimpses at Norham, had made too deep an impression upon his heart ever to be forgotten; but now they seemed to be more than ever familiar to him, as he was disposed to believe, from their frequent presence to the eye of his imagination. He gazed in silent rapture. The strong resemblance between his page Maurice de Grey and the lady now struck him the more powerfully, that he had a full opportunity of perusing every trait; he was confounded; the mantle dropped over the alabaster forehead, and the countenance was again shrouded from his eyes. The procession moved on, and he followed, almost doubting whether it was not composed of phantoms, until it approached the gate of the Castle of Otterbourne, where the captain of the place, attended by his garrison, appeared to receive it. Still Hepborne had difficulty in convincing himself that the whole was not a waking vision—a belief warranted by the superstition of his country. It slowly entered the gateway. The lady in[466]whom he felt so deep an interest was about to disappear. He could bear suspense no longer.“Lady Eleanore de Selby—Lady de Vere,” cried he, in a frantic voice.The lady started at the sound of it, threw back the mantle from her head, and cast her eyes around in strong agitation, until they glanced on Hepborne’s face, when she uttered a faint scream, and fell back senseless into the arms of her attendants, who crowded around her, and hastily bore her within the gateway of the Castle, the defences of which being immediately closed, she was shut from his straining sight.Hepborne stood for some time in a state of stupefaction ere he could muster sufficient self-command to return to his tent. The abrupt termination of the scene, which still remained fresh on his mind, almost convinced him of the accuracy of his conjecture as to its having been some strange supernatural appearance he had beheld. He slowly found his way to his friends, his soul vexed by a thousand contending conjectures and perplexities, which he found it impossible to satisfy or reconcile.Meanwhile Mortimer Sang, who had been earnestly searching for the body of Rory Spears, of whose death he had begun to entertain great apprehensions, was surprised by the appearance of a damsel, whom he saw bearing a torch and bitterly weeping.“Holy St. Andrew!” exclaimed he; “Katherine Spears, can it be thee in very body—or is it thy wraith I behold? Speak, if thou be’st flesh and blood—for the love of the Holy Virgin, speak.”“Oh, dear Master Sang,” cried Katherine, running to him and proving by the gripe that she took of his arm, that she was indeed something corporeal, “the blessed St. Mary be praised that I have met with thee; thank Heaven, thou art safe at least. But, oh, tell me, tell me, hast thou seen aught of my dear father? Hath he ’scaped this dreadful field of death?”“Thy father, I trust, is well,” replied Sang, much perplexed; “but how, in the name of all that is wonderful, didst thou come here?”“I came with an English lady, who is now at the Castle of Otterbourne,” replied Katherine evasively. “But, oh, tell me, tell me, I entreat thee,” said the poor girl, earnestly seizing his hand, “tell me, hast thou seen my father sith the fight was over?”“He hath not appeared since the battle,” said Sang in a half-choked voice, and with considerable hesitation; “but we trust[467]he may be prisoner with the English, for as yet we have searched for him in vain among the slain scattered over the field. Yes,” continued he, in a firmer and more assured tone, as he observed the alarm that was taking possession of her; “yes, he hath not been found—and as he hath not been found, dear Katherine, it is clear that he must be a prisoner—so—and—and so thou wilt soon see him again; for as there must be a truce, the few prisoners ta’en by the English must speedily be sent home again.”“Nay, but do they seek him still, Sir Squire?” cried Katherine, but little satisfied with this attempt of Sang’s to soothe her apprehension.“Alas, I must seek for him.”“Nay, this is no scene for thee, dear Katherine,” replied Sang; “return I pray thee to the Castle, and I will search, and thou shalt quickly know all.”“Try not to hinder me, Sir Squire,” replied Katherine; “I will go seek for my father. I have already seen enow of those grim and ghastly faces not to fear in such a cause.”“Then shall I go with thee, Katherine,” cried Sang, seeing her determination. “Here, lean upon mine arm.”When they came into the thickest part of the field of slaughter, Katherine shuddered and shrank as they moved aside, from time to time, to shun the heaps of slain. Sang looked everywhere for his comrade Roger Riddel, and at last happily met him; but, alas! Riddel could give no intelligence of him they sought for. By this time they had approached the abattis of dead bodies which had been so hastily piled up for defence against the expected attack of the Bishop of Durham.“Come not this way, Katherine,” cried Sang; “this rampart of the dead is horrible.”Katherine’s heart was faint within her at the sight; she stopped and turned away, when, just at that moment, her ear caught the whining of a dog at a little distance.“That voice was Oscar’s,” cried she eagerly. “Oh, let us hasten, my father may be there.”They followed her steps with the lights, and there she beheld her father lying on the ground, grievously wounded, and half dead with want and loss of blood. Luckily for him, poor Oscar had been accidentally let out at the time that Sang and Riddel went forth to search among the slain, and having sought more industriously for his master than all the rest, he had discovered the unhappy Rory Spears built into the wall of the dead. Rory had fallen before the tremendous charge made by the English, when they burst through the line of entrenchment,[468]where he had fought like a lion himself, and inspired a something more than human courage into those around him. Having lost his basinet, he had received a severe cut on the head, besides many other wounds, which affected him not. But the thrust of a lance through his thigh was that which brought him to the ground; after which, he was nearly trampled to death by the rush of English foot and horsemen that poured over him. During the time that had passed since he was laid low, he had fainted repeatedly, and had been for hours insensible to his sufferings. Whilst lying in one of his mimic fits of death, he had been taken up by some of those who were employed in heaping the slain into a rampart, and who, having little leisure for minute examination, had made use of him as part of its materials. Fortunately his head was placed outwards, so that when he recovered he was enabled to breathe, and consequently was saved from suffocation. Oscar had no sooner found him than, seizing the neck of his haqueton with his teeth, he pulled him gently out upon the plain.“My father, my dear father!” cried Katherine Spears, running to support him, and much affected by the sight of his wan visage, the paleness of which, together with his sunken eye, showed more ghastly from the blood that had run down in such profusion from his wound, that the very colour of his beard was changed, and the hairs of it matted together by it.“What dost thou here, Kate?” demanded Rory, in a firmer voice than his appearance would have authorized the bystanders to have expected from him; “sure this be no place for a silly maiden like thee.”“Oh, father, father,” cried Katherine, embracing him, and doing her best to assist Sang in raising him up by the shoulders; “the holy Virgin be praised that thou art yet alive.”“Alive!” answered Rory; “troth, I’m weel aware that I’m leevin, for albeit that the agony o’ my head wad gi’e me peace enow to let me believe that I had really depairted in real yearnest, the very hunger that ruggeth so cruelly at my inside wad be enew to keep me in mind that I was still belonging to this warld. For the sake o’ the gude Saint Lawrence, Maister Sang, gar ane o’ them chields rin and see gif Mrs.Margaret MacCleareye can gi’e me a bit o’ cauld mutton or sike like, and a wee soup yill. Tell the woman I’ll pay her for the score o’ yestreen and a’ thegither. But, aboon a’ thing, see that they mak haste, or I’ll die ere they come back. What sould I hae done an it hadna been for the gude wife’s wee bit supper afore we fell to!”[469]Sang immediately despatched one of the camp followers who was standing by, and who quickly returned with the melancholy intelligence that Mrs.MacCleareye’s frail hut had been levelled with the earth by the press—that her provender had been scattered and pillaged—that her ale barrels had been rolled away and emptied—and that she herself had also disappeared.“Hech me,” cried Rory, altogether forgetful of his own craving stomach; “poor woman, I’m sorry for her loss; aboon a’, it erketh me sair that I paid her not her dues yestreen. But, an a’ live, she or her heirs shall hae it, as I’m a true esquire. But, och, I’m faunt!”“Take some of this, Master Spears,” cried Mortimer Sang, holding a leathern bottle to Rory’s mouth, and pouring a few drops of a cordial into it.“Oich, Maister Sang, that is reveeving!” said Rory. “A wee drap mair, for the love o’ St. Lowry. Mercy me! Weel, it’s an evil thing after a’ to be killed in battle (as I may be allowed to judge, I rauckon, wha has been half killed), was it no for the glory that is to be gotten by it. But to be cut down and then travelled ower like a mercat-causey, and then to be biggit up like a lump o’ whinstane intil a dyke—ay, and that, too, for the intent o’ haudin out the yenemy, and saving the craven carcages o’ ither fouk, and a’ to keep the dastard sauls in chields that ane is far frae liking as weel as ane’s sell—troth, there’s onything but honour or pleasure in’t to my fancy.”“Uve, uve! sore foolish speech, Maister Spears,” said a voice from the heap of dead bodies. “Great pleasures and high honours in troth, sure, sure.”“Captain MacErchar!” cried Sang. “Run, Roger, and yield him relief.”Squire Riddel hastened to the assistance of MacErchar, and drew forth his great body from the place it had occupied in the bottom of the fortification, where the skilful architect had, with much judgment, made use of him as a substantial foundation. His history had been something similar to that of Rory Spears, and he had not suffered less from wounds. He was brought forward and placed on a bank beside Rory, and a portion of Squire Sang’s life-inspiring bottle was given to him with the happiest effect.“Hech me,” cried Spears, looking round with great compassion on his companion in glory and misfortune—“hech me, Captain MacErchar, wha sould hae thought that thou wert sae near? Had we but kenn’d we mought hae had a crack thegither,[470]albeit hardly sae cosy as in Mrs.MacCleareye’s. Troth, I was sair weary and lonesome wi’ lying, and even the converse o’ the sagaciousome brute there was a comfort to me. This is but ane evil way o’ weeting a squireship. We sould hae done it in ane ither gate, I rauckon, had the English chields but defaured a wee. But I trust that neither have you disgraced your captaincy nor I my squireship. I saw you fighting like a very incarnate deevil, ay, and sending the Southrons back frae the rampyre like raquet ba’s frae a wa’, though it may be premeesed that nane o’ them ever stotted again.”“Ouch ay, troth ay,” replied MacErchar, “it was a bonnie tuilzie, Maister Spears. She did her pairts both—both, both. Ou ay; it was a great pleasures, in troth, to see her chap the chields on the crown.”“Poor Oscar, poor man,” said Rory, patting his dog’s head as he put his nose towards his face to claim his share of his master’s attention; “troth, I maun say that thou didst do me a good turn this blessed night. I was just thinking as I lay here that as I must now bear the proper armorial device of ane esquire, I sould take the effigy of ane allounde couchant beside his master sejant, with this motto, ‘Fair fa’ the snout that pu’d me out.’ ”“How couldst thou think of such things, my dear father, whilst thou didst lie in plight so pitiful!” cried Katherine Spears.“Troth, I had naething else to think o’, ye silly maiden, but that or hunger,” said Rory; “and that last, I’ll promise thee, was a sair sharp thought. And, by St. Lowry, it doth sore sting me at this precious moment.”“Uve, uve! sore hungry—sore hungry,” cried MacErchar.“Nay, then, let us hasten to carry both of them to camp without further let,” cried Sang.“Come, bestir ye, varlets,” said he to a crowd of camp-followers who were standing near; “lend us your aid.”“Nay,” said Katherine, “my father must be carried to Otterbourne Castle.”“Otterbourne Castle!” cried Rory; “what mean ye, silly quean?”Katherine bent over him, and put her mouth to his ear to whisper him.“Ay—aweel—poor thing!—very right—an it maun be sae, it just maun,” said he, after hearing what she had to say. “Aweel, Maister Sang, ye maun just tell the Yearl that as I can be o’ nae mair service in fighting at this present time, I[471]may as weel gae till the Castle o’ Otterbourne as ony ither gate to be leeched, mair especially as it is my belief that kitchen physic will be the best physic for me. Tell him that I’m gaun there wi’ my dochter Kate till a friend of his, and that he sall ken a’ about it afterhend.”Rory was accordingly carried straight to Otterbourne Castle, whither the gallant Mortimer Sang accompanied Katherine. Their parting at the gate was tender—but he could wring nothing from her that could elucidate the mystery of her present conduct.
After Sir Patrick Hepborne had assisted to perform the last sad duties to the remains of Robert Lindsay and Ralpho Proudfoot, his attention was caught by the appearance of a solitary cluster of lights on the distant part of the field, where the slaughter of the English had been greatest. Curiosity led him to approach, when he perceived that they were borne by a party who followed a bier, that was slowly carried in the direction of Otterbourne Castle. Advancing to a point which they must necessarily pass, he saw, as the procession drew nearer, that the bier was supported by some English spearmen, and that it was followed by a group of women.
Hepborne’s attention was particularly attracted by a lady in the midst of them, who walked with her head veiled in the folds of her mantle, and seemed to be deeply affected by that grief in which the others only sympathised. She took her mantle from her head, and threw her eyes upwards as if in inward ejaculation. Sir Patrick started, for he beheld that very countenance the charms of which, though seen but by glimpses at Norham, had made too deep an impression upon his heart ever to be forgotten; but now they seemed to be more than ever familiar to him, as he was disposed to believe, from their frequent presence to the eye of his imagination. He gazed in silent rapture. The strong resemblance between his page Maurice de Grey and the lady now struck him the more powerfully, that he had a full opportunity of perusing every trait; he was confounded; the mantle dropped over the alabaster forehead, and the countenance was again shrouded from his eyes. The procession moved on, and he followed, almost doubting whether it was not composed of phantoms, until it approached the gate of the Castle of Otterbourne, where the captain of the place, attended by his garrison, appeared to receive it. Still Hepborne had difficulty in convincing himself that the whole was not a waking vision—a belief warranted by the superstition of his country. It slowly entered the gateway. The lady in[466]whom he felt so deep an interest was about to disappear. He could bear suspense no longer.
“Lady Eleanore de Selby—Lady de Vere,” cried he, in a frantic voice.
The lady started at the sound of it, threw back the mantle from her head, and cast her eyes around in strong agitation, until they glanced on Hepborne’s face, when she uttered a faint scream, and fell back senseless into the arms of her attendants, who crowded around her, and hastily bore her within the gateway of the Castle, the defences of which being immediately closed, she was shut from his straining sight.
Hepborne stood for some time in a state of stupefaction ere he could muster sufficient self-command to return to his tent. The abrupt termination of the scene, which still remained fresh on his mind, almost convinced him of the accuracy of his conjecture as to its having been some strange supernatural appearance he had beheld. He slowly found his way to his friends, his soul vexed by a thousand contending conjectures and perplexities, which he found it impossible to satisfy or reconcile.
Meanwhile Mortimer Sang, who had been earnestly searching for the body of Rory Spears, of whose death he had begun to entertain great apprehensions, was surprised by the appearance of a damsel, whom he saw bearing a torch and bitterly weeping.
“Holy St. Andrew!” exclaimed he; “Katherine Spears, can it be thee in very body—or is it thy wraith I behold? Speak, if thou be’st flesh and blood—for the love of the Holy Virgin, speak.”
“Oh, dear Master Sang,” cried Katherine, running to him and proving by the gripe that she took of his arm, that she was indeed something corporeal, “the blessed St. Mary be praised that I have met with thee; thank Heaven, thou art safe at least. But, oh, tell me, tell me, hast thou seen aught of my dear father? Hath he ’scaped this dreadful field of death?”
“Thy father, I trust, is well,” replied Sang, much perplexed; “but how, in the name of all that is wonderful, didst thou come here?”
“I came with an English lady, who is now at the Castle of Otterbourne,” replied Katherine evasively. “But, oh, tell me, tell me, I entreat thee,” said the poor girl, earnestly seizing his hand, “tell me, hast thou seen my father sith the fight was over?”
“He hath not appeared since the battle,” said Sang in a half-choked voice, and with considerable hesitation; “but we trust[467]he may be prisoner with the English, for as yet we have searched for him in vain among the slain scattered over the field. Yes,” continued he, in a firmer and more assured tone, as he observed the alarm that was taking possession of her; “yes, he hath not been found—and as he hath not been found, dear Katherine, it is clear that he must be a prisoner—so—and—and so thou wilt soon see him again; for as there must be a truce, the few prisoners ta’en by the English must speedily be sent home again.”
“Nay, but do they seek him still, Sir Squire?” cried Katherine, but little satisfied with this attempt of Sang’s to soothe her apprehension.“Alas, I must seek for him.”
“Nay, this is no scene for thee, dear Katherine,” replied Sang; “return I pray thee to the Castle, and I will search, and thou shalt quickly know all.”
“Try not to hinder me, Sir Squire,” replied Katherine; “I will go seek for my father. I have already seen enow of those grim and ghastly faces not to fear in such a cause.”
“Then shall I go with thee, Katherine,” cried Sang, seeing her determination. “Here, lean upon mine arm.”
When they came into the thickest part of the field of slaughter, Katherine shuddered and shrank as they moved aside, from time to time, to shun the heaps of slain. Sang looked everywhere for his comrade Roger Riddel, and at last happily met him; but, alas! Riddel could give no intelligence of him they sought for. By this time they had approached the abattis of dead bodies which had been so hastily piled up for defence against the expected attack of the Bishop of Durham.
“Come not this way, Katherine,” cried Sang; “this rampart of the dead is horrible.”
Katherine’s heart was faint within her at the sight; she stopped and turned away, when, just at that moment, her ear caught the whining of a dog at a little distance.
“That voice was Oscar’s,” cried she eagerly. “Oh, let us hasten, my father may be there.”
They followed her steps with the lights, and there she beheld her father lying on the ground, grievously wounded, and half dead with want and loss of blood. Luckily for him, poor Oscar had been accidentally let out at the time that Sang and Riddel went forth to search among the slain, and having sought more industriously for his master than all the rest, he had discovered the unhappy Rory Spears built into the wall of the dead. Rory had fallen before the tremendous charge made by the English, when they burst through the line of entrenchment,[468]where he had fought like a lion himself, and inspired a something more than human courage into those around him. Having lost his basinet, he had received a severe cut on the head, besides many other wounds, which affected him not. But the thrust of a lance through his thigh was that which brought him to the ground; after which, he was nearly trampled to death by the rush of English foot and horsemen that poured over him. During the time that had passed since he was laid low, he had fainted repeatedly, and had been for hours insensible to his sufferings. Whilst lying in one of his mimic fits of death, he had been taken up by some of those who were employed in heaping the slain into a rampart, and who, having little leisure for minute examination, had made use of him as part of its materials. Fortunately his head was placed outwards, so that when he recovered he was enabled to breathe, and consequently was saved from suffocation. Oscar had no sooner found him than, seizing the neck of his haqueton with his teeth, he pulled him gently out upon the plain.
“My father, my dear father!” cried Katherine Spears, running to support him, and much affected by the sight of his wan visage, the paleness of which, together with his sunken eye, showed more ghastly from the blood that had run down in such profusion from his wound, that the very colour of his beard was changed, and the hairs of it matted together by it.
“What dost thou here, Kate?” demanded Rory, in a firmer voice than his appearance would have authorized the bystanders to have expected from him; “sure this be no place for a silly maiden like thee.”
“Oh, father, father,” cried Katherine, embracing him, and doing her best to assist Sang in raising him up by the shoulders; “the holy Virgin be praised that thou art yet alive.”
“Alive!” answered Rory; “troth, I’m weel aware that I’m leevin, for albeit that the agony o’ my head wad gi’e me peace enow to let me believe that I had really depairted in real yearnest, the very hunger that ruggeth so cruelly at my inside wad be enew to keep me in mind that I was still belonging to this warld. For the sake o’ the gude Saint Lawrence, Maister Sang, gar ane o’ them chields rin and see gif Mrs.Margaret MacCleareye can gi’e me a bit o’ cauld mutton or sike like, and a wee soup yill. Tell the woman I’ll pay her for the score o’ yestreen and a’ thegither. But, aboon a’ thing, see that they mak haste, or I’ll die ere they come back. What sould I hae done an it hadna been for the gude wife’s wee bit supper afore we fell to!”[469]
Sang immediately despatched one of the camp followers who was standing by, and who quickly returned with the melancholy intelligence that Mrs.MacCleareye’s frail hut had been levelled with the earth by the press—that her provender had been scattered and pillaged—that her ale barrels had been rolled away and emptied—and that she herself had also disappeared.
“Hech me,” cried Rory, altogether forgetful of his own craving stomach; “poor woman, I’m sorry for her loss; aboon a’, it erketh me sair that I paid her not her dues yestreen. But, an a’ live, she or her heirs shall hae it, as I’m a true esquire. But, och, I’m faunt!”
“Take some of this, Master Spears,” cried Mortimer Sang, holding a leathern bottle to Rory’s mouth, and pouring a few drops of a cordial into it.
“Oich, Maister Sang, that is reveeving!” said Rory. “A wee drap mair, for the love o’ St. Lowry. Mercy me! Weel, it’s an evil thing after a’ to be killed in battle (as I may be allowed to judge, I rauckon, wha has been half killed), was it no for the glory that is to be gotten by it. But to be cut down and then travelled ower like a mercat-causey, and then to be biggit up like a lump o’ whinstane intil a dyke—ay, and that, too, for the intent o’ haudin out the yenemy, and saving the craven carcages o’ ither fouk, and a’ to keep the dastard sauls in chields that ane is far frae liking as weel as ane’s sell—troth, there’s onything but honour or pleasure in’t to my fancy.”
“Uve, uve! sore foolish speech, Maister Spears,” said a voice from the heap of dead bodies. “Great pleasures and high honours in troth, sure, sure.”
“Captain MacErchar!” cried Sang. “Run, Roger, and yield him relief.”
Squire Riddel hastened to the assistance of MacErchar, and drew forth his great body from the place it had occupied in the bottom of the fortification, where the skilful architect had, with much judgment, made use of him as a substantial foundation. His history had been something similar to that of Rory Spears, and he had not suffered less from wounds. He was brought forward and placed on a bank beside Rory, and a portion of Squire Sang’s life-inspiring bottle was given to him with the happiest effect.
“Hech me,” cried Spears, looking round with great compassion on his companion in glory and misfortune—“hech me, Captain MacErchar, wha sould hae thought that thou wert sae near? Had we but kenn’d we mought hae had a crack thegither,[470]albeit hardly sae cosy as in Mrs.MacCleareye’s. Troth, I was sair weary and lonesome wi’ lying, and even the converse o’ the sagaciousome brute there was a comfort to me. This is but ane evil way o’ weeting a squireship. We sould hae done it in ane ither gate, I rauckon, had the English chields but defaured a wee. But I trust that neither have you disgraced your captaincy nor I my squireship. I saw you fighting like a very incarnate deevil, ay, and sending the Southrons back frae the rampyre like raquet ba’s frae a wa’, though it may be premeesed that nane o’ them ever stotted again.”
“Ouch ay, troth ay,” replied MacErchar, “it was a bonnie tuilzie, Maister Spears. She did her pairts both—both, both. Ou ay; it was a great pleasures, in troth, to see her chap the chields on the crown.”
“Poor Oscar, poor man,” said Rory, patting his dog’s head as he put his nose towards his face to claim his share of his master’s attention; “troth, I maun say that thou didst do me a good turn this blessed night. I was just thinking as I lay here that as I must now bear the proper armorial device of ane esquire, I sould take the effigy of ane allounde couchant beside his master sejant, with this motto, ‘Fair fa’ the snout that pu’d me out.’ ”
“How couldst thou think of such things, my dear father, whilst thou didst lie in plight so pitiful!” cried Katherine Spears.
“Troth, I had naething else to think o’, ye silly maiden, but that or hunger,” said Rory; “and that last, I’ll promise thee, was a sair sharp thought. And, by St. Lowry, it doth sore sting me at this precious moment.”
“Uve, uve! sore hungry—sore hungry,” cried MacErchar.
“Nay, then, let us hasten to carry both of them to camp without further let,” cried Sang.
“Come, bestir ye, varlets,” said he to a crowd of camp-followers who were standing near; “lend us your aid.”
“Nay,” said Katherine, “my father must be carried to Otterbourne Castle.”
“Otterbourne Castle!” cried Rory; “what mean ye, silly quean?”
Katherine bent over him, and put her mouth to his ear to whisper him.
“Ay—aweel—poor thing!—very right—an it maun be sae, it just maun,” said he, after hearing what she had to say. “Aweel, Maister Sang, ye maun just tell the Yearl that as I can be o’ nae mair service in fighting at this present time, I[471]may as weel gae till the Castle o’ Otterbourne as ony ither gate to be leeched, mair especially as it is my belief that kitchen physic will be the best physic for me. Tell him that I’m gaun there wi’ my dochter Kate till a friend of his, and that he sall ken a’ about it afterhend.”
Rory was accordingly carried straight to Otterbourne Castle, whither the gallant Mortimer Sang accompanied Katherine. Their parting at the gate was tender—but he could wring nothing from her that could elucidate the mystery of her present conduct.