[Contents]CHAPTER LXIX.Changes at the Castle of Lochyndorbe—The Wolfe tamed—Alarm for the Lady Beatrice.The scene within that fortress was materially changed since our last visit to it. The boys, Walter and James Stewart, were laid in beds from which there was but small hope of their ever rising. Sir Alexander Stewart also lay in a very dangerous and distressing state, with a shattered arm and a bruised body, resulting from the heap of heavy stones which had been thrown down[556]upon him from the wall of Spynie; and the hitherto hardy and impregnable mind and body of the Wolfe of Badenoch himself, yielding before the storm of calamity that had so suddenly assailed him, had sunk into a state of torpor, and he was now confined to a sick bed by a low, yet rapidly consuming fever. In so short a time as two days his gigantic strength was reduced to the weakness of a child. His impatience of temper had not been entirely conquered by the disease, but its effects were sufficiently moderated by his prostration, to render him no longer a terror to any one; and this feeling was heightened in all around him, by the conviction that his malady was of a nature so fatal that his existence must soon be terminated.The Lady Mariota was one of the first who became aware of this, and she prudently regulated her conduct accordingly. Yes, she for whose illicit love he had sacrificed so much—she who had ever affected so devoted an attachment to him—she who was the mother of his five boys—she on whose account he had so resolutely braved so many tempests, and who had been the original cause of the very feud with the Bishop of Moray which had led to the commission of excesses so outrageous, and now produced so much fatal affliction—she it was who, now beginning to show herself in her true character, sorrowed not for him, but as her own importance and high estate must inevitably sink in his deathbed. Even her grief for her lost sons, and her anxiety for those whom she feared to lose, arose more from the thought that in them perished so many supporters and protectors who might yet have enabled her to hold her head proudly, than from any of that warm and perfectly unselfish feeling, which, if it anywhere exists, must be found to throb in the bosom of a mother. Instead of flying in distraction from couch to couch, administering all that imagination could think of, to heal, to support, or to soothe, she wisely remembered that, in her situation, time was precious; and, accordingly, she employed every minute of it in rummaging through the secret repositories of many a curious antique cabinet, and in making up many a neat and portable package, to be carried off the moment that the soul of the Wolfe of Badenoch should quit his body. Nor were her active thoughts bestowed on things inanimate, or within doors only; her tender care soared even beyond the Castle walls and the Loch that encircled them; and by means of a chosen few of her own servants whom she had managed to secure by large bribes to her especial interest, the surrounding country was raised, and the cattle and sheep that fed in the lawndes of the forests for many a mile round, were seen pouring in large bodies towards[557]the land-sconce, to be ready to accompany her, and to unite their lowings and bleatings to her wailings, when she should be compelled to take her sad departure from Lochyndorbe.Nor was the knowledge of this base ingratitude spared to the dying man. She had not visited him for the greater part of the day. He called, but the hirelings, who were wont to fly to him ere the words had well passed his lips, were now glad to keep out of his sight, and each abandoning to the rest the unwelcome task of waiting on him, he was left altogether without help. He was parched with a thirst which he felt persuaded the Loch itself would have hardly quenched; and in the disturbed state of his nerves he was haunted with the eternal torture of the idea of its waves murmuring gently and invitingly around him. It was night. A light step entered his room cautiously, and the rays of a lamp were seen. He entreated for a cup of water, but no answer was returned to his request. At length his impatience gave him a momentary command over his muscles, and throwing down the bed-clothes, he sprang on his knees, and opened wide the curtains that shaded the lower end of his bed. By the light of the lamp he beheld the Lady Mariota occupied in searching through his private cabinet, whence she had already taken many a valuable, the table being covered with rich chains of gold, and sparkling gems of every variety of water and colour, set in massive rings, buckles, brooches, collars, and head-circlets; and so intently was she busied that she heard not his motion.“Ha, wretch,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, in a hollow and sepulchral voice of wasted disease; “the curse of my spirit upon thee, what dost thou there?”The Lady Mariota gave him not time to add more, for, looking fearfully round, she beheld the gaunt visage of the Wolfe of Badenoch, with his eyes glaring fiercely upon her; and believing that he had already died, and that it was indeed his spirit which cursed her, she uttered a loud scream, and rushed in terror from the apartment. The Wolfe, exhausted by the unnatural exertion he had made, sank backwards in his bed, and lay for some time motionless and unable to speak.“Oh, for a cup of water,” moaned the miserable man at length, the excruciating torture of his thirst banishing even that which his mind had experienced in beholding so unequivocal a proof of the Lady Mariota’s selfish and unfeeling heart; “oh, will no one bring me a cup of water? And hath it then come so soon to this, that I, the son of a King, am left to suffer this foretaste of hell’s torments, and no one hand to help me? Oh,[558]water, water, water, for mercy’s sake! Alas! Heaven’s curse hath indeed fallen upon me. My dead and dying sons cannot help me; and Mariota—ha! fiends, fiends! Ay, there is bitterness—venom—black poison. Was it for this,” said he, casting his eyes towards the glittering jewels on the distant table; “was it for a heart so worthless that I did so brave the curse of the Church? Was it for such a viper that I did incur my father’s anger? Was it for a poisoned-puffed spider like this that I did do deeds that made men’s hair bristle on their heads, and their very eyes grow dim? Did I bear her fiercely up before a chiding world, that she might turn and sting me at an hour like this? Ha! punishment, dread punishment was indeed promised me; but I looked not that it should come from her whom I did so long love and cherish—from her for whom I have sacrificed peace in this life, and oh, worse than all, mercy in that to which I am hastening.” He shuddered at the thoughts which now crowded on his mind, and buried his head for some moments under the bed-clothes.It now approached midnight, and the solitary lamp left by the Lady Mariota was still burning, when his ear caught a rustling noise.“Ha, Mariota, art there again?” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, impatiently lifting up his head.He looked, and through the drapery of the bed, that still remained wide open, he beheld the Franciscan standing before him.“Ha, what! merciful St. Andrew,” cried the Wolfe; “ha, is it thou, fiend, from whom hath sprung all mine affliction? Devil or monk, thou shalt die in my grasp.” He made a desperate effort to rise, and repeated it again and again; but he sank down nerveless, his breast heaving with agitation, and his eyes starting wildly from their sockets. “Speak, demon, what further vengeance dost thou come to execute on this devoted head? Speak, for what fiendish torment canst thou invent that shall more excruciate the body than racking and unsatisfied thirst? or what that shall tear the soul more cruelly than the barbed arrows of ingratitude? Hence, then, to thy native hell, and leave me to mine.”“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the Franciscan, “I do come to thee as no tormenting fiend. The seal of death doth seem to be set on thy forehead; thou art fast sinking into his fleshless arms. The damps of the grave do gather on thy brow. ’Tis not for mortal man as I am, to push vengeance at such an hour. When thou wert in thy full[559]strength and power I did boldly face thy wickedness; but now thou art feeble and drivelling as the child that was born yesterday, or as the helpless crone over whose worn head and wasted brain an hundred winters have rolled, I come not to denounce aught of punishment against thee; for already hast thou enow here, and thou wilt soon be plunged for endless ages in that burning sea to which it were bootless for me to add one drop of anguish. Forgetting all thy cruelty against myself, I do come to thee as the hand of Mercy to the drowning wretch. I come to offer myself as the leech of thy soul as well as of thy body; and, as an offering of peace, and a pledge of my sincerity, behold thy beloved son!”The Franciscan threw aside the folds of his habit, with which he had hitherto concealed something, and he held up the smiling boy, Duncan Stewart.“Mock me not, foul fiend,” cried the frantic father, believing that what he saw was a phantom; “hence, and disturb not my brain.”“Again I repeat, I am no fiend,” said the Franciscan mildly. “I come to tell thee that repentance may yet ensure thee salvation in the next world; nay, even life in this; yea, and life also to thy sons; and as a gracious earnest of God’s infinite mercy, behold, I here restore thee thy best beloved boy, the Benjamin of thy heart, whose life mine hand did save from that raging fire thyself did so impiously kindle.”The Wolfe of Badenoch devoured the very words of the Franciscan as he spake. He gazed wildly on him and on his boy alternately, as if he yet doubted the reality of the scene; and it was not until the little Duncan’s joyous laugh rang in his ears, and he felt the boy’s arms fondly entwining his neck, that he became satisfied of the truth of what he heard and saw. He was no longer the iron-framed and stern-souled Wolfe of Badenoch; his body was weak and his mind shaken, and he sank backwards in the bed, giving way to an hysterical laugh.“Oh, my boy, my boy,” cried he at length, smothering the youth with his caresses; “my beloved Duncan, what can I do for so great a mercy! What—what—but—Oh, mercy, one cup of water, in mercy!—I burn—my tongue cleaveth—Oh, water, water, in mercy!”The Franciscan hastened to give him water; and the thirsty wretch snatched the cup of life from the hand of him whom his unbridled rage had so wantonly consigned to the cruellest of deaths.[560]“More, more,” cried the impatient Wolfe of Badenoch; “mine entrails do crack with the scorching heat within me.”“Drink this, then,” said the Franciscan, taking a phial from his bosom, and pouring part of its contents into the cup; “drink this, and thou shalt have water.”“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, darting a glance of suspicion towards the monk. “Yet why should I hesitate?” continued he, as his eyes fell upon Duncan. “He who hath restored my son, can have little wish to hasten the end of a dying wretch.”“And he who might have used the dagger against thee,” said the Franciscan calmly, “would never have thought of giving thee a death so tedious as that of poison. Drink; there is health in the cup.”The Wolfe hesitated no longer.“Now water, oh, water, in mercy!” cried he again, after he had swallowed the drug.“Thy thirst must be moderately ministered unto for a time,” said the Franciscan; “yet shalt thou have one cup more,” and he poured one for him accordingly.“Why art thou thus alone, father,” demanded the boy Duncan; “why is not my mother here? she who doth ever so caress and soothe thee, if that the pulses of thy temples do but throb unreasonably. I’ll go and fetch her hither straightway.”“Fetch her not hither, Duncan, if thou wouldst not have me curse her,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, dashing away the half-consumed cup of water, in defiance of his thirst “Oh, that I might yet be myself again, were it but for a day, that I might deal justice upon her. Then, indeed, should I die contented.”“Hush,” said the Franciscan; “such is not the temper that doth best befit a dying man; yea, and one, too, who hath so much for the which to ask forgiveness. It doth more behove thee to think of thine own sins than of those of others. If it may so please Heaven, I shall be the leech of thy body; but it were well that thou didst suffer me to give blessed medicine to thy diseased soul, for thy life or thy death hangeth in the Almighty hand, and no one can tell how soon thou mayest be called to thy great account. Say, dost thou repent thee of all the evil thou hast wrought against the Holy Church and her sacred ministers?”“I do, I do; most bitterly do I repent me,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, grinding his teeth ferociously, and with an expression of countenance very different from that becoming an humble penitent. “I do repent me, I say, in gall and bitterness; for verily she for whom I did these deeds——”[561]“Nay, talk not of her,” said the Franciscan, interrupting him; “mix not up thine angry passions with thine abasement before thine offended Maker. Repent thee of thy sins—make instant reparation to the Church from the abundance of thy wealth—resolve to put away all thine abominations from thee—and, finally, make a solemn vow, that, if it should please Heaven to restore thee to health, thou wilt do such penance as it may seem fitting for the injured Bishop of Moray to impose upon thee—do these things, and all may yet be well with thee. If thou art willing to vow solemnly to do these things, if Heaven in its mercy shall yet spare thee, verily I will receive and be witness to thy serment; and I do beseech thee to speak quickly, for I would fain leave thee to that healing repose, for the which my medicine hath prepared thee, that I may go to give healthful balsams to thy three sons, that they may yet be snatched from an early grave.”“Yea, most merciful and beneficent monk,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, “thou whom I did believe to be a fiend, but whom I do now find to be saint upon earth, most gladly do I yield me to thee. I here most solemnly vow to the Virgin and the Holy Trinity, that I do heartily repent me of mine outrages against the Holy Church of God and His holy ministers; that I am ready to make what reparation I may; and that, if it so please Heaven to rescue me from the jaws of death, I shall do penance in such wise as to the Bishop and the King, my father, may seem best.”“Be thy vow registered in Heaven,” said the Franciscan, solemnly crossing himself. “And now, with the blessing of St. Francis, thou shalt soon be in a state for fulfilling it. But let me entreat thee to yield thyself to that repose, the which the healing draught thou hast taken must speedily ensure to thee; when thou dost again awake, thy consuming fever will have left thee, and in two or three days at most thou mayest be again in thy saddle. Let me now hasten to help thy sons.”The boy Duncan Stewart had already paved the way for the Franciscan’s favourable reception with his brothers, who gladly submitted themselves to his directions, and he speedily administered to their respective cases. The domestics now began to be re-assured of the probable recovery of the invalids, and they already quaked for the returning wrath of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The Lady Mariota, sat trembling in her apartment. The Franciscan, who had formerly disappeared so miraculously, and who now re-appeared so strangely among them, was eyed with[562]fear by every one within the Castle, and his orders were obeyed as implicitly and as promptly as the Wolfe himself, so that he lacked for nothing that his patient required. Having done all for them that art could effect, he had time to think of the Lady Beatrice, whom he believed to be an inmate of the Castle, seeing he had no doubt that Sir Andrew Stewart must have brought her thither. But he found, on inquiry, that the knight had not appeared. He was vexed at the disappointment, but taking it for granted that her protector had carried her to some other fastness belonging to his father, he felt no uneasiness, trusting that he should soon have tidings of her.Dismissing all thoughts of the Lady Beatrice, therefore, from his mind, he devoted himself eagerly to the restoration of the sick, being filled with the idea of the signal service he was about to perform to the Church, the extent of which would much depend on the recovery of those who now lay in so precarious a state, that they might appear before the world as living instances of penitence. For two days, then, he was indefatigable in his attentions; and the effect of his care and skill was, that the Wolfe of Badenoch’s cure was rapid. His disease had been chiefly caused by sudden affliction, operating on an impatient temper, and a conscience ill at ease. The Franciscan’s words, therefore, had happily combined with his medicines to produce an almost miraculous effect; and, ere the time promised by the monk was expired, he appeared in the great hall, haggard and disease-worn indeed, but perfectly ready to fill his saddle. The recovery of his sons, though there was now little to be feared for them, promised to be more tedious; and it was well for the peace of the Castle of Lochyndorbe that it was so, for they might have made some objections to the decided step which their father took the moment he again showed himself.“Ha, villains,” cried he as he came stalking through the opening crowd of domestics that shrunk from him on either hand—“so the Earl of Buchan, the son of a King, mought have died for all ye cared. Ha! whither did ye all hide, knaves, that I was nearly perishing of thirst, and no one to give me a cup of water? But ’tis no marvel that ye should have forgotten your master when—Ha! Bruce—send Bruce, the old esquire, hither. What mighty lowing of cattle, and bleating of sheep, is that I do hear?”The domestics looked at each other, but no one dared to speak. The impatient Wolfe hurried up a little turret-stair, from the top of which he had a view over the outer walls of the Castle, and the narrow strait that divided that from the mainland.[563]There he beheld the whole of the flocks and herds which the Lady Mariota had so prudently collected together, and which her trepidation had made her forget to order to be driven again to their native hills and forests. He wanted no further information, for the truth flashed on him at once. His eye reddened, his cheek grew paler than even the disease had left it, his lip quivered, and he rushed precipitately down to the hall.“Where, in the fiend’s name, is Bruce?” cried he. “Ha! thou art there, old man. Get thee quickly together some dozen or twain of mounted spears, with palfreys for the Lady Mariota and her women, and sumpter-horses needful for the carriage of their raiment; and let her know that it is my will she do forthwith depart hence with thee for my Castle of Cocklecraig, the which is to be her future place of sojournance.”The esquire bowed obediently, and hastened to execute the command of his impatient Lord. In a little time a page appeared, with an humble message from the Lady Mariota, to know whether the Earl was to accompany her into Buchan.“Tell her no,” replied the Wolfe, turning round on the frightened page, and speaking with a voice that shook the Gothic hall, which he was rapidly measuring backwards and forward with his paces.Again a woman came to him from the Lady Mariota, most submissively entreating for an interview.“Nay, the red fiend catch me then!” cried the furious Wolfe, his eyes flashing fire; “I do already know too much of her baseness, ever to trust myself with a sight of her again. ’Twere better, for her sake, that she urge me not to see her. Ha! tell her I have sworn by my knighthood that the threads that hath bound my heart to her worthlessness shall be for ever snapped. Let not the poisonous toad cross my path, lest I crush her in mine ire, and give to my conscience another sin to be repented of.—Away!”The Wolfe again paced the hall, very much moved. The neighing of horses and the noise of preparation were heard in the court-yard; the warder’s call for the boats sounded across the lake; and a wailing of women’s voices soon afterwards succeeded. The Wolfe paced the hall with a yet more rapid step; he became much moved, and hid his face from the Franciscan, who was the only witness of his agitation. But at last it became too strong to be concealed, and he rushed up the turret-stair, whence he had before looked out towards the land-sconce. He remained absent for a considerable time; and when he returned,[564]his face was deeply marked with the traces of the strong contending emotions he had undergone.“How doth thy leech-craft prosper, good Sir Friar?” demanded he at length, evidently from no other desire than to talk away his present feelings, seeing that he had already put the same question more than half-a-dozen times before.“I do trust that, under God, thy sons will yet be well,” replied the Franciscan. “But be not impatient, my Lord; their cure must be the work of time. Meanwhile, be thankful to a merciful Providence, who doth thus restore to thee all those of whom thou didst fear thou wert bereft.”“All!” cried the Wolfe, shuddering, “nay, not all; all but Andrew, and he did perish horribly in the flames of the Maison Dieu, whither I did myself enforce him. Heaven in its mercy pardon me!”“Andrew!” cried the Franciscan, with surprise; “trust me, my Lord, Sir Andrew Stewart is safe.”“Safe!” cried the Wolfe, clasping his hands together in an ecstacy—“then thanks be to a merciful God, who hath saved me from the torturing thought of having been the cause of working my son’s death. But where, I pray thee, was he seen?” demanded the Wolfe eagerly.“He was seen in the Chapel of the Maison Dieu with a lady, whom he did thereafter lead through the garden of the Hospital,” replied the Franciscan.“What, the Lady Beatrice!” demanded the Wolfe; “for that is all the name I did ever know her to bear as a woman, albeit I do well recollect her masculine appellation of Maurice de Grey.”“The same,” replied the Franciscan.“Then hath Andrew preserved her life,” replied the Wolfe. “By the beard of my grandfather, but I do greatly rejoice to hear it. There is still some virtue in the caitiff after all. My efforts to save the lady were vain; I did even gain her chamber, but I found her gone; from which I was compelled with grief to believe that she had surely perished. But whither hath my son Andrew conveyed her?”“Nay, that I have not yet discovered,” replied the Franciscan; “but Sir Andrew Stewart saved not the Lady Beatrice from the flames. One of the sisters of the Hospital did teach her how to escape; and as they crossed the Chapel together, Sir Andrew Stewart, who had fled thither for safety——”“Ah, coward,” cried the Wolfe; “so, after all, he was the craven kestrel. By my beard, I thought as much. And so[565]thou sayest that thou art yet ignorant where the Lady Beatrice hath been bestowed.”“Nay, my good Lord,” replied the Franciscan; “but with a knight of his good report she is sure of protection, and——”“What sayest thou?—good report, sayest thou?” interrupted the Wolfe. “Though he be a brauncher from mine own nest, yet must I, in honesty, tell thee, Sir Friar, that a greater hypocrite presseth not the surface of the earth. Protection, saidst thou? By St. Barnabas, but she hath already hath enow of his protection.”“What dost thou mean, my Lord?” replied the monk, in astonishment.“Why, by my knighthood, but I am ashamed to speak so of mine own son,” replied the Wolfe; “yet am I bound to treat thee with candour, and so thou shalt e’en have it.” And he proceeded to give the monk a short history of the infamous treachery of Sir Andrew Stewart towards the Lady Beatrice.“My Lord of Buchan,” cried the Franciscan, with an agitation and earnestness of manner which the Wolfe of Badenoch could by no means explain, “if I have found favour with thee, lend me thine aid, I entreat thee, to recover the Lady Beatrice from thy son. She is destined to take the veil, and in giving me thine aid to reclaim her thou wilt be doing a pious duty, the which will assuredly tell for the good of thy soul, yea, and help to balance the heavy charge of thine iniquities.”“Right joyfully shall I give thee mine aid,” replied the Wolfe of Badenoch; “the more that she was the lady of the gallant Sir Patrick Hepborne, with whom she was here, in the disguise of a page. Ha, ha, ha, ha! But wherefore doth she now take the veil?”“’Tis fitting that she doth atone for a youth of sin by a life of penitence,” replied the Friar, unwilling to speak more plainly.“So,” said the Wolfe of Badenoch, with a significant look, “after all her modest pretence, and after all Sir Patrick’s cunning dissembling, ’twas as I did suspect then, after all?”“Thou didst suspect, then?” said the Friar; “alas! I do fear with too much reason. Yet let us not tarry, but hasten to recover her, I pray thee.”“Squires, there—what, ho, within!” cried the Wolfe, “hath no one as yet heard aught of Sir Andrew Stewart?”“No one, my noble Earl,” replied an esquire who waited.“By the holy mass, then,” said the Wolfe, “but the caitiff hath taken refuge in some of my strongholds. But ’twill be[566]hard an we ferret him not out. Ha! knaves there, let fifty mounted lances be ready in the lawnde beyond the land-sconce ere I can wind my bugle.”The Wolfe of Badenoch was restored to all his pristine vigour by the very thought of going on an expedition, even though it was against his own son. The court-yard rang with the bustle the Castle was thrown into, and all the boats were put in requisition to ferry the horses across. Everything was ready for them to mount at the land-sconce in an incredibly short space of time; but, however short the delay, still it was too much for his impatience; nor was his companion less restless than the Wolfe, till he found himself in saddle. When all were mounted, the monk showed, by his forward riding, that there was little risk of his being a drag upon the speed of the furious-pricking knight, and the Wolfe of Badenoch exulted to behold his horsemanship.“By the mass,” cried he, pulling up a little, “but thou art a prince of friars; ’tis a pleasure, I vow, to have a stalwarth monk like thee as a confessor; wouldst thou be mine, thou shouldst ever ride at my elbow. Where hadst thou thy schooling, Sir Friar?”“I have rode in the lists ere now,” replied the Franciscan; “yea, and war have I seen in all its fashions. But it doth now befit me to forget these vain carnal contentions, and to fight against mine own evil passions, the which are harder to subdue than any living foe. And in this let me be an ensample to thee, my Lord, for verily the time is but short sith that I was as violent and tempestuous as thyself; and hard it is even yet for me, frail man as I am, to keep down the raging devil that is within me. May the blessed Virgin increase our virtuous resolution!” said he, crossing himself.To this pious ejaculation the Wolfe added a hearty “Amen;” and they again pushed on at the same rapid pace at which they had originally started.
[Contents]CHAPTER LXIX.Changes at the Castle of Lochyndorbe—The Wolfe tamed—Alarm for the Lady Beatrice.The scene within that fortress was materially changed since our last visit to it. The boys, Walter and James Stewart, were laid in beds from which there was but small hope of their ever rising. Sir Alexander Stewart also lay in a very dangerous and distressing state, with a shattered arm and a bruised body, resulting from the heap of heavy stones which had been thrown down[556]upon him from the wall of Spynie; and the hitherto hardy and impregnable mind and body of the Wolfe of Badenoch himself, yielding before the storm of calamity that had so suddenly assailed him, had sunk into a state of torpor, and he was now confined to a sick bed by a low, yet rapidly consuming fever. In so short a time as two days his gigantic strength was reduced to the weakness of a child. His impatience of temper had not been entirely conquered by the disease, but its effects were sufficiently moderated by his prostration, to render him no longer a terror to any one; and this feeling was heightened in all around him, by the conviction that his malady was of a nature so fatal that his existence must soon be terminated.The Lady Mariota was one of the first who became aware of this, and she prudently regulated her conduct accordingly. Yes, she for whose illicit love he had sacrificed so much—she who had ever affected so devoted an attachment to him—she who was the mother of his five boys—she on whose account he had so resolutely braved so many tempests, and who had been the original cause of the very feud with the Bishop of Moray which had led to the commission of excesses so outrageous, and now produced so much fatal affliction—she it was who, now beginning to show herself in her true character, sorrowed not for him, but as her own importance and high estate must inevitably sink in his deathbed. Even her grief for her lost sons, and her anxiety for those whom she feared to lose, arose more from the thought that in them perished so many supporters and protectors who might yet have enabled her to hold her head proudly, than from any of that warm and perfectly unselfish feeling, which, if it anywhere exists, must be found to throb in the bosom of a mother. Instead of flying in distraction from couch to couch, administering all that imagination could think of, to heal, to support, or to soothe, she wisely remembered that, in her situation, time was precious; and, accordingly, she employed every minute of it in rummaging through the secret repositories of many a curious antique cabinet, and in making up many a neat and portable package, to be carried off the moment that the soul of the Wolfe of Badenoch should quit his body. Nor were her active thoughts bestowed on things inanimate, or within doors only; her tender care soared even beyond the Castle walls and the Loch that encircled them; and by means of a chosen few of her own servants whom she had managed to secure by large bribes to her especial interest, the surrounding country was raised, and the cattle and sheep that fed in the lawndes of the forests for many a mile round, were seen pouring in large bodies towards[557]the land-sconce, to be ready to accompany her, and to unite their lowings and bleatings to her wailings, when she should be compelled to take her sad departure from Lochyndorbe.Nor was the knowledge of this base ingratitude spared to the dying man. She had not visited him for the greater part of the day. He called, but the hirelings, who were wont to fly to him ere the words had well passed his lips, were now glad to keep out of his sight, and each abandoning to the rest the unwelcome task of waiting on him, he was left altogether without help. He was parched with a thirst which he felt persuaded the Loch itself would have hardly quenched; and in the disturbed state of his nerves he was haunted with the eternal torture of the idea of its waves murmuring gently and invitingly around him. It was night. A light step entered his room cautiously, and the rays of a lamp were seen. He entreated for a cup of water, but no answer was returned to his request. At length his impatience gave him a momentary command over his muscles, and throwing down the bed-clothes, he sprang on his knees, and opened wide the curtains that shaded the lower end of his bed. By the light of the lamp he beheld the Lady Mariota occupied in searching through his private cabinet, whence she had already taken many a valuable, the table being covered with rich chains of gold, and sparkling gems of every variety of water and colour, set in massive rings, buckles, brooches, collars, and head-circlets; and so intently was she busied that she heard not his motion.“Ha, wretch,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, in a hollow and sepulchral voice of wasted disease; “the curse of my spirit upon thee, what dost thou there?”The Lady Mariota gave him not time to add more, for, looking fearfully round, she beheld the gaunt visage of the Wolfe of Badenoch, with his eyes glaring fiercely upon her; and believing that he had already died, and that it was indeed his spirit which cursed her, she uttered a loud scream, and rushed in terror from the apartment. The Wolfe, exhausted by the unnatural exertion he had made, sank backwards in his bed, and lay for some time motionless and unable to speak.“Oh, for a cup of water,” moaned the miserable man at length, the excruciating torture of his thirst banishing even that which his mind had experienced in beholding so unequivocal a proof of the Lady Mariota’s selfish and unfeeling heart; “oh, will no one bring me a cup of water? And hath it then come so soon to this, that I, the son of a King, am left to suffer this foretaste of hell’s torments, and no one hand to help me? Oh,[558]water, water, water, for mercy’s sake! Alas! Heaven’s curse hath indeed fallen upon me. My dead and dying sons cannot help me; and Mariota—ha! fiends, fiends! Ay, there is bitterness—venom—black poison. Was it for this,” said he, casting his eyes towards the glittering jewels on the distant table; “was it for a heart so worthless that I did so brave the curse of the Church? Was it for such a viper that I did incur my father’s anger? Was it for a poisoned-puffed spider like this that I did do deeds that made men’s hair bristle on their heads, and their very eyes grow dim? Did I bear her fiercely up before a chiding world, that she might turn and sting me at an hour like this? Ha! punishment, dread punishment was indeed promised me; but I looked not that it should come from her whom I did so long love and cherish—from her for whom I have sacrificed peace in this life, and oh, worse than all, mercy in that to which I am hastening.” He shuddered at the thoughts which now crowded on his mind, and buried his head for some moments under the bed-clothes.It now approached midnight, and the solitary lamp left by the Lady Mariota was still burning, when his ear caught a rustling noise.“Ha, Mariota, art there again?” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, impatiently lifting up his head.He looked, and through the drapery of the bed, that still remained wide open, he beheld the Franciscan standing before him.“Ha, what! merciful St. Andrew,” cried the Wolfe; “ha, is it thou, fiend, from whom hath sprung all mine affliction? Devil or monk, thou shalt die in my grasp.” He made a desperate effort to rise, and repeated it again and again; but he sank down nerveless, his breast heaving with agitation, and his eyes starting wildly from their sockets. “Speak, demon, what further vengeance dost thou come to execute on this devoted head? Speak, for what fiendish torment canst thou invent that shall more excruciate the body than racking and unsatisfied thirst? or what that shall tear the soul more cruelly than the barbed arrows of ingratitude? Hence, then, to thy native hell, and leave me to mine.”“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the Franciscan, “I do come to thee as no tormenting fiend. The seal of death doth seem to be set on thy forehead; thou art fast sinking into his fleshless arms. The damps of the grave do gather on thy brow. ’Tis not for mortal man as I am, to push vengeance at such an hour. When thou wert in thy full[559]strength and power I did boldly face thy wickedness; but now thou art feeble and drivelling as the child that was born yesterday, or as the helpless crone over whose worn head and wasted brain an hundred winters have rolled, I come not to denounce aught of punishment against thee; for already hast thou enow here, and thou wilt soon be plunged for endless ages in that burning sea to which it were bootless for me to add one drop of anguish. Forgetting all thy cruelty against myself, I do come to thee as the hand of Mercy to the drowning wretch. I come to offer myself as the leech of thy soul as well as of thy body; and, as an offering of peace, and a pledge of my sincerity, behold thy beloved son!”The Franciscan threw aside the folds of his habit, with which he had hitherto concealed something, and he held up the smiling boy, Duncan Stewart.“Mock me not, foul fiend,” cried the frantic father, believing that what he saw was a phantom; “hence, and disturb not my brain.”“Again I repeat, I am no fiend,” said the Franciscan mildly. “I come to tell thee that repentance may yet ensure thee salvation in the next world; nay, even life in this; yea, and life also to thy sons; and as a gracious earnest of God’s infinite mercy, behold, I here restore thee thy best beloved boy, the Benjamin of thy heart, whose life mine hand did save from that raging fire thyself did so impiously kindle.”The Wolfe of Badenoch devoured the very words of the Franciscan as he spake. He gazed wildly on him and on his boy alternately, as if he yet doubted the reality of the scene; and it was not until the little Duncan’s joyous laugh rang in his ears, and he felt the boy’s arms fondly entwining his neck, that he became satisfied of the truth of what he heard and saw. He was no longer the iron-framed and stern-souled Wolfe of Badenoch; his body was weak and his mind shaken, and he sank backwards in the bed, giving way to an hysterical laugh.“Oh, my boy, my boy,” cried he at length, smothering the youth with his caresses; “my beloved Duncan, what can I do for so great a mercy! What—what—but—Oh, mercy, one cup of water, in mercy!—I burn—my tongue cleaveth—Oh, water, water, in mercy!”The Franciscan hastened to give him water; and the thirsty wretch snatched the cup of life from the hand of him whom his unbridled rage had so wantonly consigned to the cruellest of deaths.[560]“More, more,” cried the impatient Wolfe of Badenoch; “mine entrails do crack with the scorching heat within me.”“Drink this, then,” said the Franciscan, taking a phial from his bosom, and pouring part of its contents into the cup; “drink this, and thou shalt have water.”“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, darting a glance of suspicion towards the monk. “Yet why should I hesitate?” continued he, as his eyes fell upon Duncan. “He who hath restored my son, can have little wish to hasten the end of a dying wretch.”“And he who might have used the dagger against thee,” said the Franciscan calmly, “would never have thought of giving thee a death so tedious as that of poison. Drink; there is health in the cup.”The Wolfe hesitated no longer.“Now water, oh, water, in mercy!” cried he again, after he had swallowed the drug.“Thy thirst must be moderately ministered unto for a time,” said the Franciscan; “yet shalt thou have one cup more,” and he poured one for him accordingly.“Why art thou thus alone, father,” demanded the boy Duncan; “why is not my mother here? she who doth ever so caress and soothe thee, if that the pulses of thy temples do but throb unreasonably. I’ll go and fetch her hither straightway.”“Fetch her not hither, Duncan, if thou wouldst not have me curse her,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, dashing away the half-consumed cup of water, in defiance of his thirst “Oh, that I might yet be myself again, were it but for a day, that I might deal justice upon her. Then, indeed, should I die contented.”“Hush,” said the Franciscan; “such is not the temper that doth best befit a dying man; yea, and one, too, who hath so much for the which to ask forgiveness. It doth more behove thee to think of thine own sins than of those of others. If it may so please Heaven, I shall be the leech of thy body; but it were well that thou didst suffer me to give blessed medicine to thy diseased soul, for thy life or thy death hangeth in the Almighty hand, and no one can tell how soon thou mayest be called to thy great account. Say, dost thou repent thee of all the evil thou hast wrought against the Holy Church and her sacred ministers?”“I do, I do; most bitterly do I repent me,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, grinding his teeth ferociously, and with an expression of countenance very different from that becoming an humble penitent. “I do repent me, I say, in gall and bitterness; for verily she for whom I did these deeds——”[561]“Nay, talk not of her,” said the Franciscan, interrupting him; “mix not up thine angry passions with thine abasement before thine offended Maker. Repent thee of thy sins—make instant reparation to the Church from the abundance of thy wealth—resolve to put away all thine abominations from thee—and, finally, make a solemn vow, that, if it should please Heaven to restore thee to health, thou wilt do such penance as it may seem fitting for the injured Bishop of Moray to impose upon thee—do these things, and all may yet be well with thee. If thou art willing to vow solemnly to do these things, if Heaven in its mercy shall yet spare thee, verily I will receive and be witness to thy serment; and I do beseech thee to speak quickly, for I would fain leave thee to that healing repose, for the which my medicine hath prepared thee, that I may go to give healthful balsams to thy three sons, that they may yet be snatched from an early grave.”“Yea, most merciful and beneficent monk,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, “thou whom I did believe to be a fiend, but whom I do now find to be saint upon earth, most gladly do I yield me to thee. I here most solemnly vow to the Virgin and the Holy Trinity, that I do heartily repent me of mine outrages against the Holy Church of God and His holy ministers; that I am ready to make what reparation I may; and that, if it so please Heaven to rescue me from the jaws of death, I shall do penance in such wise as to the Bishop and the King, my father, may seem best.”“Be thy vow registered in Heaven,” said the Franciscan, solemnly crossing himself. “And now, with the blessing of St. Francis, thou shalt soon be in a state for fulfilling it. But let me entreat thee to yield thyself to that repose, the which the healing draught thou hast taken must speedily ensure to thee; when thou dost again awake, thy consuming fever will have left thee, and in two or three days at most thou mayest be again in thy saddle. Let me now hasten to help thy sons.”The boy Duncan Stewart had already paved the way for the Franciscan’s favourable reception with his brothers, who gladly submitted themselves to his directions, and he speedily administered to their respective cases. The domestics now began to be re-assured of the probable recovery of the invalids, and they already quaked for the returning wrath of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The Lady Mariota, sat trembling in her apartment. The Franciscan, who had formerly disappeared so miraculously, and who now re-appeared so strangely among them, was eyed with[562]fear by every one within the Castle, and his orders were obeyed as implicitly and as promptly as the Wolfe himself, so that he lacked for nothing that his patient required. Having done all for them that art could effect, he had time to think of the Lady Beatrice, whom he believed to be an inmate of the Castle, seeing he had no doubt that Sir Andrew Stewart must have brought her thither. But he found, on inquiry, that the knight had not appeared. He was vexed at the disappointment, but taking it for granted that her protector had carried her to some other fastness belonging to his father, he felt no uneasiness, trusting that he should soon have tidings of her.Dismissing all thoughts of the Lady Beatrice, therefore, from his mind, he devoted himself eagerly to the restoration of the sick, being filled with the idea of the signal service he was about to perform to the Church, the extent of which would much depend on the recovery of those who now lay in so precarious a state, that they might appear before the world as living instances of penitence. For two days, then, he was indefatigable in his attentions; and the effect of his care and skill was, that the Wolfe of Badenoch’s cure was rapid. His disease had been chiefly caused by sudden affliction, operating on an impatient temper, and a conscience ill at ease. The Franciscan’s words, therefore, had happily combined with his medicines to produce an almost miraculous effect; and, ere the time promised by the monk was expired, he appeared in the great hall, haggard and disease-worn indeed, but perfectly ready to fill his saddle. The recovery of his sons, though there was now little to be feared for them, promised to be more tedious; and it was well for the peace of the Castle of Lochyndorbe that it was so, for they might have made some objections to the decided step which their father took the moment he again showed himself.“Ha, villains,” cried he as he came stalking through the opening crowd of domestics that shrunk from him on either hand—“so the Earl of Buchan, the son of a King, mought have died for all ye cared. Ha! whither did ye all hide, knaves, that I was nearly perishing of thirst, and no one to give me a cup of water? But ’tis no marvel that ye should have forgotten your master when—Ha! Bruce—send Bruce, the old esquire, hither. What mighty lowing of cattle, and bleating of sheep, is that I do hear?”The domestics looked at each other, but no one dared to speak. The impatient Wolfe hurried up a little turret-stair, from the top of which he had a view over the outer walls of the Castle, and the narrow strait that divided that from the mainland.[563]There he beheld the whole of the flocks and herds which the Lady Mariota had so prudently collected together, and which her trepidation had made her forget to order to be driven again to their native hills and forests. He wanted no further information, for the truth flashed on him at once. His eye reddened, his cheek grew paler than even the disease had left it, his lip quivered, and he rushed precipitately down to the hall.“Where, in the fiend’s name, is Bruce?” cried he. “Ha! thou art there, old man. Get thee quickly together some dozen or twain of mounted spears, with palfreys for the Lady Mariota and her women, and sumpter-horses needful for the carriage of their raiment; and let her know that it is my will she do forthwith depart hence with thee for my Castle of Cocklecraig, the which is to be her future place of sojournance.”The esquire bowed obediently, and hastened to execute the command of his impatient Lord. In a little time a page appeared, with an humble message from the Lady Mariota, to know whether the Earl was to accompany her into Buchan.“Tell her no,” replied the Wolfe, turning round on the frightened page, and speaking with a voice that shook the Gothic hall, which he was rapidly measuring backwards and forward with his paces.Again a woman came to him from the Lady Mariota, most submissively entreating for an interview.“Nay, the red fiend catch me then!” cried the furious Wolfe, his eyes flashing fire; “I do already know too much of her baseness, ever to trust myself with a sight of her again. ’Twere better, for her sake, that she urge me not to see her. Ha! tell her I have sworn by my knighthood that the threads that hath bound my heart to her worthlessness shall be for ever snapped. Let not the poisonous toad cross my path, lest I crush her in mine ire, and give to my conscience another sin to be repented of.—Away!”The Wolfe again paced the hall, very much moved. The neighing of horses and the noise of preparation were heard in the court-yard; the warder’s call for the boats sounded across the lake; and a wailing of women’s voices soon afterwards succeeded. The Wolfe paced the hall with a yet more rapid step; he became much moved, and hid his face from the Franciscan, who was the only witness of his agitation. But at last it became too strong to be concealed, and he rushed up the turret-stair, whence he had before looked out towards the land-sconce. He remained absent for a considerable time; and when he returned,[564]his face was deeply marked with the traces of the strong contending emotions he had undergone.“How doth thy leech-craft prosper, good Sir Friar?” demanded he at length, evidently from no other desire than to talk away his present feelings, seeing that he had already put the same question more than half-a-dozen times before.“I do trust that, under God, thy sons will yet be well,” replied the Franciscan. “But be not impatient, my Lord; their cure must be the work of time. Meanwhile, be thankful to a merciful Providence, who doth thus restore to thee all those of whom thou didst fear thou wert bereft.”“All!” cried the Wolfe, shuddering, “nay, not all; all but Andrew, and he did perish horribly in the flames of the Maison Dieu, whither I did myself enforce him. Heaven in its mercy pardon me!”“Andrew!” cried the Franciscan, with surprise; “trust me, my Lord, Sir Andrew Stewart is safe.”“Safe!” cried the Wolfe, clasping his hands together in an ecstacy—“then thanks be to a merciful God, who hath saved me from the torturing thought of having been the cause of working my son’s death. But where, I pray thee, was he seen?” demanded the Wolfe eagerly.“He was seen in the Chapel of the Maison Dieu with a lady, whom he did thereafter lead through the garden of the Hospital,” replied the Franciscan.“What, the Lady Beatrice!” demanded the Wolfe; “for that is all the name I did ever know her to bear as a woman, albeit I do well recollect her masculine appellation of Maurice de Grey.”“The same,” replied the Franciscan.“Then hath Andrew preserved her life,” replied the Wolfe. “By the beard of my grandfather, but I do greatly rejoice to hear it. There is still some virtue in the caitiff after all. My efforts to save the lady were vain; I did even gain her chamber, but I found her gone; from which I was compelled with grief to believe that she had surely perished. But whither hath my son Andrew conveyed her?”“Nay, that I have not yet discovered,” replied the Franciscan; “but Sir Andrew Stewart saved not the Lady Beatrice from the flames. One of the sisters of the Hospital did teach her how to escape; and as they crossed the Chapel together, Sir Andrew Stewart, who had fled thither for safety——”“Ah, coward,” cried the Wolfe; “so, after all, he was the craven kestrel. By my beard, I thought as much. And so[565]thou sayest that thou art yet ignorant where the Lady Beatrice hath been bestowed.”“Nay, my good Lord,” replied the Franciscan; “but with a knight of his good report she is sure of protection, and——”“What sayest thou?—good report, sayest thou?” interrupted the Wolfe. “Though he be a brauncher from mine own nest, yet must I, in honesty, tell thee, Sir Friar, that a greater hypocrite presseth not the surface of the earth. Protection, saidst thou? By St. Barnabas, but she hath already hath enow of his protection.”“What dost thou mean, my Lord?” replied the monk, in astonishment.“Why, by my knighthood, but I am ashamed to speak so of mine own son,” replied the Wolfe; “yet am I bound to treat thee with candour, and so thou shalt e’en have it.” And he proceeded to give the monk a short history of the infamous treachery of Sir Andrew Stewart towards the Lady Beatrice.“My Lord of Buchan,” cried the Franciscan, with an agitation and earnestness of manner which the Wolfe of Badenoch could by no means explain, “if I have found favour with thee, lend me thine aid, I entreat thee, to recover the Lady Beatrice from thy son. She is destined to take the veil, and in giving me thine aid to reclaim her thou wilt be doing a pious duty, the which will assuredly tell for the good of thy soul, yea, and help to balance the heavy charge of thine iniquities.”“Right joyfully shall I give thee mine aid,” replied the Wolfe of Badenoch; “the more that she was the lady of the gallant Sir Patrick Hepborne, with whom she was here, in the disguise of a page. Ha, ha, ha, ha! But wherefore doth she now take the veil?”“’Tis fitting that she doth atone for a youth of sin by a life of penitence,” replied the Friar, unwilling to speak more plainly.“So,” said the Wolfe of Badenoch, with a significant look, “after all her modest pretence, and after all Sir Patrick’s cunning dissembling, ’twas as I did suspect then, after all?”“Thou didst suspect, then?” said the Friar; “alas! I do fear with too much reason. Yet let us not tarry, but hasten to recover her, I pray thee.”“Squires, there—what, ho, within!” cried the Wolfe, “hath no one as yet heard aught of Sir Andrew Stewart?”“No one, my noble Earl,” replied an esquire who waited.“By the holy mass, then,” said the Wolfe, “but the caitiff hath taken refuge in some of my strongholds. But ’twill be[566]hard an we ferret him not out. Ha! knaves there, let fifty mounted lances be ready in the lawnde beyond the land-sconce ere I can wind my bugle.”The Wolfe of Badenoch was restored to all his pristine vigour by the very thought of going on an expedition, even though it was against his own son. The court-yard rang with the bustle the Castle was thrown into, and all the boats were put in requisition to ferry the horses across. Everything was ready for them to mount at the land-sconce in an incredibly short space of time; but, however short the delay, still it was too much for his impatience; nor was his companion less restless than the Wolfe, till he found himself in saddle. When all were mounted, the monk showed, by his forward riding, that there was little risk of his being a drag upon the speed of the furious-pricking knight, and the Wolfe of Badenoch exulted to behold his horsemanship.“By the mass,” cried he, pulling up a little, “but thou art a prince of friars; ’tis a pleasure, I vow, to have a stalwarth monk like thee as a confessor; wouldst thou be mine, thou shouldst ever ride at my elbow. Where hadst thou thy schooling, Sir Friar?”“I have rode in the lists ere now,” replied the Franciscan; “yea, and war have I seen in all its fashions. But it doth now befit me to forget these vain carnal contentions, and to fight against mine own evil passions, the which are harder to subdue than any living foe. And in this let me be an ensample to thee, my Lord, for verily the time is but short sith that I was as violent and tempestuous as thyself; and hard it is even yet for me, frail man as I am, to keep down the raging devil that is within me. May the blessed Virgin increase our virtuous resolution!” said he, crossing himself.To this pious ejaculation the Wolfe added a hearty “Amen;” and they again pushed on at the same rapid pace at which they had originally started.
CHAPTER LXIX.Changes at the Castle of Lochyndorbe—The Wolfe tamed—Alarm for the Lady Beatrice.
Changes at the Castle of Lochyndorbe—The Wolfe tamed—Alarm for the Lady Beatrice.
Changes at the Castle of Lochyndorbe—The Wolfe tamed—Alarm for the Lady Beatrice.
The scene within that fortress was materially changed since our last visit to it. The boys, Walter and James Stewart, were laid in beds from which there was but small hope of their ever rising. Sir Alexander Stewart also lay in a very dangerous and distressing state, with a shattered arm and a bruised body, resulting from the heap of heavy stones which had been thrown down[556]upon him from the wall of Spynie; and the hitherto hardy and impregnable mind and body of the Wolfe of Badenoch himself, yielding before the storm of calamity that had so suddenly assailed him, had sunk into a state of torpor, and he was now confined to a sick bed by a low, yet rapidly consuming fever. In so short a time as two days his gigantic strength was reduced to the weakness of a child. His impatience of temper had not been entirely conquered by the disease, but its effects were sufficiently moderated by his prostration, to render him no longer a terror to any one; and this feeling was heightened in all around him, by the conviction that his malady was of a nature so fatal that his existence must soon be terminated.The Lady Mariota was one of the first who became aware of this, and she prudently regulated her conduct accordingly. Yes, she for whose illicit love he had sacrificed so much—she who had ever affected so devoted an attachment to him—she who was the mother of his five boys—she on whose account he had so resolutely braved so many tempests, and who had been the original cause of the very feud with the Bishop of Moray which had led to the commission of excesses so outrageous, and now produced so much fatal affliction—she it was who, now beginning to show herself in her true character, sorrowed not for him, but as her own importance and high estate must inevitably sink in his deathbed. Even her grief for her lost sons, and her anxiety for those whom she feared to lose, arose more from the thought that in them perished so many supporters and protectors who might yet have enabled her to hold her head proudly, than from any of that warm and perfectly unselfish feeling, which, if it anywhere exists, must be found to throb in the bosom of a mother. Instead of flying in distraction from couch to couch, administering all that imagination could think of, to heal, to support, or to soothe, she wisely remembered that, in her situation, time was precious; and, accordingly, she employed every minute of it in rummaging through the secret repositories of many a curious antique cabinet, and in making up many a neat and portable package, to be carried off the moment that the soul of the Wolfe of Badenoch should quit his body. Nor were her active thoughts bestowed on things inanimate, or within doors only; her tender care soared even beyond the Castle walls and the Loch that encircled them; and by means of a chosen few of her own servants whom she had managed to secure by large bribes to her especial interest, the surrounding country was raised, and the cattle and sheep that fed in the lawndes of the forests for many a mile round, were seen pouring in large bodies towards[557]the land-sconce, to be ready to accompany her, and to unite their lowings and bleatings to her wailings, when she should be compelled to take her sad departure from Lochyndorbe.Nor was the knowledge of this base ingratitude spared to the dying man. She had not visited him for the greater part of the day. He called, but the hirelings, who were wont to fly to him ere the words had well passed his lips, were now glad to keep out of his sight, and each abandoning to the rest the unwelcome task of waiting on him, he was left altogether without help. He was parched with a thirst which he felt persuaded the Loch itself would have hardly quenched; and in the disturbed state of his nerves he was haunted with the eternal torture of the idea of its waves murmuring gently and invitingly around him. It was night. A light step entered his room cautiously, and the rays of a lamp were seen. He entreated for a cup of water, but no answer was returned to his request. At length his impatience gave him a momentary command over his muscles, and throwing down the bed-clothes, he sprang on his knees, and opened wide the curtains that shaded the lower end of his bed. By the light of the lamp he beheld the Lady Mariota occupied in searching through his private cabinet, whence she had already taken many a valuable, the table being covered with rich chains of gold, and sparkling gems of every variety of water and colour, set in massive rings, buckles, brooches, collars, and head-circlets; and so intently was she busied that she heard not his motion.“Ha, wretch,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, in a hollow and sepulchral voice of wasted disease; “the curse of my spirit upon thee, what dost thou there?”The Lady Mariota gave him not time to add more, for, looking fearfully round, she beheld the gaunt visage of the Wolfe of Badenoch, with his eyes glaring fiercely upon her; and believing that he had already died, and that it was indeed his spirit which cursed her, she uttered a loud scream, and rushed in terror from the apartment. The Wolfe, exhausted by the unnatural exertion he had made, sank backwards in his bed, and lay for some time motionless and unable to speak.“Oh, for a cup of water,” moaned the miserable man at length, the excruciating torture of his thirst banishing even that which his mind had experienced in beholding so unequivocal a proof of the Lady Mariota’s selfish and unfeeling heart; “oh, will no one bring me a cup of water? And hath it then come so soon to this, that I, the son of a King, am left to suffer this foretaste of hell’s torments, and no one hand to help me? Oh,[558]water, water, water, for mercy’s sake! Alas! Heaven’s curse hath indeed fallen upon me. My dead and dying sons cannot help me; and Mariota—ha! fiends, fiends! Ay, there is bitterness—venom—black poison. Was it for this,” said he, casting his eyes towards the glittering jewels on the distant table; “was it for a heart so worthless that I did so brave the curse of the Church? Was it for such a viper that I did incur my father’s anger? Was it for a poisoned-puffed spider like this that I did do deeds that made men’s hair bristle on their heads, and their very eyes grow dim? Did I bear her fiercely up before a chiding world, that she might turn and sting me at an hour like this? Ha! punishment, dread punishment was indeed promised me; but I looked not that it should come from her whom I did so long love and cherish—from her for whom I have sacrificed peace in this life, and oh, worse than all, mercy in that to which I am hastening.” He shuddered at the thoughts which now crowded on his mind, and buried his head for some moments under the bed-clothes.It now approached midnight, and the solitary lamp left by the Lady Mariota was still burning, when his ear caught a rustling noise.“Ha, Mariota, art there again?” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, impatiently lifting up his head.He looked, and through the drapery of the bed, that still remained wide open, he beheld the Franciscan standing before him.“Ha, what! merciful St. Andrew,” cried the Wolfe; “ha, is it thou, fiend, from whom hath sprung all mine affliction? Devil or monk, thou shalt die in my grasp.” He made a desperate effort to rise, and repeated it again and again; but he sank down nerveless, his breast heaving with agitation, and his eyes starting wildly from their sockets. “Speak, demon, what further vengeance dost thou come to execute on this devoted head? Speak, for what fiendish torment canst thou invent that shall more excruciate the body than racking and unsatisfied thirst? or what that shall tear the soul more cruelly than the barbed arrows of ingratitude? Hence, then, to thy native hell, and leave me to mine.”“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the Franciscan, “I do come to thee as no tormenting fiend. The seal of death doth seem to be set on thy forehead; thou art fast sinking into his fleshless arms. The damps of the grave do gather on thy brow. ’Tis not for mortal man as I am, to push vengeance at such an hour. When thou wert in thy full[559]strength and power I did boldly face thy wickedness; but now thou art feeble and drivelling as the child that was born yesterday, or as the helpless crone over whose worn head and wasted brain an hundred winters have rolled, I come not to denounce aught of punishment against thee; for already hast thou enow here, and thou wilt soon be plunged for endless ages in that burning sea to which it were bootless for me to add one drop of anguish. Forgetting all thy cruelty against myself, I do come to thee as the hand of Mercy to the drowning wretch. I come to offer myself as the leech of thy soul as well as of thy body; and, as an offering of peace, and a pledge of my sincerity, behold thy beloved son!”The Franciscan threw aside the folds of his habit, with which he had hitherto concealed something, and he held up the smiling boy, Duncan Stewart.“Mock me not, foul fiend,” cried the frantic father, believing that what he saw was a phantom; “hence, and disturb not my brain.”“Again I repeat, I am no fiend,” said the Franciscan mildly. “I come to tell thee that repentance may yet ensure thee salvation in the next world; nay, even life in this; yea, and life also to thy sons; and as a gracious earnest of God’s infinite mercy, behold, I here restore thee thy best beloved boy, the Benjamin of thy heart, whose life mine hand did save from that raging fire thyself did so impiously kindle.”The Wolfe of Badenoch devoured the very words of the Franciscan as he spake. He gazed wildly on him and on his boy alternately, as if he yet doubted the reality of the scene; and it was not until the little Duncan’s joyous laugh rang in his ears, and he felt the boy’s arms fondly entwining his neck, that he became satisfied of the truth of what he heard and saw. He was no longer the iron-framed and stern-souled Wolfe of Badenoch; his body was weak and his mind shaken, and he sank backwards in the bed, giving way to an hysterical laugh.“Oh, my boy, my boy,” cried he at length, smothering the youth with his caresses; “my beloved Duncan, what can I do for so great a mercy! What—what—but—Oh, mercy, one cup of water, in mercy!—I burn—my tongue cleaveth—Oh, water, water, in mercy!”The Franciscan hastened to give him water; and the thirsty wretch snatched the cup of life from the hand of him whom his unbridled rage had so wantonly consigned to the cruellest of deaths.[560]“More, more,” cried the impatient Wolfe of Badenoch; “mine entrails do crack with the scorching heat within me.”“Drink this, then,” said the Franciscan, taking a phial from his bosom, and pouring part of its contents into the cup; “drink this, and thou shalt have water.”“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, darting a glance of suspicion towards the monk. “Yet why should I hesitate?” continued he, as his eyes fell upon Duncan. “He who hath restored my son, can have little wish to hasten the end of a dying wretch.”“And he who might have used the dagger against thee,” said the Franciscan calmly, “would never have thought of giving thee a death so tedious as that of poison. Drink; there is health in the cup.”The Wolfe hesitated no longer.“Now water, oh, water, in mercy!” cried he again, after he had swallowed the drug.“Thy thirst must be moderately ministered unto for a time,” said the Franciscan; “yet shalt thou have one cup more,” and he poured one for him accordingly.“Why art thou thus alone, father,” demanded the boy Duncan; “why is not my mother here? she who doth ever so caress and soothe thee, if that the pulses of thy temples do but throb unreasonably. I’ll go and fetch her hither straightway.”“Fetch her not hither, Duncan, if thou wouldst not have me curse her,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, dashing away the half-consumed cup of water, in defiance of his thirst “Oh, that I might yet be myself again, were it but for a day, that I might deal justice upon her. Then, indeed, should I die contented.”“Hush,” said the Franciscan; “such is not the temper that doth best befit a dying man; yea, and one, too, who hath so much for the which to ask forgiveness. It doth more behove thee to think of thine own sins than of those of others. If it may so please Heaven, I shall be the leech of thy body; but it were well that thou didst suffer me to give blessed medicine to thy diseased soul, for thy life or thy death hangeth in the Almighty hand, and no one can tell how soon thou mayest be called to thy great account. Say, dost thou repent thee of all the evil thou hast wrought against the Holy Church and her sacred ministers?”“I do, I do; most bitterly do I repent me,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, grinding his teeth ferociously, and with an expression of countenance very different from that becoming an humble penitent. “I do repent me, I say, in gall and bitterness; for verily she for whom I did these deeds——”[561]“Nay, talk not of her,” said the Franciscan, interrupting him; “mix not up thine angry passions with thine abasement before thine offended Maker. Repent thee of thy sins—make instant reparation to the Church from the abundance of thy wealth—resolve to put away all thine abominations from thee—and, finally, make a solemn vow, that, if it should please Heaven to restore thee to health, thou wilt do such penance as it may seem fitting for the injured Bishop of Moray to impose upon thee—do these things, and all may yet be well with thee. If thou art willing to vow solemnly to do these things, if Heaven in its mercy shall yet spare thee, verily I will receive and be witness to thy serment; and I do beseech thee to speak quickly, for I would fain leave thee to that healing repose, for the which my medicine hath prepared thee, that I may go to give healthful balsams to thy three sons, that they may yet be snatched from an early grave.”“Yea, most merciful and beneficent monk,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, “thou whom I did believe to be a fiend, but whom I do now find to be saint upon earth, most gladly do I yield me to thee. I here most solemnly vow to the Virgin and the Holy Trinity, that I do heartily repent me of mine outrages against the Holy Church of God and His holy ministers; that I am ready to make what reparation I may; and that, if it so please Heaven to rescue me from the jaws of death, I shall do penance in such wise as to the Bishop and the King, my father, may seem best.”“Be thy vow registered in Heaven,” said the Franciscan, solemnly crossing himself. “And now, with the blessing of St. Francis, thou shalt soon be in a state for fulfilling it. But let me entreat thee to yield thyself to that repose, the which the healing draught thou hast taken must speedily ensure to thee; when thou dost again awake, thy consuming fever will have left thee, and in two or three days at most thou mayest be again in thy saddle. Let me now hasten to help thy sons.”The boy Duncan Stewart had already paved the way for the Franciscan’s favourable reception with his brothers, who gladly submitted themselves to his directions, and he speedily administered to their respective cases. The domestics now began to be re-assured of the probable recovery of the invalids, and they already quaked for the returning wrath of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The Lady Mariota, sat trembling in her apartment. The Franciscan, who had formerly disappeared so miraculously, and who now re-appeared so strangely among them, was eyed with[562]fear by every one within the Castle, and his orders were obeyed as implicitly and as promptly as the Wolfe himself, so that he lacked for nothing that his patient required. Having done all for them that art could effect, he had time to think of the Lady Beatrice, whom he believed to be an inmate of the Castle, seeing he had no doubt that Sir Andrew Stewart must have brought her thither. But he found, on inquiry, that the knight had not appeared. He was vexed at the disappointment, but taking it for granted that her protector had carried her to some other fastness belonging to his father, he felt no uneasiness, trusting that he should soon have tidings of her.Dismissing all thoughts of the Lady Beatrice, therefore, from his mind, he devoted himself eagerly to the restoration of the sick, being filled with the idea of the signal service he was about to perform to the Church, the extent of which would much depend on the recovery of those who now lay in so precarious a state, that they might appear before the world as living instances of penitence. For two days, then, he was indefatigable in his attentions; and the effect of his care and skill was, that the Wolfe of Badenoch’s cure was rapid. His disease had been chiefly caused by sudden affliction, operating on an impatient temper, and a conscience ill at ease. The Franciscan’s words, therefore, had happily combined with his medicines to produce an almost miraculous effect; and, ere the time promised by the monk was expired, he appeared in the great hall, haggard and disease-worn indeed, but perfectly ready to fill his saddle. The recovery of his sons, though there was now little to be feared for them, promised to be more tedious; and it was well for the peace of the Castle of Lochyndorbe that it was so, for they might have made some objections to the decided step which their father took the moment he again showed himself.“Ha, villains,” cried he as he came stalking through the opening crowd of domestics that shrunk from him on either hand—“so the Earl of Buchan, the son of a King, mought have died for all ye cared. Ha! whither did ye all hide, knaves, that I was nearly perishing of thirst, and no one to give me a cup of water? But ’tis no marvel that ye should have forgotten your master when—Ha! Bruce—send Bruce, the old esquire, hither. What mighty lowing of cattle, and bleating of sheep, is that I do hear?”The domestics looked at each other, but no one dared to speak. The impatient Wolfe hurried up a little turret-stair, from the top of which he had a view over the outer walls of the Castle, and the narrow strait that divided that from the mainland.[563]There he beheld the whole of the flocks and herds which the Lady Mariota had so prudently collected together, and which her trepidation had made her forget to order to be driven again to their native hills and forests. He wanted no further information, for the truth flashed on him at once. His eye reddened, his cheek grew paler than even the disease had left it, his lip quivered, and he rushed precipitately down to the hall.“Where, in the fiend’s name, is Bruce?” cried he. “Ha! thou art there, old man. Get thee quickly together some dozen or twain of mounted spears, with palfreys for the Lady Mariota and her women, and sumpter-horses needful for the carriage of their raiment; and let her know that it is my will she do forthwith depart hence with thee for my Castle of Cocklecraig, the which is to be her future place of sojournance.”The esquire bowed obediently, and hastened to execute the command of his impatient Lord. In a little time a page appeared, with an humble message from the Lady Mariota, to know whether the Earl was to accompany her into Buchan.“Tell her no,” replied the Wolfe, turning round on the frightened page, and speaking with a voice that shook the Gothic hall, which he was rapidly measuring backwards and forward with his paces.Again a woman came to him from the Lady Mariota, most submissively entreating for an interview.“Nay, the red fiend catch me then!” cried the furious Wolfe, his eyes flashing fire; “I do already know too much of her baseness, ever to trust myself with a sight of her again. ’Twere better, for her sake, that she urge me not to see her. Ha! tell her I have sworn by my knighthood that the threads that hath bound my heart to her worthlessness shall be for ever snapped. Let not the poisonous toad cross my path, lest I crush her in mine ire, and give to my conscience another sin to be repented of.—Away!”The Wolfe again paced the hall, very much moved. The neighing of horses and the noise of preparation were heard in the court-yard; the warder’s call for the boats sounded across the lake; and a wailing of women’s voices soon afterwards succeeded. The Wolfe paced the hall with a yet more rapid step; he became much moved, and hid his face from the Franciscan, who was the only witness of his agitation. But at last it became too strong to be concealed, and he rushed up the turret-stair, whence he had before looked out towards the land-sconce. He remained absent for a considerable time; and when he returned,[564]his face was deeply marked with the traces of the strong contending emotions he had undergone.“How doth thy leech-craft prosper, good Sir Friar?” demanded he at length, evidently from no other desire than to talk away his present feelings, seeing that he had already put the same question more than half-a-dozen times before.“I do trust that, under God, thy sons will yet be well,” replied the Franciscan. “But be not impatient, my Lord; their cure must be the work of time. Meanwhile, be thankful to a merciful Providence, who doth thus restore to thee all those of whom thou didst fear thou wert bereft.”“All!” cried the Wolfe, shuddering, “nay, not all; all but Andrew, and he did perish horribly in the flames of the Maison Dieu, whither I did myself enforce him. Heaven in its mercy pardon me!”“Andrew!” cried the Franciscan, with surprise; “trust me, my Lord, Sir Andrew Stewart is safe.”“Safe!” cried the Wolfe, clasping his hands together in an ecstacy—“then thanks be to a merciful God, who hath saved me from the torturing thought of having been the cause of working my son’s death. But where, I pray thee, was he seen?” demanded the Wolfe eagerly.“He was seen in the Chapel of the Maison Dieu with a lady, whom he did thereafter lead through the garden of the Hospital,” replied the Franciscan.“What, the Lady Beatrice!” demanded the Wolfe; “for that is all the name I did ever know her to bear as a woman, albeit I do well recollect her masculine appellation of Maurice de Grey.”“The same,” replied the Franciscan.“Then hath Andrew preserved her life,” replied the Wolfe. “By the beard of my grandfather, but I do greatly rejoice to hear it. There is still some virtue in the caitiff after all. My efforts to save the lady were vain; I did even gain her chamber, but I found her gone; from which I was compelled with grief to believe that she had surely perished. But whither hath my son Andrew conveyed her?”“Nay, that I have not yet discovered,” replied the Franciscan; “but Sir Andrew Stewart saved not the Lady Beatrice from the flames. One of the sisters of the Hospital did teach her how to escape; and as they crossed the Chapel together, Sir Andrew Stewart, who had fled thither for safety——”“Ah, coward,” cried the Wolfe; “so, after all, he was the craven kestrel. By my beard, I thought as much. And so[565]thou sayest that thou art yet ignorant where the Lady Beatrice hath been bestowed.”“Nay, my good Lord,” replied the Franciscan; “but with a knight of his good report she is sure of protection, and——”“What sayest thou?—good report, sayest thou?” interrupted the Wolfe. “Though he be a brauncher from mine own nest, yet must I, in honesty, tell thee, Sir Friar, that a greater hypocrite presseth not the surface of the earth. Protection, saidst thou? By St. Barnabas, but she hath already hath enow of his protection.”“What dost thou mean, my Lord?” replied the monk, in astonishment.“Why, by my knighthood, but I am ashamed to speak so of mine own son,” replied the Wolfe; “yet am I bound to treat thee with candour, and so thou shalt e’en have it.” And he proceeded to give the monk a short history of the infamous treachery of Sir Andrew Stewart towards the Lady Beatrice.“My Lord of Buchan,” cried the Franciscan, with an agitation and earnestness of manner which the Wolfe of Badenoch could by no means explain, “if I have found favour with thee, lend me thine aid, I entreat thee, to recover the Lady Beatrice from thy son. She is destined to take the veil, and in giving me thine aid to reclaim her thou wilt be doing a pious duty, the which will assuredly tell for the good of thy soul, yea, and help to balance the heavy charge of thine iniquities.”“Right joyfully shall I give thee mine aid,” replied the Wolfe of Badenoch; “the more that she was the lady of the gallant Sir Patrick Hepborne, with whom she was here, in the disguise of a page. Ha, ha, ha, ha! But wherefore doth she now take the veil?”“’Tis fitting that she doth atone for a youth of sin by a life of penitence,” replied the Friar, unwilling to speak more plainly.“So,” said the Wolfe of Badenoch, with a significant look, “after all her modest pretence, and after all Sir Patrick’s cunning dissembling, ’twas as I did suspect then, after all?”“Thou didst suspect, then?” said the Friar; “alas! I do fear with too much reason. Yet let us not tarry, but hasten to recover her, I pray thee.”“Squires, there—what, ho, within!” cried the Wolfe, “hath no one as yet heard aught of Sir Andrew Stewart?”“No one, my noble Earl,” replied an esquire who waited.“By the holy mass, then,” said the Wolfe, “but the caitiff hath taken refuge in some of my strongholds. But ’twill be[566]hard an we ferret him not out. Ha! knaves there, let fifty mounted lances be ready in the lawnde beyond the land-sconce ere I can wind my bugle.”The Wolfe of Badenoch was restored to all his pristine vigour by the very thought of going on an expedition, even though it was against his own son. The court-yard rang with the bustle the Castle was thrown into, and all the boats were put in requisition to ferry the horses across. Everything was ready for them to mount at the land-sconce in an incredibly short space of time; but, however short the delay, still it was too much for his impatience; nor was his companion less restless than the Wolfe, till he found himself in saddle. When all were mounted, the monk showed, by his forward riding, that there was little risk of his being a drag upon the speed of the furious-pricking knight, and the Wolfe of Badenoch exulted to behold his horsemanship.“By the mass,” cried he, pulling up a little, “but thou art a prince of friars; ’tis a pleasure, I vow, to have a stalwarth monk like thee as a confessor; wouldst thou be mine, thou shouldst ever ride at my elbow. Where hadst thou thy schooling, Sir Friar?”“I have rode in the lists ere now,” replied the Franciscan; “yea, and war have I seen in all its fashions. But it doth now befit me to forget these vain carnal contentions, and to fight against mine own evil passions, the which are harder to subdue than any living foe. And in this let me be an ensample to thee, my Lord, for verily the time is but short sith that I was as violent and tempestuous as thyself; and hard it is even yet for me, frail man as I am, to keep down the raging devil that is within me. May the blessed Virgin increase our virtuous resolution!” said he, crossing himself.To this pious ejaculation the Wolfe added a hearty “Amen;” and they again pushed on at the same rapid pace at which they had originally started.
The scene within that fortress was materially changed since our last visit to it. The boys, Walter and James Stewart, were laid in beds from which there was but small hope of their ever rising. Sir Alexander Stewart also lay in a very dangerous and distressing state, with a shattered arm and a bruised body, resulting from the heap of heavy stones which had been thrown down[556]upon him from the wall of Spynie; and the hitherto hardy and impregnable mind and body of the Wolfe of Badenoch himself, yielding before the storm of calamity that had so suddenly assailed him, had sunk into a state of torpor, and he was now confined to a sick bed by a low, yet rapidly consuming fever. In so short a time as two days his gigantic strength was reduced to the weakness of a child. His impatience of temper had not been entirely conquered by the disease, but its effects were sufficiently moderated by his prostration, to render him no longer a terror to any one; and this feeling was heightened in all around him, by the conviction that his malady was of a nature so fatal that his existence must soon be terminated.
The Lady Mariota was one of the first who became aware of this, and she prudently regulated her conduct accordingly. Yes, she for whose illicit love he had sacrificed so much—she who had ever affected so devoted an attachment to him—she who was the mother of his five boys—she on whose account he had so resolutely braved so many tempests, and who had been the original cause of the very feud with the Bishop of Moray which had led to the commission of excesses so outrageous, and now produced so much fatal affliction—she it was who, now beginning to show herself in her true character, sorrowed not for him, but as her own importance and high estate must inevitably sink in his deathbed. Even her grief for her lost sons, and her anxiety for those whom she feared to lose, arose more from the thought that in them perished so many supporters and protectors who might yet have enabled her to hold her head proudly, than from any of that warm and perfectly unselfish feeling, which, if it anywhere exists, must be found to throb in the bosom of a mother. Instead of flying in distraction from couch to couch, administering all that imagination could think of, to heal, to support, or to soothe, she wisely remembered that, in her situation, time was precious; and, accordingly, she employed every minute of it in rummaging through the secret repositories of many a curious antique cabinet, and in making up many a neat and portable package, to be carried off the moment that the soul of the Wolfe of Badenoch should quit his body. Nor were her active thoughts bestowed on things inanimate, or within doors only; her tender care soared even beyond the Castle walls and the Loch that encircled them; and by means of a chosen few of her own servants whom she had managed to secure by large bribes to her especial interest, the surrounding country was raised, and the cattle and sheep that fed in the lawndes of the forests for many a mile round, were seen pouring in large bodies towards[557]the land-sconce, to be ready to accompany her, and to unite their lowings and bleatings to her wailings, when she should be compelled to take her sad departure from Lochyndorbe.
Nor was the knowledge of this base ingratitude spared to the dying man. She had not visited him for the greater part of the day. He called, but the hirelings, who were wont to fly to him ere the words had well passed his lips, were now glad to keep out of his sight, and each abandoning to the rest the unwelcome task of waiting on him, he was left altogether without help. He was parched with a thirst which he felt persuaded the Loch itself would have hardly quenched; and in the disturbed state of his nerves he was haunted with the eternal torture of the idea of its waves murmuring gently and invitingly around him. It was night. A light step entered his room cautiously, and the rays of a lamp were seen. He entreated for a cup of water, but no answer was returned to his request. At length his impatience gave him a momentary command over his muscles, and throwing down the bed-clothes, he sprang on his knees, and opened wide the curtains that shaded the lower end of his bed. By the light of the lamp he beheld the Lady Mariota occupied in searching through his private cabinet, whence she had already taken many a valuable, the table being covered with rich chains of gold, and sparkling gems of every variety of water and colour, set in massive rings, buckles, brooches, collars, and head-circlets; and so intently was she busied that she heard not his motion.
“Ha, wretch,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, in a hollow and sepulchral voice of wasted disease; “the curse of my spirit upon thee, what dost thou there?”
The Lady Mariota gave him not time to add more, for, looking fearfully round, she beheld the gaunt visage of the Wolfe of Badenoch, with his eyes glaring fiercely upon her; and believing that he had already died, and that it was indeed his spirit which cursed her, she uttered a loud scream, and rushed in terror from the apartment. The Wolfe, exhausted by the unnatural exertion he had made, sank backwards in his bed, and lay for some time motionless and unable to speak.
“Oh, for a cup of water,” moaned the miserable man at length, the excruciating torture of his thirst banishing even that which his mind had experienced in beholding so unequivocal a proof of the Lady Mariota’s selfish and unfeeling heart; “oh, will no one bring me a cup of water? And hath it then come so soon to this, that I, the son of a King, am left to suffer this foretaste of hell’s torments, and no one hand to help me? Oh,[558]water, water, water, for mercy’s sake! Alas! Heaven’s curse hath indeed fallen upon me. My dead and dying sons cannot help me; and Mariota—ha! fiends, fiends! Ay, there is bitterness—venom—black poison. Was it for this,” said he, casting his eyes towards the glittering jewels on the distant table; “was it for a heart so worthless that I did so brave the curse of the Church? Was it for such a viper that I did incur my father’s anger? Was it for a poisoned-puffed spider like this that I did do deeds that made men’s hair bristle on their heads, and their very eyes grow dim? Did I bear her fiercely up before a chiding world, that she might turn and sting me at an hour like this? Ha! punishment, dread punishment was indeed promised me; but I looked not that it should come from her whom I did so long love and cherish—from her for whom I have sacrificed peace in this life, and oh, worse than all, mercy in that to which I am hastening.” He shuddered at the thoughts which now crowded on his mind, and buried his head for some moments under the bed-clothes.
It now approached midnight, and the solitary lamp left by the Lady Mariota was still burning, when his ear caught a rustling noise.
“Ha, Mariota, art there again?” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, impatiently lifting up his head.
He looked, and through the drapery of the bed, that still remained wide open, he beheld the Franciscan standing before him.
“Ha, what! merciful St. Andrew,” cried the Wolfe; “ha, is it thou, fiend, from whom hath sprung all mine affliction? Devil or monk, thou shalt die in my grasp.” He made a desperate effort to rise, and repeated it again and again; but he sank down nerveless, his breast heaving with agitation, and his eyes starting wildly from their sockets. “Speak, demon, what further vengeance dost thou come to execute on this devoted head? Speak, for what fiendish torment canst thou invent that shall more excruciate the body than racking and unsatisfied thirst? or what that shall tear the soul more cruelly than the barbed arrows of ingratitude? Hence, then, to thy native hell, and leave me to mine.”
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the Franciscan, “I do come to thee as no tormenting fiend. The seal of death doth seem to be set on thy forehead; thou art fast sinking into his fleshless arms. The damps of the grave do gather on thy brow. ’Tis not for mortal man as I am, to push vengeance at such an hour. When thou wert in thy full[559]strength and power I did boldly face thy wickedness; but now thou art feeble and drivelling as the child that was born yesterday, or as the helpless crone over whose worn head and wasted brain an hundred winters have rolled, I come not to denounce aught of punishment against thee; for already hast thou enow here, and thou wilt soon be plunged for endless ages in that burning sea to which it were bootless for me to add one drop of anguish. Forgetting all thy cruelty against myself, I do come to thee as the hand of Mercy to the drowning wretch. I come to offer myself as the leech of thy soul as well as of thy body; and, as an offering of peace, and a pledge of my sincerity, behold thy beloved son!”
The Franciscan threw aside the folds of his habit, with which he had hitherto concealed something, and he held up the smiling boy, Duncan Stewart.
“Mock me not, foul fiend,” cried the frantic father, believing that what he saw was a phantom; “hence, and disturb not my brain.”
“Again I repeat, I am no fiend,” said the Franciscan mildly. “I come to tell thee that repentance may yet ensure thee salvation in the next world; nay, even life in this; yea, and life also to thy sons; and as a gracious earnest of God’s infinite mercy, behold, I here restore thee thy best beloved boy, the Benjamin of thy heart, whose life mine hand did save from that raging fire thyself did so impiously kindle.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch devoured the very words of the Franciscan as he spake. He gazed wildly on him and on his boy alternately, as if he yet doubted the reality of the scene; and it was not until the little Duncan’s joyous laugh rang in his ears, and he felt the boy’s arms fondly entwining his neck, that he became satisfied of the truth of what he heard and saw. He was no longer the iron-framed and stern-souled Wolfe of Badenoch; his body was weak and his mind shaken, and he sank backwards in the bed, giving way to an hysterical laugh.
“Oh, my boy, my boy,” cried he at length, smothering the youth with his caresses; “my beloved Duncan, what can I do for so great a mercy! What—what—but—Oh, mercy, one cup of water, in mercy!—I burn—my tongue cleaveth—Oh, water, water, in mercy!”
The Franciscan hastened to give him water; and the thirsty wretch snatched the cup of life from the hand of him whom his unbridled rage had so wantonly consigned to the cruellest of deaths.[560]
“More, more,” cried the impatient Wolfe of Badenoch; “mine entrails do crack with the scorching heat within me.”
“Drink this, then,” said the Franciscan, taking a phial from his bosom, and pouring part of its contents into the cup; “drink this, and thou shalt have water.”
“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, darting a glance of suspicion towards the monk. “Yet why should I hesitate?” continued he, as his eyes fell upon Duncan. “He who hath restored my son, can have little wish to hasten the end of a dying wretch.”
“And he who might have used the dagger against thee,” said the Franciscan calmly, “would never have thought of giving thee a death so tedious as that of poison. Drink; there is health in the cup.”
The Wolfe hesitated no longer.
“Now water, oh, water, in mercy!” cried he again, after he had swallowed the drug.
“Thy thirst must be moderately ministered unto for a time,” said the Franciscan; “yet shalt thou have one cup more,” and he poured one for him accordingly.
“Why art thou thus alone, father,” demanded the boy Duncan; “why is not my mother here? she who doth ever so caress and soothe thee, if that the pulses of thy temples do but throb unreasonably. I’ll go and fetch her hither straightway.”
“Fetch her not hither, Duncan, if thou wouldst not have me curse her,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, dashing away the half-consumed cup of water, in defiance of his thirst “Oh, that I might yet be myself again, were it but for a day, that I might deal justice upon her. Then, indeed, should I die contented.”
“Hush,” said the Franciscan; “such is not the temper that doth best befit a dying man; yea, and one, too, who hath so much for the which to ask forgiveness. It doth more behove thee to think of thine own sins than of those of others. If it may so please Heaven, I shall be the leech of thy body; but it were well that thou didst suffer me to give blessed medicine to thy diseased soul, for thy life or thy death hangeth in the Almighty hand, and no one can tell how soon thou mayest be called to thy great account. Say, dost thou repent thee of all the evil thou hast wrought against the Holy Church and her sacred ministers?”
“I do, I do; most bitterly do I repent me,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, grinding his teeth ferociously, and with an expression of countenance very different from that becoming an humble penitent. “I do repent me, I say, in gall and bitterness; for verily she for whom I did these deeds——”[561]
“Nay, talk not of her,” said the Franciscan, interrupting him; “mix not up thine angry passions with thine abasement before thine offended Maker. Repent thee of thy sins—make instant reparation to the Church from the abundance of thy wealth—resolve to put away all thine abominations from thee—and, finally, make a solemn vow, that, if it should please Heaven to restore thee to health, thou wilt do such penance as it may seem fitting for the injured Bishop of Moray to impose upon thee—do these things, and all may yet be well with thee. If thou art willing to vow solemnly to do these things, if Heaven in its mercy shall yet spare thee, verily I will receive and be witness to thy serment; and I do beseech thee to speak quickly, for I would fain leave thee to that healing repose, for the which my medicine hath prepared thee, that I may go to give healthful balsams to thy three sons, that they may yet be snatched from an early grave.”
“Yea, most merciful and beneficent monk,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, “thou whom I did believe to be a fiend, but whom I do now find to be saint upon earth, most gladly do I yield me to thee. I here most solemnly vow to the Virgin and the Holy Trinity, that I do heartily repent me of mine outrages against the Holy Church of God and His holy ministers; that I am ready to make what reparation I may; and that, if it so please Heaven to rescue me from the jaws of death, I shall do penance in such wise as to the Bishop and the King, my father, may seem best.”
“Be thy vow registered in Heaven,” said the Franciscan, solemnly crossing himself. “And now, with the blessing of St. Francis, thou shalt soon be in a state for fulfilling it. But let me entreat thee to yield thyself to that repose, the which the healing draught thou hast taken must speedily ensure to thee; when thou dost again awake, thy consuming fever will have left thee, and in two or three days at most thou mayest be again in thy saddle. Let me now hasten to help thy sons.”
The boy Duncan Stewart had already paved the way for the Franciscan’s favourable reception with his brothers, who gladly submitted themselves to his directions, and he speedily administered to their respective cases. The domestics now began to be re-assured of the probable recovery of the invalids, and they already quaked for the returning wrath of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The Lady Mariota, sat trembling in her apartment. The Franciscan, who had formerly disappeared so miraculously, and who now re-appeared so strangely among them, was eyed with[562]fear by every one within the Castle, and his orders were obeyed as implicitly and as promptly as the Wolfe himself, so that he lacked for nothing that his patient required. Having done all for them that art could effect, he had time to think of the Lady Beatrice, whom he believed to be an inmate of the Castle, seeing he had no doubt that Sir Andrew Stewart must have brought her thither. But he found, on inquiry, that the knight had not appeared. He was vexed at the disappointment, but taking it for granted that her protector had carried her to some other fastness belonging to his father, he felt no uneasiness, trusting that he should soon have tidings of her.
Dismissing all thoughts of the Lady Beatrice, therefore, from his mind, he devoted himself eagerly to the restoration of the sick, being filled with the idea of the signal service he was about to perform to the Church, the extent of which would much depend on the recovery of those who now lay in so precarious a state, that they might appear before the world as living instances of penitence. For two days, then, he was indefatigable in his attentions; and the effect of his care and skill was, that the Wolfe of Badenoch’s cure was rapid. His disease had been chiefly caused by sudden affliction, operating on an impatient temper, and a conscience ill at ease. The Franciscan’s words, therefore, had happily combined with his medicines to produce an almost miraculous effect; and, ere the time promised by the monk was expired, he appeared in the great hall, haggard and disease-worn indeed, but perfectly ready to fill his saddle. The recovery of his sons, though there was now little to be feared for them, promised to be more tedious; and it was well for the peace of the Castle of Lochyndorbe that it was so, for they might have made some objections to the decided step which their father took the moment he again showed himself.
“Ha, villains,” cried he as he came stalking through the opening crowd of domestics that shrunk from him on either hand—“so the Earl of Buchan, the son of a King, mought have died for all ye cared. Ha! whither did ye all hide, knaves, that I was nearly perishing of thirst, and no one to give me a cup of water? But ’tis no marvel that ye should have forgotten your master when—Ha! Bruce—send Bruce, the old esquire, hither. What mighty lowing of cattle, and bleating of sheep, is that I do hear?”
The domestics looked at each other, but no one dared to speak. The impatient Wolfe hurried up a little turret-stair, from the top of which he had a view over the outer walls of the Castle, and the narrow strait that divided that from the mainland.[563]There he beheld the whole of the flocks and herds which the Lady Mariota had so prudently collected together, and which her trepidation had made her forget to order to be driven again to their native hills and forests. He wanted no further information, for the truth flashed on him at once. His eye reddened, his cheek grew paler than even the disease had left it, his lip quivered, and he rushed precipitately down to the hall.
“Where, in the fiend’s name, is Bruce?” cried he. “Ha! thou art there, old man. Get thee quickly together some dozen or twain of mounted spears, with palfreys for the Lady Mariota and her women, and sumpter-horses needful for the carriage of their raiment; and let her know that it is my will she do forthwith depart hence with thee for my Castle of Cocklecraig, the which is to be her future place of sojournance.”
The esquire bowed obediently, and hastened to execute the command of his impatient Lord. In a little time a page appeared, with an humble message from the Lady Mariota, to know whether the Earl was to accompany her into Buchan.
“Tell her no,” replied the Wolfe, turning round on the frightened page, and speaking with a voice that shook the Gothic hall, which he was rapidly measuring backwards and forward with his paces.
Again a woman came to him from the Lady Mariota, most submissively entreating for an interview.
“Nay, the red fiend catch me then!” cried the furious Wolfe, his eyes flashing fire; “I do already know too much of her baseness, ever to trust myself with a sight of her again. ’Twere better, for her sake, that she urge me not to see her. Ha! tell her I have sworn by my knighthood that the threads that hath bound my heart to her worthlessness shall be for ever snapped. Let not the poisonous toad cross my path, lest I crush her in mine ire, and give to my conscience another sin to be repented of.—Away!”
The Wolfe again paced the hall, very much moved. The neighing of horses and the noise of preparation were heard in the court-yard; the warder’s call for the boats sounded across the lake; and a wailing of women’s voices soon afterwards succeeded. The Wolfe paced the hall with a yet more rapid step; he became much moved, and hid his face from the Franciscan, who was the only witness of his agitation. But at last it became too strong to be concealed, and he rushed up the turret-stair, whence he had before looked out towards the land-sconce. He remained absent for a considerable time; and when he returned,[564]his face was deeply marked with the traces of the strong contending emotions he had undergone.
“How doth thy leech-craft prosper, good Sir Friar?” demanded he at length, evidently from no other desire than to talk away his present feelings, seeing that he had already put the same question more than half-a-dozen times before.
“I do trust that, under God, thy sons will yet be well,” replied the Franciscan. “But be not impatient, my Lord; their cure must be the work of time. Meanwhile, be thankful to a merciful Providence, who doth thus restore to thee all those of whom thou didst fear thou wert bereft.”
“All!” cried the Wolfe, shuddering, “nay, not all; all but Andrew, and he did perish horribly in the flames of the Maison Dieu, whither I did myself enforce him. Heaven in its mercy pardon me!”
“Andrew!” cried the Franciscan, with surprise; “trust me, my Lord, Sir Andrew Stewart is safe.”
“Safe!” cried the Wolfe, clasping his hands together in an ecstacy—“then thanks be to a merciful God, who hath saved me from the torturing thought of having been the cause of working my son’s death. But where, I pray thee, was he seen?” demanded the Wolfe eagerly.
“He was seen in the Chapel of the Maison Dieu with a lady, whom he did thereafter lead through the garden of the Hospital,” replied the Franciscan.
“What, the Lady Beatrice!” demanded the Wolfe; “for that is all the name I did ever know her to bear as a woman, albeit I do well recollect her masculine appellation of Maurice de Grey.”
“The same,” replied the Franciscan.
“Then hath Andrew preserved her life,” replied the Wolfe. “By the beard of my grandfather, but I do greatly rejoice to hear it. There is still some virtue in the caitiff after all. My efforts to save the lady were vain; I did even gain her chamber, but I found her gone; from which I was compelled with grief to believe that she had surely perished. But whither hath my son Andrew conveyed her?”
“Nay, that I have not yet discovered,” replied the Franciscan; “but Sir Andrew Stewart saved not the Lady Beatrice from the flames. One of the sisters of the Hospital did teach her how to escape; and as they crossed the Chapel together, Sir Andrew Stewart, who had fled thither for safety——”
“Ah, coward,” cried the Wolfe; “so, after all, he was the craven kestrel. By my beard, I thought as much. And so[565]thou sayest that thou art yet ignorant where the Lady Beatrice hath been bestowed.”
“Nay, my good Lord,” replied the Franciscan; “but with a knight of his good report she is sure of protection, and——”
“What sayest thou?—good report, sayest thou?” interrupted the Wolfe. “Though he be a brauncher from mine own nest, yet must I, in honesty, tell thee, Sir Friar, that a greater hypocrite presseth not the surface of the earth. Protection, saidst thou? By St. Barnabas, but she hath already hath enow of his protection.”
“What dost thou mean, my Lord?” replied the monk, in astonishment.
“Why, by my knighthood, but I am ashamed to speak so of mine own son,” replied the Wolfe; “yet am I bound to treat thee with candour, and so thou shalt e’en have it.” And he proceeded to give the monk a short history of the infamous treachery of Sir Andrew Stewart towards the Lady Beatrice.
“My Lord of Buchan,” cried the Franciscan, with an agitation and earnestness of manner which the Wolfe of Badenoch could by no means explain, “if I have found favour with thee, lend me thine aid, I entreat thee, to recover the Lady Beatrice from thy son. She is destined to take the veil, and in giving me thine aid to reclaim her thou wilt be doing a pious duty, the which will assuredly tell for the good of thy soul, yea, and help to balance the heavy charge of thine iniquities.”
“Right joyfully shall I give thee mine aid,” replied the Wolfe of Badenoch; “the more that she was the lady of the gallant Sir Patrick Hepborne, with whom she was here, in the disguise of a page. Ha, ha, ha, ha! But wherefore doth she now take the veil?”
“’Tis fitting that she doth atone for a youth of sin by a life of penitence,” replied the Friar, unwilling to speak more plainly.
“So,” said the Wolfe of Badenoch, with a significant look, “after all her modest pretence, and after all Sir Patrick’s cunning dissembling, ’twas as I did suspect then, after all?”
“Thou didst suspect, then?” said the Friar; “alas! I do fear with too much reason. Yet let us not tarry, but hasten to recover her, I pray thee.”
“Squires, there—what, ho, within!” cried the Wolfe, “hath no one as yet heard aught of Sir Andrew Stewart?”
“No one, my noble Earl,” replied an esquire who waited.
“By the holy mass, then,” said the Wolfe, “but the caitiff hath taken refuge in some of my strongholds. But ’twill be[566]hard an we ferret him not out. Ha! knaves there, let fifty mounted lances be ready in the lawnde beyond the land-sconce ere I can wind my bugle.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch was restored to all his pristine vigour by the very thought of going on an expedition, even though it was against his own son. The court-yard rang with the bustle the Castle was thrown into, and all the boats were put in requisition to ferry the horses across. Everything was ready for them to mount at the land-sconce in an incredibly short space of time; but, however short the delay, still it was too much for his impatience; nor was his companion less restless than the Wolfe, till he found himself in saddle. When all were mounted, the monk showed, by his forward riding, that there was little risk of his being a drag upon the speed of the furious-pricking knight, and the Wolfe of Badenoch exulted to behold his horsemanship.
“By the mass,” cried he, pulling up a little, “but thou art a prince of friars; ’tis a pleasure, I vow, to have a stalwarth monk like thee as a confessor; wouldst thou be mine, thou shouldst ever ride at my elbow. Where hadst thou thy schooling, Sir Friar?”
“I have rode in the lists ere now,” replied the Franciscan; “yea, and war have I seen in all its fashions. But it doth now befit me to forget these vain carnal contentions, and to fight against mine own evil passions, the which are harder to subdue than any living foe. And in this let me be an ensample to thee, my Lord, for verily the time is but short sith that I was as violent and tempestuous as thyself; and hard it is even yet for me, frail man as I am, to keep down the raging devil that is within me. May the blessed Virgin increase our virtuous resolution!” said he, crossing himself.
To this pious ejaculation the Wolfe added a hearty “Amen;” and they again pushed on at the same rapid pace at which they had originally started.