[Contents]CHAPTER XXX.The Castle of Lochyndorbe—An Evening Episode on the Ramparts—The Wolfe’s Raid on the Bishop’s Lands.The evening’s banquet in the Castle of Lochyndorbe passed away pretty much as the morning’s meal had done in the hunting pavilion, that is to say, without anything very remarkable. The Lady Mariota, still devoting all her attention to the page, left her son, Sir Andrew Stewart, to entertain Sir Patrick Hepborne. Neither of the knights were disposed to quaff those draughts of wine which the Wolfe of Badenoch himself seemed to consider as essential to the comfort of life, and they soon separated. Hepborne sat in his apartment for some time after Mortimer Sang had left him, and then, falling into a train of reflection on the events which had occurred to him since his return from France, and perceiving that his clue of association must be fully unwound ere he could hope to sleep, he walked forth to enjoy the balmy freshness of the evening air, that he might give freer vent to his thoughts.He got upon the rampart that looked out over the broader part of the lake, and as he entered on one end of it, he was confounded—he could not believe his eyes—but it certainly was the figure of the Lady Eleanore de Selby that he beheld, leaning against one of the balistæ near the farther angle of the wall. The waning moon shed a dim and uncertain light; yet it was sufficient to convince him that the figure he saw before him was the same that had made so powerful an impression on his mind at Norham. She was wrapped in a mantle, with her head bare, and her beautiful tresses flowing down in the same manner he had seen them when blown by the breezes from the Tweed; and she seemed to look listlessly out upon the wavelets that flickered under the thin and scanty moonbeam, as they lifted themselves gently against the bulwark stones under the wall. Apparently buried in thought, she was so perfectly without motion that he began to doubt whether it was not a phantom he beheld; nay, it was impossible she could be there in substance—she whom he had left at Norham affianced as a bride. In those days of superstition it is no wonder, therefore, that he should have believed it was the Lady Eleanore de Selby’s spirit he saw, or, in the peculiar language of his own country, her wraith. His manly blood ran cold, and he hesitated for a moment whether[225]he ought to advance. The figure still remained fixed. Again the thought crossed him, that it might possibly be the Lady Eleanore, and love urged him to approach and address her; but then prudence came to caution him not to seem to see her, lest he might be again subdued, and forget what he had discovered at Norham. Thus tossed by doubt, until he could bear suspense no longer, both superstitious awe and prudence yielded to the influence of love, and, unable to restrain himself, he walked along the rampart towards the figure. It seemed not to hear his step—it moved not till he was within three or four paces, when it started at the sound of his steps, and, turning suddenly towards him, displayed the countenance of—the page, Maurice de Grey.“Ah, Sir Patrick!” said the boy, and instantly applying his taper fingers to his hair, he began twisting it up into a knot over his head, accidentally assuming, as he did so, the very attitude in which Hepborne had seen the lady when similarly employed on the rampart at Norham.“Maurice de Grey!” exclaimed Hepborne with extreme astonishment, “is it you I see? Verily, thine attitude, boy, did so remind me of that in which I once beheld thy cousin, the Lady Eleanore de Selby, that for a moment I did almost believe it was really she who stood before me. I did never remark before that thou dost wear thy hair so womanishly long.”Sir Patrick’s astonishment had been too great to permit him to remark the page’s trepidation when first surprised by him, and before his amazement had subsided, Maurice de Grey had time to recover himself.“’Tis true,” said he, “Sir Knight, that I have always worn my hair long, and put up in a silken net, being loth to cut it away, seeing it was the pride of my mother’s heart; but, nathless, if thou dost think it unmanly in me to wear it so, verily it shall be cut off before to-morrow morning, that it may no longer offend thee. Yet I marvel much what could possibly make thee to think that my cousin, the Lady Eleanore, could be here in the Castle of Lochyndorbe; or how hast thou perchance set thine eyes on her, so as to have so perfect a remembrance of her figure as thou dost seem to preserve? I know that her father, Sir Walter, doth take especial care that she shall never be seen by any Scottish knight. Then by what accident, I pray thee, didst thou behold her?”Hepborne was considerably puzzled and perplexed by these naif questions from the page. To have refused to reply to them at all would have been the very way to have excited a thousand[226]suspicions in the boy’s mind; he, therefore, thought it better to answer him, and he wished to do so in a calm and indifferent manner. But it was a subject on which he could not think, far less talk, with composure, and, ere he wist, he burst into an ecstacy of feeling that quite confounded the page.“See her!” said he; “alas, too often have I seen the Lady Eleanore de Selby for my peace. Never, never, shall peace revisit this bosom. She is another’s; yet, nathless, must this torn heart be hers whilst it shall throb with life.” And saying so, he covered his face with his hands, and retreated some steps to hide the violence of his emotions; but becoming ashamed of having thus exposed his secret to the page, and made him privy to the extent of his weakness, he returned to the boy, and found him weeping bitterly, apparently from sympathy.“Maurice,” said Hepborne, calmly addressing him, “accident hath made thee wring from me the secret of my love, as chance did also make me tell thee yesternight, that I had cause to fear that the demoiselle who hath so deeply affected me was not in truth altogether what she at first appeared to me. As she is thy cousin, and so dear to thee as thou dost now say she is, I would not willingly allow thee to suppose that I have been estranged from her by mere caprice. I shall therefore tell thee that the Lady Eleanore de Selby did give me good cause to believe that my ardent protestations of love were not unpleasing to her; nay, she even held out encouragement to the prosecution of my suit; and yet, after all this ground of hope I did discover that she was affianced to another knight, in whose arms I did actually behold her, as they parted from each other, with many tears at the keep-bridge of Norham, on the very morning when I and my friend left the place. Her emotions were too tender to be mistaken. She it was who sported lightly with my heart, not I with hers, for, had she not been faithless, I would have sacrificed life itself for her love, and would have considered the wealth of a kingdom but as dross compared with the possession of a jewel so precious. Even as it is, I am doomed to love her for ever. I feel it—I feel it here!” said he, passionately striking his heart—“I can never, never cease to love her.”The page seemed petrified with the charge brought against his cousin. He grew faint, and staggered back a pace or two, until he was stayed by the support he received from the balistæ; then panting for a moment he was at length relieved by a flood of tears.“Thou seest, Maurice,” said Hepborne, “the facts are too damning. It would have been better for thee to have inquired[227]less curiously. But what figure is that which cometh yonder from the farther end of the rampart?”“Blessed Virgin,” cried Maurice de Grey, “’tis my perpetual torment, the Lady Mariota. What shall I do? Methought I had escaped from her importunity for this night at least.”“Why shouldst thou not be able to bear with her?” said the knight; “’tis a part of thy schooling, young man, to submit to mortification, and, above all, to bear with unpleasant society, without losing a jot of thy courtesy, especially where women are in question.”“True, Sir Knight,” said the page, half whimpering, “but the Lady Mariota hath actually made violent love to me. Oh, I cannot bear the wretch.”Hepborne could not help laughing at the ludicrous distress of the youth, and he had hardly time to compose himself ere the Lady Mariota came within speaking distance of them.“So, so, thou art there, runaway?” said she to the page, as she passed by Hepborne with a mere bow of acknowledgment, to get at Maurice, who retreated towards the balistæ with his head down—“so thou art there, art thou, Sir Scapegrace? Thou art a pretty truant, indeed,” continued she, hooking him under one arm, and giving him a gentle slap on one cheek. “But, thank my lucky stars, I have caught thee now, and verily thou shalt not again escape me. I’faith thou shalt have thy wings clipt, my little tom-tit; I shall have thee tied to my apron string, that thou hop thee not away from me thus at every turning. I did but let thee out of my sight for an instant, and whisk I find thee at the very outermost verge of my circle. Nay, had it not been for these walls and waters, in good truth thou mightest have been beyond my search ere this. Come away, Sir Good-for-Nothing. Allons, make up thy mind to thy chain; let me lead thee by it, and do not thou pull so.”“Lady,” said Hepborne, “thou must have some mercy on the poor youth. He hath so lately escaped from female thrall at home, that as yet he can but ill brook anything that resembleth it. Leave him to me, I beseech thee. At present he joys in the newly-acquired society of men; by degrees he will come to feel how much more sweet and soothing are the delights of women’s converse, and——”“Nay, nay, Sir Knight,” said the Lady Mariota, interrupting him hastily, “I shall not yield my control over the renegado, I promise thee; he shall with me this moment. Come, along, Sir Page Maurice—come along, I say. Thou art a pretty youth indeed! I have searched for thee through every apartment, nay,[228]through every creek and cranny in the Castle; and now that I have found thee, by my troth, I shall not yield thee up so easily. Come along, I say.” And like a bitch-fox dragging off an unhappy kid, so did the Lady Mariota drag away the hapless Maurice de Grey, in defiance of his lagging step, his peevish replies, his hanging head, his pouting lip, and the numerous glances of vexation he darted from under his eyelashes at his tormentor.Hepborne retired to his repose, half amused and half angry with the persecution inflicted on his poor page. Early next morning, Mortimer Sang came to him with a courteous message from Sir Andrew Stewart, begging to know if it was his pleasure to hunt for a few hours; and Hepborne having cheerfully agreed to the proposal, the two knights met alone at breakfast, and then crossed to the mainland with their horses, hounds, hunting-gear, and a few attendants, to scour the neighbouring forest for deer.As they were returning homewards towards evening, they heard the echoing sound of bugles.“’Tis my father,” said Sir Andrew; “’tis the Earl returning with his party from Badenoch; see, there they come, breaking forth from yonder woodshaws.”It was indeed the Wolfe of Badenoch; but he was now in a very different array from that which he had first appeared in to Hepborne. He was clad from head to foot in a complete suit of bright plate armour, and his height and bulk seemed to be increased by the metamorphosis. He rode at the head of a gallant troop of well-mounted and well-equipped spearmen, after which marched a company of footmen, consisting of pole-axe-men, and bowmen. His sons, Sir Alexander, Walter, and James, rode proudly by his side. The cavalcade went at a foot pace, because a rabble of bare-legged and bare-headed tatterdemalion mountaineers ran before them, armed with clubs, goads, and pikes, and driving along a promiscuous herd of cows, bullocks, sheep, and goats, of all different ages and descriptions, which considerably retarded their march. A bugle-man preceded the whole, bearing aloft an otter-skin purse on the point of a spear. His banner waved in the middle of the clump of spears; and in the rear of all followed a tired and straggling band of men, women, and children, who were grieving loudly, and weeping sadly, for some dire injury they had sustained, and vociferating vain appeals in their own language to the stern Wolfe, who, with his vizor up, and his brows knit, rode on unheeding them.[229]Ere the parties met, the two boys, Walter and James, galloped up to meet their brother, Sir Andrew, and both began at once to shout out their news to him—“Oh, brother Andrew, brother Andrew, we have had such sport!” cried the one.“Nay, thou knowest not what thou hast lost, brother Andrew, by not being with us,” cried the other.“Father hath seized——” shouted Walter.“The Earl hath taken possession of——” interrupted James.“Tut, hold thy gabbling tongue, James, and let me tell,” responded Walter.“Nay, but I will tell it,” cried James lustily.“By the holy Rood, but I will not be interrupted,” screamed out Walter.“By the Bishop’s mass, then, but I will tell out mine own tale in spite of thee,” bellowed James; “the Earl hath seized, I say——”“Confound thee, then!” roared out Walter in a frenzy, and at the same time bestowing a hearty thwack with the shaft of his spear across his brother’s shoulders—“confound thine impudence, take that for thine insolence.”The no less irascible James was by no means slow in returning the compliment, and they began to beat one another about the head with great goodwill; nay, it is probable that their wrath might have even induced them to resort to the points of their weapons, had they been equal to the management of their fiery steeds; but the spirited animals became restive in the bicker, and plunging two or three times, the youths, more attentive to mauling each other than to their horsemanship, lost their seats, and in one and the same instant both were laid prostrate on the plain. Some of the followers of the hunting party caught their palfreys, and raised the enraged boys, who would have renewed their fight on foot had they not been held back.“Oh, ye silly fools,” said Sir Andrew, smiling coolly and contemptuously upon them; “as the old cock croweth, so, forsooth, the chicks must needs ape his song. Have done with your absurd and impotent wrath.” And leaving them in the hands of the attendants, he rode slowly forward with Hepborne to meet his father.“What!” demanded the Wolfe, laughing heartily, “were those cockerals pecking at each other?”“Yea,” replied Sir Andrew, “a trifling dispute between them, which I have quashed.”“Pshaw,” replied the Wolfe, “by the beard of my grandfather,[230]but I like to see their spirit; let not thy drowsy control quell it in them, son Andrew. I would not have them tame kestrels like thee, for all the broad lands of my father’s kingdom; so leave them to me to tutor, son Andrew, dost hear?—Sir Patrick,” said he, turning to Hepborne, “I hope thou hast not suffered in thine entertainment by mine absence? I should crave thy pardon, I wis, for leaving thee so suddenly, and perhaps so rudely; but I have let off my dammed-up wrath since I last saw thee, and shall now be better company. By this trusty burly-brand, I have shorn off the best plumes from the plump Bishop Barr; I have seized the fat lands he held in the very midst of my Badenoch territory. By the infernal fiends, I swore that he should pay for his busy intermeddling in my family affairs, and by all the powers of darkness and desolation, I have faithfully kept mine oath. I have hameled his pride, I trow. He shall know what it is to have to do with the Wolfe of Badenoch. He holds earth no more there. These are the custom-cattle of his lands, and there dangleth the rent and the grassums gathered from his knave tenants. Such of the churls who were refractory I have driven forth, and put good men of mine own in their room. Begone with ye, ye screaming pewits,” cried he, angrily turning towards the wretched train of men and women who followed his party, and couching his lance as if he would have charged furiously at them—“begone with ye, I say, or, by the fires of the infernal realms, I will put every he and she of ye instantly to the sword!”The miserable wretches, without a house to go to, ran off into the woods at his terrible threat, and the ferocious Wolfe rode on with his party. When they came to the water’s edge, the bugles sounded, and a boat being instantly manned by six rowers, the Wolfe called to Sir Patrick Hepborne to go along with him, and they were wafted across in a few strokes of the oar, leaving Sir Alexander Stewart and his brothers to superintend the embarkation of the booty. All in the Castle was stir and bustle the moment the owner of it appeared. The oldest man in it seemed to be endowed with additional muscular action at the very presence of the Wolfe. They were all ranked up to receive him as he entered the gateway, and they followed him, and darted off one by one, like arrows, in various directions, as he gave his hasty orders.[231]
[Contents]CHAPTER XXX.The Castle of Lochyndorbe—An Evening Episode on the Ramparts—The Wolfe’s Raid on the Bishop’s Lands.The evening’s banquet in the Castle of Lochyndorbe passed away pretty much as the morning’s meal had done in the hunting pavilion, that is to say, without anything very remarkable. The Lady Mariota, still devoting all her attention to the page, left her son, Sir Andrew Stewart, to entertain Sir Patrick Hepborne. Neither of the knights were disposed to quaff those draughts of wine which the Wolfe of Badenoch himself seemed to consider as essential to the comfort of life, and they soon separated. Hepborne sat in his apartment for some time after Mortimer Sang had left him, and then, falling into a train of reflection on the events which had occurred to him since his return from France, and perceiving that his clue of association must be fully unwound ere he could hope to sleep, he walked forth to enjoy the balmy freshness of the evening air, that he might give freer vent to his thoughts.He got upon the rampart that looked out over the broader part of the lake, and as he entered on one end of it, he was confounded—he could not believe his eyes—but it certainly was the figure of the Lady Eleanore de Selby that he beheld, leaning against one of the balistæ near the farther angle of the wall. The waning moon shed a dim and uncertain light; yet it was sufficient to convince him that the figure he saw before him was the same that had made so powerful an impression on his mind at Norham. She was wrapped in a mantle, with her head bare, and her beautiful tresses flowing down in the same manner he had seen them when blown by the breezes from the Tweed; and she seemed to look listlessly out upon the wavelets that flickered under the thin and scanty moonbeam, as they lifted themselves gently against the bulwark stones under the wall. Apparently buried in thought, she was so perfectly without motion that he began to doubt whether it was not a phantom he beheld; nay, it was impossible she could be there in substance—she whom he had left at Norham affianced as a bride. In those days of superstition it is no wonder, therefore, that he should have believed it was the Lady Eleanore de Selby’s spirit he saw, or, in the peculiar language of his own country, her wraith. His manly blood ran cold, and he hesitated for a moment whether[225]he ought to advance. The figure still remained fixed. Again the thought crossed him, that it might possibly be the Lady Eleanore, and love urged him to approach and address her; but then prudence came to caution him not to seem to see her, lest he might be again subdued, and forget what he had discovered at Norham. Thus tossed by doubt, until he could bear suspense no longer, both superstitious awe and prudence yielded to the influence of love, and, unable to restrain himself, he walked along the rampart towards the figure. It seemed not to hear his step—it moved not till he was within three or four paces, when it started at the sound of his steps, and, turning suddenly towards him, displayed the countenance of—the page, Maurice de Grey.“Ah, Sir Patrick!” said the boy, and instantly applying his taper fingers to his hair, he began twisting it up into a knot over his head, accidentally assuming, as he did so, the very attitude in which Hepborne had seen the lady when similarly employed on the rampart at Norham.“Maurice de Grey!” exclaimed Hepborne with extreme astonishment, “is it you I see? Verily, thine attitude, boy, did so remind me of that in which I once beheld thy cousin, the Lady Eleanore de Selby, that for a moment I did almost believe it was really she who stood before me. I did never remark before that thou dost wear thy hair so womanishly long.”Sir Patrick’s astonishment had been too great to permit him to remark the page’s trepidation when first surprised by him, and before his amazement had subsided, Maurice de Grey had time to recover himself.“’Tis true,” said he, “Sir Knight, that I have always worn my hair long, and put up in a silken net, being loth to cut it away, seeing it was the pride of my mother’s heart; but, nathless, if thou dost think it unmanly in me to wear it so, verily it shall be cut off before to-morrow morning, that it may no longer offend thee. Yet I marvel much what could possibly make thee to think that my cousin, the Lady Eleanore, could be here in the Castle of Lochyndorbe; or how hast thou perchance set thine eyes on her, so as to have so perfect a remembrance of her figure as thou dost seem to preserve? I know that her father, Sir Walter, doth take especial care that she shall never be seen by any Scottish knight. Then by what accident, I pray thee, didst thou behold her?”Hepborne was considerably puzzled and perplexed by these naif questions from the page. To have refused to reply to them at all would have been the very way to have excited a thousand[226]suspicions in the boy’s mind; he, therefore, thought it better to answer him, and he wished to do so in a calm and indifferent manner. But it was a subject on which he could not think, far less talk, with composure, and, ere he wist, he burst into an ecstacy of feeling that quite confounded the page.“See her!” said he; “alas, too often have I seen the Lady Eleanore de Selby for my peace. Never, never, shall peace revisit this bosom. She is another’s; yet, nathless, must this torn heart be hers whilst it shall throb with life.” And saying so, he covered his face with his hands, and retreated some steps to hide the violence of his emotions; but becoming ashamed of having thus exposed his secret to the page, and made him privy to the extent of his weakness, he returned to the boy, and found him weeping bitterly, apparently from sympathy.“Maurice,” said Hepborne, calmly addressing him, “accident hath made thee wring from me the secret of my love, as chance did also make me tell thee yesternight, that I had cause to fear that the demoiselle who hath so deeply affected me was not in truth altogether what she at first appeared to me. As she is thy cousin, and so dear to thee as thou dost now say she is, I would not willingly allow thee to suppose that I have been estranged from her by mere caprice. I shall therefore tell thee that the Lady Eleanore de Selby did give me good cause to believe that my ardent protestations of love were not unpleasing to her; nay, she even held out encouragement to the prosecution of my suit; and yet, after all this ground of hope I did discover that she was affianced to another knight, in whose arms I did actually behold her, as they parted from each other, with many tears at the keep-bridge of Norham, on the very morning when I and my friend left the place. Her emotions were too tender to be mistaken. She it was who sported lightly with my heart, not I with hers, for, had she not been faithless, I would have sacrificed life itself for her love, and would have considered the wealth of a kingdom but as dross compared with the possession of a jewel so precious. Even as it is, I am doomed to love her for ever. I feel it—I feel it here!” said he, passionately striking his heart—“I can never, never cease to love her.”The page seemed petrified with the charge brought against his cousin. He grew faint, and staggered back a pace or two, until he was stayed by the support he received from the balistæ; then panting for a moment he was at length relieved by a flood of tears.“Thou seest, Maurice,” said Hepborne, “the facts are too damning. It would have been better for thee to have inquired[227]less curiously. But what figure is that which cometh yonder from the farther end of the rampart?”“Blessed Virgin,” cried Maurice de Grey, “’tis my perpetual torment, the Lady Mariota. What shall I do? Methought I had escaped from her importunity for this night at least.”“Why shouldst thou not be able to bear with her?” said the knight; “’tis a part of thy schooling, young man, to submit to mortification, and, above all, to bear with unpleasant society, without losing a jot of thy courtesy, especially where women are in question.”“True, Sir Knight,” said the page, half whimpering, “but the Lady Mariota hath actually made violent love to me. Oh, I cannot bear the wretch.”Hepborne could not help laughing at the ludicrous distress of the youth, and he had hardly time to compose himself ere the Lady Mariota came within speaking distance of them.“So, so, thou art there, runaway?” said she to the page, as she passed by Hepborne with a mere bow of acknowledgment, to get at Maurice, who retreated towards the balistæ with his head down—“so thou art there, art thou, Sir Scapegrace? Thou art a pretty truant, indeed,” continued she, hooking him under one arm, and giving him a gentle slap on one cheek. “But, thank my lucky stars, I have caught thee now, and verily thou shalt not again escape me. I’faith thou shalt have thy wings clipt, my little tom-tit; I shall have thee tied to my apron string, that thou hop thee not away from me thus at every turning. I did but let thee out of my sight for an instant, and whisk I find thee at the very outermost verge of my circle. Nay, had it not been for these walls and waters, in good truth thou mightest have been beyond my search ere this. Come away, Sir Good-for-Nothing. Allons, make up thy mind to thy chain; let me lead thee by it, and do not thou pull so.”“Lady,” said Hepborne, “thou must have some mercy on the poor youth. He hath so lately escaped from female thrall at home, that as yet he can but ill brook anything that resembleth it. Leave him to me, I beseech thee. At present he joys in the newly-acquired society of men; by degrees he will come to feel how much more sweet and soothing are the delights of women’s converse, and——”“Nay, nay, Sir Knight,” said the Lady Mariota, interrupting him hastily, “I shall not yield my control over the renegado, I promise thee; he shall with me this moment. Come, along, Sir Page Maurice—come along, I say. Thou art a pretty youth indeed! I have searched for thee through every apartment, nay,[228]through every creek and cranny in the Castle; and now that I have found thee, by my troth, I shall not yield thee up so easily. Come along, I say.” And like a bitch-fox dragging off an unhappy kid, so did the Lady Mariota drag away the hapless Maurice de Grey, in defiance of his lagging step, his peevish replies, his hanging head, his pouting lip, and the numerous glances of vexation he darted from under his eyelashes at his tormentor.Hepborne retired to his repose, half amused and half angry with the persecution inflicted on his poor page. Early next morning, Mortimer Sang came to him with a courteous message from Sir Andrew Stewart, begging to know if it was his pleasure to hunt for a few hours; and Hepborne having cheerfully agreed to the proposal, the two knights met alone at breakfast, and then crossed to the mainland with their horses, hounds, hunting-gear, and a few attendants, to scour the neighbouring forest for deer.As they were returning homewards towards evening, they heard the echoing sound of bugles.“’Tis my father,” said Sir Andrew; “’tis the Earl returning with his party from Badenoch; see, there they come, breaking forth from yonder woodshaws.”It was indeed the Wolfe of Badenoch; but he was now in a very different array from that which he had first appeared in to Hepborne. He was clad from head to foot in a complete suit of bright plate armour, and his height and bulk seemed to be increased by the metamorphosis. He rode at the head of a gallant troop of well-mounted and well-equipped spearmen, after which marched a company of footmen, consisting of pole-axe-men, and bowmen. His sons, Sir Alexander, Walter, and James, rode proudly by his side. The cavalcade went at a foot pace, because a rabble of bare-legged and bare-headed tatterdemalion mountaineers ran before them, armed with clubs, goads, and pikes, and driving along a promiscuous herd of cows, bullocks, sheep, and goats, of all different ages and descriptions, which considerably retarded their march. A bugle-man preceded the whole, bearing aloft an otter-skin purse on the point of a spear. His banner waved in the middle of the clump of spears; and in the rear of all followed a tired and straggling band of men, women, and children, who were grieving loudly, and weeping sadly, for some dire injury they had sustained, and vociferating vain appeals in their own language to the stern Wolfe, who, with his vizor up, and his brows knit, rode on unheeding them.[229]Ere the parties met, the two boys, Walter and James, galloped up to meet their brother, Sir Andrew, and both began at once to shout out their news to him—“Oh, brother Andrew, brother Andrew, we have had such sport!” cried the one.“Nay, thou knowest not what thou hast lost, brother Andrew, by not being with us,” cried the other.“Father hath seized——” shouted Walter.“The Earl hath taken possession of——” interrupted James.“Tut, hold thy gabbling tongue, James, and let me tell,” responded Walter.“Nay, but I will tell it,” cried James lustily.“By the holy Rood, but I will not be interrupted,” screamed out Walter.“By the Bishop’s mass, then, but I will tell out mine own tale in spite of thee,” bellowed James; “the Earl hath seized, I say——”“Confound thee, then!” roared out Walter in a frenzy, and at the same time bestowing a hearty thwack with the shaft of his spear across his brother’s shoulders—“confound thine impudence, take that for thine insolence.”The no less irascible James was by no means slow in returning the compliment, and they began to beat one another about the head with great goodwill; nay, it is probable that their wrath might have even induced them to resort to the points of their weapons, had they been equal to the management of their fiery steeds; but the spirited animals became restive in the bicker, and plunging two or three times, the youths, more attentive to mauling each other than to their horsemanship, lost their seats, and in one and the same instant both were laid prostrate on the plain. Some of the followers of the hunting party caught their palfreys, and raised the enraged boys, who would have renewed their fight on foot had they not been held back.“Oh, ye silly fools,” said Sir Andrew, smiling coolly and contemptuously upon them; “as the old cock croweth, so, forsooth, the chicks must needs ape his song. Have done with your absurd and impotent wrath.” And leaving them in the hands of the attendants, he rode slowly forward with Hepborne to meet his father.“What!” demanded the Wolfe, laughing heartily, “were those cockerals pecking at each other?”“Yea,” replied Sir Andrew, “a trifling dispute between them, which I have quashed.”“Pshaw,” replied the Wolfe, “by the beard of my grandfather,[230]but I like to see their spirit; let not thy drowsy control quell it in them, son Andrew. I would not have them tame kestrels like thee, for all the broad lands of my father’s kingdom; so leave them to me to tutor, son Andrew, dost hear?—Sir Patrick,” said he, turning to Hepborne, “I hope thou hast not suffered in thine entertainment by mine absence? I should crave thy pardon, I wis, for leaving thee so suddenly, and perhaps so rudely; but I have let off my dammed-up wrath since I last saw thee, and shall now be better company. By this trusty burly-brand, I have shorn off the best plumes from the plump Bishop Barr; I have seized the fat lands he held in the very midst of my Badenoch territory. By the infernal fiends, I swore that he should pay for his busy intermeddling in my family affairs, and by all the powers of darkness and desolation, I have faithfully kept mine oath. I have hameled his pride, I trow. He shall know what it is to have to do with the Wolfe of Badenoch. He holds earth no more there. These are the custom-cattle of his lands, and there dangleth the rent and the grassums gathered from his knave tenants. Such of the churls who were refractory I have driven forth, and put good men of mine own in their room. Begone with ye, ye screaming pewits,” cried he, angrily turning towards the wretched train of men and women who followed his party, and couching his lance as if he would have charged furiously at them—“begone with ye, I say, or, by the fires of the infernal realms, I will put every he and she of ye instantly to the sword!”The miserable wretches, without a house to go to, ran off into the woods at his terrible threat, and the ferocious Wolfe rode on with his party. When they came to the water’s edge, the bugles sounded, and a boat being instantly manned by six rowers, the Wolfe called to Sir Patrick Hepborne to go along with him, and they were wafted across in a few strokes of the oar, leaving Sir Alexander Stewart and his brothers to superintend the embarkation of the booty. All in the Castle was stir and bustle the moment the owner of it appeared. The oldest man in it seemed to be endowed with additional muscular action at the very presence of the Wolfe. They were all ranked up to receive him as he entered the gateway, and they followed him, and darted off one by one, like arrows, in various directions, as he gave his hasty orders.[231]
CHAPTER XXX.The Castle of Lochyndorbe—An Evening Episode on the Ramparts—The Wolfe’s Raid on the Bishop’s Lands.
The Castle of Lochyndorbe—An Evening Episode on the Ramparts—The Wolfe’s Raid on the Bishop’s Lands.
The Castle of Lochyndorbe—An Evening Episode on the Ramparts—The Wolfe’s Raid on the Bishop’s Lands.
The evening’s banquet in the Castle of Lochyndorbe passed away pretty much as the morning’s meal had done in the hunting pavilion, that is to say, without anything very remarkable. The Lady Mariota, still devoting all her attention to the page, left her son, Sir Andrew Stewart, to entertain Sir Patrick Hepborne. Neither of the knights were disposed to quaff those draughts of wine which the Wolfe of Badenoch himself seemed to consider as essential to the comfort of life, and they soon separated. Hepborne sat in his apartment for some time after Mortimer Sang had left him, and then, falling into a train of reflection on the events which had occurred to him since his return from France, and perceiving that his clue of association must be fully unwound ere he could hope to sleep, he walked forth to enjoy the balmy freshness of the evening air, that he might give freer vent to his thoughts.He got upon the rampart that looked out over the broader part of the lake, and as he entered on one end of it, he was confounded—he could not believe his eyes—but it certainly was the figure of the Lady Eleanore de Selby that he beheld, leaning against one of the balistæ near the farther angle of the wall. The waning moon shed a dim and uncertain light; yet it was sufficient to convince him that the figure he saw before him was the same that had made so powerful an impression on his mind at Norham. She was wrapped in a mantle, with her head bare, and her beautiful tresses flowing down in the same manner he had seen them when blown by the breezes from the Tweed; and she seemed to look listlessly out upon the wavelets that flickered under the thin and scanty moonbeam, as they lifted themselves gently against the bulwark stones under the wall. Apparently buried in thought, she was so perfectly without motion that he began to doubt whether it was not a phantom he beheld; nay, it was impossible she could be there in substance—she whom he had left at Norham affianced as a bride. In those days of superstition it is no wonder, therefore, that he should have believed it was the Lady Eleanore de Selby’s spirit he saw, or, in the peculiar language of his own country, her wraith. His manly blood ran cold, and he hesitated for a moment whether[225]he ought to advance. The figure still remained fixed. Again the thought crossed him, that it might possibly be the Lady Eleanore, and love urged him to approach and address her; but then prudence came to caution him not to seem to see her, lest he might be again subdued, and forget what he had discovered at Norham. Thus tossed by doubt, until he could bear suspense no longer, both superstitious awe and prudence yielded to the influence of love, and, unable to restrain himself, he walked along the rampart towards the figure. It seemed not to hear his step—it moved not till he was within three or four paces, when it started at the sound of his steps, and, turning suddenly towards him, displayed the countenance of—the page, Maurice de Grey.“Ah, Sir Patrick!” said the boy, and instantly applying his taper fingers to his hair, he began twisting it up into a knot over his head, accidentally assuming, as he did so, the very attitude in which Hepborne had seen the lady when similarly employed on the rampart at Norham.“Maurice de Grey!” exclaimed Hepborne with extreme astonishment, “is it you I see? Verily, thine attitude, boy, did so remind me of that in which I once beheld thy cousin, the Lady Eleanore de Selby, that for a moment I did almost believe it was really she who stood before me. I did never remark before that thou dost wear thy hair so womanishly long.”Sir Patrick’s astonishment had been too great to permit him to remark the page’s trepidation when first surprised by him, and before his amazement had subsided, Maurice de Grey had time to recover himself.“’Tis true,” said he, “Sir Knight, that I have always worn my hair long, and put up in a silken net, being loth to cut it away, seeing it was the pride of my mother’s heart; but, nathless, if thou dost think it unmanly in me to wear it so, verily it shall be cut off before to-morrow morning, that it may no longer offend thee. Yet I marvel much what could possibly make thee to think that my cousin, the Lady Eleanore, could be here in the Castle of Lochyndorbe; or how hast thou perchance set thine eyes on her, so as to have so perfect a remembrance of her figure as thou dost seem to preserve? I know that her father, Sir Walter, doth take especial care that she shall never be seen by any Scottish knight. Then by what accident, I pray thee, didst thou behold her?”Hepborne was considerably puzzled and perplexed by these naif questions from the page. To have refused to reply to them at all would have been the very way to have excited a thousand[226]suspicions in the boy’s mind; he, therefore, thought it better to answer him, and he wished to do so in a calm and indifferent manner. But it was a subject on which he could not think, far less talk, with composure, and, ere he wist, he burst into an ecstacy of feeling that quite confounded the page.“See her!” said he; “alas, too often have I seen the Lady Eleanore de Selby for my peace. Never, never, shall peace revisit this bosom. She is another’s; yet, nathless, must this torn heart be hers whilst it shall throb with life.” And saying so, he covered his face with his hands, and retreated some steps to hide the violence of his emotions; but becoming ashamed of having thus exposed his secret to the page, and made him privy to the extent of his weakness, he returned to the boy, and found him weeping bitterly, apparently from sympathy.“Maurice,” said Hepborne, calmly addressing him, “accident hath made thee wring from me the secret of my love, as chance did also make me tell thee yesternight, that I had cause to fear that the demoiselle who hath so deeply affected me was not in truth altogether what she at first appeared to me. As she is thy cousin, and so dear to thee as thou dost now say she is, I would not willingly allow thee to suppose that I have been estranged from her by mere caprice. I shall therefore tell thee that the Lady Eleanore de Selby did give me good cause to believe that my ardent protestations of love were not unpleasing to her; nay, she even held out encouragement to the prosecution of my suit; and yet, after all this ground of hope I did discover that she was affianced to another knight, in whose arms I did actually behold her, as they parted from each other, with many tears at the keep-bridge of Norham, on the very morning when I and my friend left the place. Her emotions were too tender to be mistaken. She it was who sported lightly with my heart, not I with hers, for, had she not been faithless, I would have sacrificed life itself for her love, and would have considered the wealth of a kingdom but as dross compared with the possession of a jewel so precious. Even as it is, I am doomed to love her for ever. I feel it—I feel it here!” said he, passionately striking his heart—“I can never, never cease to love her.”The page seemed petrified with the charge brought against his cousin. He grew faint, and staggered back a pace or two, until he was stayed by the support he received from the balistæ; then panting for a moment he was at length relieved by a flood of tears.“Thou seest, Maurice,” said Hepborne, “the facts are too damning. It would have been better for thee to have inquired[227]less curiously. But what figure is that which cometh yonder from the farther end of the rampart?”“Blessed Virgin,” cried Maurice de Grey, “’tis my perpetual torment, the Lady Mariota. What shall I do? Methought I had escaped from her importunity for this night at least.”“Why shouldst thou not be able to bear with her?” said the knight; “’tis a part of thy schooling, young man, to submit to mortification, and, above all, to bear with unpleasant society, without losing a jot of thy courtesy, especially where women are in question.”“True, Sir Knight,” said the page, half whimpering, “but the Lady Mariota hath actually made violent love to me. Oh, I cannot bear the wretch.”Hepborne could not help laughing at the ludicrous distress of the youth, and he had hardly time to compose himself ere the Lady Mariota came within speaking distance of them.“So, so, thou art there, runaway?” said she to the page, as she passed by Hepborne with a mere bow of acknowledgment, to get at Maurice, who retreated towards the balistæ with his head down—“so thou art there, art thou, Sir Scapegrace? Thou art a pretty truant, indeed,” continued she, hooking him under one arm, and giving him a gentle slap on one cheek. “But, thank my lucky stars, I have caught thee now, and verily thou shalt not again escape me. I’faith thou shalt have thy wings clipt, my little tom-tit; I shall have thee tied to my apron string, that thou hop thee not away from me thus at every turning. I did but let thee out of my sight for an instant, and whisk I find thee at the very outermost verge of my circle. Nay, had it not been for these walls and waters, in good truth thou mightest have been beyond my search ere this. Come away, Sir Good-for-Nothing. Allons, make up thy mind to thy chain; let me lead thee by it, and do not thou pull so.”“Lady,” said Hepborne, “thou must have some mercy on the poor youth. He hath so lately escaped from female thrall at home, that as yet he can but ill brook anything that resembleth it. Leave him to me, I beseech thee. At present he joys in the newly-acquired society of men; by degrees he will come to feel how much more sweet and soothing are the delights of women’s converse, and——”“Nay, nay, Sir Knight,” said the Lady Mariota, interrupting him hastily, “I shall not yield my control over the renegado, I promise thee; he shall with me this moment. Come, along, Sir Page Maurice—come along, I say. Thou art a pretty youth indeed! I have searched for thee through every apartment, nay,[228]through every creek and cranny in the Castle; and now that I have found thee, by my troth, I shall not yield thee up so easily. Come along, I say.” And like a bitch-fox dragging off an unhappy kid, so did the Lady Mariota drag away the hapless Maurice de Grey, in defiance of his lagging step, his peevish replies, his hanging head, his pouting lip, and the numerous glances of vexation he darted from under his eyelashes at his tormentor.Hepborne retired to his repose, half amused and half angry with the persecution inflicted on his poor page. Early next morning, Mortimer Sang came to him with a courteous message from Sir Andrew Stewart, begging to know if it was his pleasure to hunt for a few hours; and Hepborne having cheerfully agreed to the proposal, the two knights met alone at breakfast, and then crossed to the mainland with their horses, hounds, hunting-gear, and a few attendants, to scour the neighbouring forest for deer.As they were returning homewards towards evening, they heard the echoing sound of bugles.“’Tis my father,” said Sir Andrew; “’tis the Earl returning with his party from Badenoch; see, there they come, breaking forth from yonder woodshaws.”It was indeed the Wolfe of Badenoch; but he was now in a very different array from that which he had first appeared in to Hepborne. He was clad from head to foot in a complete suit of bright plate armour, and his height and bulk seemed to be increased by the metamorphosis. He rode at the head of a gallant troop of well-mounted and well-equipped spearmen, after which marched a company of footmen, consisting of pole-axe-men, and bowmen. His sons, Sir Alexander, Walter, and James, rode proudly by his side. The cavalcade went at a foot pace, because a rabble of bare-legged and bare-headed tatterdemalion mountaineers ran before them, armed with clubs, goads, and pikes, and driving along a promiscuous herd of cows, bullocks, sheep, and goats, of all different ages and descriptions, which considerably retarded their march. A bugle-man preceded the whole, bearing aloft an otter-skin purse on the point of a spear. His banner waved in the middle of the clump of spears; and in the rear of all followed a tired and straggling band of men, women, and children, who were grieving loudly, and weeping sadly, for some dire injury they had sustained, and vociferating vain appeals in their own language to the stern Wolfe, who, with his vizor up, and his brows knit, rode on unheeding them.[229]Ere the parties met, the two boys, Walter and James, galloped up to meet their brother, Sir Andrew, and both began at once to shout out their news to him—“Oh, brother Andrew, brother Andrew, we have had such sport!” cried the one.“Nay, thou knowest not what thou hast lost, brother Andrew, by not being with us,” cried the other.“Father hath seized——” shouted Walter.“The Earl hath taken possession of——” interrupted James.“Tut, hold thy gabbling tongue, James, and let me tell,” responded Walter.“Nay, but I will tell it,” cried James lustily.“By the holy Rood, but I will not be interrupted,” screamed out Walter.“By the Bishop’s mass, then, but I will tell out mine own tale in spite of thee,” bellowed James; “the Earl hath seized, I say——”“Confound thee, then!” roared out Walter in a frenzy, and at the same time bestowing a hearty thwack with the shaft of his spear across his brother’s shoulders—“confound thine impudence, take that for thine insolence.”The no less irascible James was by no means slow in returning the compliment, and they began to beat one another about the head with great goodwill; nay, it is probable that their wrath might have even induced them to resort to the points of their weapons, had they been equal to the management of their fiery steeds; but the spirited animals became restive in the bicker, and plunging two or three times, the youths, more attentive to mauling each other than to their horsemanship, lost their seats, and in one and the same instant both were laid prostrate on the plain. Some of the followers of the hunting party caught their palfreys, and raised the enraged boys, who would have renewed their fight on foot had they not been held back.“Oh, ye silly fools,” said Sir Andrew, smiling coolly and contemptuously upon them; “as the old cock croweth, so, forsooth, the chicks must needs ape his song. Have done with your absurd and impotent wrath.” And leaving them in the hands of the attendants, he rode slowly forward with Hepborne to meet his father.“What!” demanded the Wolfe, laughing heartily, “were those cockerals pecking at each other?”“Yea,” replied Sir Andrew, “a trifling dispute between them, which I have quashed.”“Pshaw,” replied the Wolfe, “by the beard of my grandfather,[230]but I like to see their spirit; let not thy drowsy control quell it in them, son Andrew. I would not have them tame kestrels like thee, for all the broad lands of my father’s kingdom; so leave them to me to tutor, son Andrew, dost hear?—Sir Patrick,” said he, turning to Hepborne, “I hope thou hast not suffered in thine entertainment by mine absence? I should crave thy pardon, I wis, for leaving thee so suddenly, and perhaps so rudely; but I have let off my dammed-up wrath since I last saw thee, and shall now be better company. By this trusty burly-brand, I have shorn off the best plumes from the plump Bishop Barr; I have seized the fat lands he held in the very midst of my Badenoch territory. By the infernal fiends, I swore that he should pay for his busy intermeddling in my family affairs, and by all the powers of darkness and desolation, I have faithfully kept mine oath. I have hameled his pride, I trow. He shall know what it is to have to do with the Wolfe of Badenoch. He holds earth no more there. These are the custom-cattle of his lands, and there dangleth the rent and the grassums gathered from his knave tenants. Such of the churls who were refractory I have driven forth, and put good men of mine own in their room. Begone with ye, ye screaming pewits,” cried he, angrily turning towards the wretched train of men and women who followed his party, and couching his lance as if he would have charged furiously at them—“begone with ye, I say, or, by the fires of the infernal realms, I will put every he and she of ye instantly to the sword!”The miserable wretches, without a house to go to, ran off into the woods at his terrible threat, and the ferocious Wolfe rode on with his party. When they came to the water’s edge, the bugles sounded, and a boat being instantly manned by six rowers, the Wolfe called to Sir Patrick Hepborne to go along with him, and they were wafted across in a few strokes of the oar, leaving Sir Alexander Stewart and his brothers to superintend the embarkation of the booty. All in the Castle was stir and bustle the moment the owner of it appeared. The oldest man in it seemed to be endowed with additional muscular action at the very presence of the Wolfe. They were all ranked up to receive him as he entered the gateway, and they followed him, and darted off one by one, like arrows, in various directions, as he gave his hasty orders.[231]
The evening’s banquet in the Castle of Lochyndorbe passed away pretty much as the morning’s meal had done in the hunting pavilion, that is to say, without anything very remarkable. The Lady Mariota, still devoting all her attention to the page, left her son, Sir Andrew Stewart, to entertain Sir Patrick Hepborne. Neither of the knights were disposed to quaff those draughts of wine which the Wolfe of Badenoch himself seemed to consider as essential to the comfort of life, and they soon separated. Hepborne sat in his apartment for some time after Mortimer Sang had left him, and then, falling into a train of reflection on the events which had occurred to him since his return from France, and perceiving that his clue of association must be fully unwound ere he could hope to sleep, he walked forth to enjoy the balmy freshness of the evening air, that he might give freer vent to his thoughts.
He got upon the rampart that looked out over the broader part of the lake, and as he entered on one end of it, he was confounded—he could not believe his eyes—but it certainly was the figure of the Lady Eleanore de Selby that he beheld, leaning against one of the balistæ near the farther angle of the wall. The waning moon shed a dim and uncertain light; yet it was sufficient to convince him that the figure he saw before him was the same that had made so powerful an impression on his mind at Norham. She was wrapped in a mantle, with her head bare, and her beautiful tresses flowing down in the same manner he had seen them when blown by the breezes from the Tweed; and she seemed to look listlessly out upon the wavelets that flickered under the thin and scanty moonbeam, as they lifted themselves gently against the bulwark stones under the wall. Apparently buried in thought, she was so perfectly without motion that he began to doubt whether it was not a phantom he beheld; nay, it was impossible she could be there in substance—she whom he had left at Norham affianced as a bride. In those days of superstition it is no wonder, therefore, that he should have believed it was the Lady Eleanore de Selby’s spirit he saw, or, in the peculiar language of his own country, her wraith. His manly blood ran cold, and he hesitated for a moment whether[225]he ought to advance. The figure still remained fixed. Again the thought crossed him, that it might possibly be the Lady Eleanore, and love urged him to approach and address her; but then prudence came to caution him not to seem to see her, lest he might be again subdued, and forget what he had discovered at Norham. Thus tossed by doubt, until he could bear suspense no longer, both superstitious awe and prudence yielded to the influence of love, and, unable to restrain himself, he walked along the rampart towards the figure. It seemed not to hear his step—it moved not till he was within three or four paces, when it started at the sound of his steps, and, turning suddenly towards him, displayed the countenance of—the page, Maurice de Grey.
“Ah, Sir Patrick!” said the boy, and instantly applying his taper fingers to his hair, he began twisting it up into a knot over his head, accidentally assuming, as he did so, the very attitude in which Hepborne had seen the lady when similarly employed on the rampart at Norham.
“Maurice de Grey!” exclaimed Hepborne with extreme astonishment, “is it you I see? Verily, thine attitude, boy, did so remind me of that in which I once beheld thy cousin, the Lady Eleanore de Selby, that for a moment I did almost believe it was really she who stood before me. I did never remark before that thou dost wear thy hair so womanishly long.”
Sir Patrick’s astonishment had been too great to permit him to remark the page’s trepidation when first surprised by him, and before his amazement had subsided, Maurice de Grey had time to recover himself.
“’Tis true,” said he, “Sir Knight, that I have always worn my hair long, and put up in a silken net, being loth to cut it away, seeing it was the pride of my mother’s heart; but, nathless, if thou dost think it unmanly in me to wear it so, verily it shall be cut off before to-morrow morning, that it may no longer offend thee. Yet I marvel much what could possibly make thee to think that my cousin, the Lady Eleanore, could be here in the Castle of Lochyndorbe; or how hast thou perchance set thine eyes on her, so as to have so perfect a remembrance of her figure as thou dost seem to preserve? I know that her father, Sir Walter, doth take especial care that she shall never be seen by any Scottish knight. Then by what accident, I pray thee, didst thou behold her?”
Hepborne was considerably puzzled and perplexed by these naif questions from the page. To have refused to reply to them at all would have been the very way to have excited a thousand[226]suspicions in the boy’s mind; he, therefore, thought it better to answer him, and he wished to do so in a calm and indifferent manner. But it was a subject on which he could not think, far less talk, with composure, and, ere he wist, he burst into an ecstacy of feeling that quite confounded the page.
“See her!” said he; “alas, too often have I seen the Lady Eleanore de Selby for my peace. Never, never, shall peace revisit this bosom. She is another’s; yet, nathless, must this torn heart be hers whilst it shall throb with life.” And saying so, he covered his face with his hands, and retreated some steps to hide the violence of his emotions; but becoming ashamed of having thus exposed his secret to the page, and made him privy to the extent of his weakness, he returned to the boy, and found him weeping bitterly, apparently from sympathy.
“Maurice,” said Hepborne, calmly addressing him, “accident hath made thee wring from me the secret of my love, as chance did also make me tell thee yesternight, that I had cause to fear that the demoiselle who hath so deeply affected me was not in truth altogether what she at first appeared to me. As she is thy cousin, and so dear to thee as thou dost now say she is, I would not willingly allow thee to suppose that I have been estranged from her by mere caprice. I shall therefore tell thee that the Lady Eleanore de Selby did give me good cause to believe that my ardent protestations of love were not unpleasing to her; nay, she even held out encouragement to the prosecution of my suit; and yet, after all this ground of hope I did discover that she was affianced to another knight, in whose arms I did actually behold her, as they parted from each other, with many tears at the keep-bridge of Norham, on the very morning when I and my friend left the place. Her emotions were too tender to be mistaken. She it was who sported lightly with my heart, not I with hers, for, had she not been faithless, I would have sacrificed life itself for her love, and would have considered the wealth of a kingdom but as dross compared with the possession of a jewel so precious. Even as it is, I am doomed to love her for ever. I feel it—I feel it here!” said he, passionately striking his heart—“I can never, never cease to love her.”
The page seemed petrified with the charge brought against his cousin. He grew faint, and staggered back a pace or two, until he was stayed by the support he received from the balistæ; then panting for a moment he was at length relieved by a flood of tears.
“Thou seest, Maurice,” said Hepborne, “the facts are too damning. It would have been better for thee to have inquired[227]less curiously. But what figure is that which cometh yonder from the farther end of the rampart?”
“Blessed Virgin,” cried Maurice de Grey, “’tis my perpetual torment, the Lady Mariota. What shall I do? Methought I had escaped from her importunity for this night at least.”
“Why shouldst thou not be able to bear with her?” said the knight; “’tis a part of thy schooling, young man, to submit to mortification, and, above all, to bear with unpleasant society, without losing a jot of thy courtesy, especially where women are in question.”
“True, Sir Knight,” said the page, half whimpering, “but the Lady Mariota hath actually made violent love to me. Oh, I cannot bear the wretch.”
Hepborne could not help laughing at the ludicrous distress of the youth, and he had hardly time to compose himself ere the Lady Mariota came within speaking distance of them.
“So, so, thou art there, runaway?” said she to the page, as she passed by Hepborne with a mere bow of acknowledgment, to get at Maurice, who retreated towards the balistæ with his head down—“so thou art there, art thou, Sir Scapegrace? Thou art a pretty truant, indeed,” continued she, hooking him under one arm, and giving him a gentle slap on one cheek. “But, thank my lucky stars, I have caught thee now, and verily thou shalt not again escape me. I’faith thou shalt have thy wings clipt, my little tom-tit; I shall have thee tied to my apron string, that thou hop thee not away from me thus at every turning. I did but let thee out of my sight for an instant, and whisk I find thee at the very outermost verge of my circle. Nay, had it not been for these walls and waters, in good truth thou mightest have been beyond my search ere this. Come away, Sir Good-for-Nothing. Allons, make up thy mind to thy chain; let me lead thee by it, and do not thou pull so.”
“Lady,” said Hepborne, “thou must have some mercy on the poor youth. He hath so lately escaped from female thrall at home, that as yet he can but ill brook anything that resembleth it. Leave him to me, I beseech thee. At present he joys in the newly-acquired society of men; by degrees he will come to feel how much more sweet and soothing are the delights of women’s converse, and——”
“Nay, nay, Sir Knight,” said the Lady Mariota, interrupting him hastily, “I shall not yield my control over the renegado, I promise thee; he shall with me this moment. Come, along, Sir Page Maurice—come along, I say. Thou art a pretty youth indeed! I have searched for thee through every apartment, nay,[228]through every creek and cranny in the Castle; and now that I have found thee, by my troth, I shall not yield thee up so easily. Come along, I say.” And like a bitch-fox dragging off an unhappy kid, so did the Lady Mariota drag away the hapless Maurice de Grey, in defiance of his lagging step, his peevish replies, his hanging head, his pouting lip, and the numerous glances of vexation he darted from under his eyelashes at his tormentor.
Hepborne retired to his repose, half amused and half angry with the persecution inflicted on his poor page. Early next morning, Mortimer Sang came to him with a courteous message from Sir Andrew Stewart, begging to know if it was his pleasure to hunt for a few hours; and Hepborne having cheerfully agreed to the proposal, the two knights met alone at breakfast, and then crossed to the mainland with their horses, hounds, hunting-gear, and a few attendants, to scour the neighbouring forest for deer.
As they were returning homewards towards evening, they heard the echoing sound of bugles.
“’Tis my father,” said Sir Andrew; “’tis the Earl returning with his party from Badenoch; see, there they come, breaking forth from yonder woodshaws.”
It was indeed the Wolfe of Badenoch; but he was now in a very different array from that which he had first appeared in to Hepborne. He was clad from head to foot in a complete suit of bright plate armour, and his height and bulk seemed to be increased by the metamorphosis. He rode at the head of a gallant troop of well-mounted and well-equipped spearmen, after which marched a company of footmen, consisting of pole-axe-men, and bowmen. His sons, Sir Alexander, Walter, and James, rode proudly by his side. The cavalcade went at a foot pace, because a rabble of bare-legged and bare-headed tatterdemalion mountaineers ran before them, armed with clubs, goads, and pikes, and driving along a promiscuous herd of cows, bullocks, sheep, and goats, of all different ages and descriptions, which considerably retarded their march. A bugle-man preceded the whole, bearing aloft an otter-skin purse on the point of a spear. His banner waved in the middle of the clump of spears; and in the rear of all followed a tired and straggling band of men, women, and children, who were grieving loudly, and weeping sadly, for some dire injury they had sustained, and vociferating vain appeals in their own language to the stern Wolfe, who, with his vizor up, and his brows knit, rode on unheeding them.[229]
Ere the parties met, the two boys, Walter and James, galloped up to meet their brother, Sir Andrew, and both began at once to shout out their news to him—
“Oh, brother Andrew, brother Andrew, we have had such sport!” cried the one.
“Nay, thou knowest not what thou hast lost, brother Andrew, by not being with us,” cried the other.
“Father hath seized——” shouted Walter.
“The Earl hath taken possession of——” interrupted James.
“Tut, hold thy gabbling tongue, James, and let me tell,” responded Walter.
“Nay, but I will tell it,” cried James lustily.
“By the holy Rood, but I will not be interrupted,” screamed out Walter.
“By the Bishop’s mass, then, but I will tell out mine own tale in spite of thee,” bellowed James; “the Earl hath seized, I say——”
“Confound thee, then!” roared out Walter in a frenzy, and at the same time bestowing a hearty thwack with the shaft of his spear across his brother’s shoulders—“confound thine impudence, take that for thine insolence.”
The no less irascible James was by no means slow in returning the compliment, and they began to beat one another about the head with great goodwill; nay, it is probable that their wrath might have even induced them to resort to the points of their weapons, had they been equal to the management of their fiery steeds; but the spirited animals became restive in the bicker, and plunging two or three times, the youths, more attentive to mauling each other than to their horsemanship, lost their seats, and in one and the same instant both were laid prostrate on the plain. Some of the followers of the hunting party caught their palfreys, and raised the enraged boys, who would have renewed their fight on foot had they not been held back.
“Oh, ye silly fools,” said Sir Andrew, smiling coolly and contemptuously upon them; “as the old cock croweth, so, forsooth, the chicks must needs ape his song. Have done with your absurd and impotent wrath.” And leaving them in the hands of the attendants, he rode slowly forward with Hepborne to meet his father.
“What!” demanded the Wolfe, laughing heartily, “were those cockerals pecking at each other?”
“Yea,” replied Sir Andrew, “a trifling dispute between them, which I have quashed.”
“Pshaw,” replied the Wolfe, “by the beard of my grandfather,[230]but I like to see their spirit; let not thy drowsy control quell it in them, son Andrew. I would not have them tame kestrels like thee, for all the broad lands of my father’s kingdom; so leave them to me to tutor, son Andrew, dost hear?—Sir Patrick,” said he, turning to Hepborne, “I hope thou hast not suffered in thine entertainment by mine absence? I should crave thy pardon, I wis, for leaving thee so suddenly, and perhaps so rudely; but I have let off my dammed-up wrath since I last saw thee, and shall now be better company. By this trusty burly-brand, I have shorn off the best plumes from the plump Bishop Barr; I have seized the fat lands he held in the very midst of my Badenoch territory. By the infernal fiends, I swore that he should pay for his busy intermeddling in my family affairs, and by all the powers of darkness and desolation, I have faithfully kept mine oath. I have hameled his pride, I trow. He shall know what it is to have to do with the Wolfe of Badenoch. He holds earth no more there. These are the custom-cattle of his lands, and there dangleth the rent and the grassums gathered from his knave tenants. Such of the churls who were refractory I have driven forth, and put good men of mine own in their room. Begone with ye, ye screaming pewits,” cried he, angrily turning towards the wretched train of men and women who followed his party, and couching his lance as if he would have charged furiously at them—“begone with ye, I say, or, by the fires of the infernal realms, I will put every he and she of ye instantly to the sword!”
The miserable wretches, without a house to go to, ran off into the woods at his terrible threat, and the ferocious Wolfe rode on with his party. When they came to the water’s edge, the bugles sounded, and a boat being instantly manned by six rowers, the Wolfe called to Sir Patrick Hepborne to go along with him, and they were wafted across in a few strokes of the oar, leaving Sir Alexander Stewart and his brothers to superintend the embarkation of the booty. All in the Castle was stir and bustle the moment the owner of it appeared. The oldest man in it seemed to be endowed with additional muscular action at the very presence of the Wolfe. They were all ranked up to receive him as he entered the gateway, and they followed him, and darted off one by one, like arrows, in various directions, as he gave his hasty orders.[231]