It was near midnight, on the 12th of October 1516, when a horseman,
spurring his jaded steed, rode furiously down the path leading to the
strong tower of Wedderburn. He alighted at the gate, and knocked loudly
for admission.
"What would ye?" inquired the warder from the turret.
"Conduct me to your chief," was the laconic reply of the breathless
messenger.
"Is your message so urgent that ye must deliver it to-night?" continued
the warder, who feared to kindle the fiery temper of his master, by
disturbing him with a trifling errand.
"Urgent, babbler!" replied the other, impatiently; "to-day the best
blood of the Homes has been lapped by dogs upon the street; and I have
seen it."
The warder aroused the domestics in the tower, and the stranger entered.
He was conducted into a long, gloomy apartment, dimly lighted by a
solitary lamp. Around him hung rude portraits of the chiefs of
Wedderburn, and on the walls were suspended their arms and the spoils of
their victories. The solitary apartment seemed like the tomb of war.
Every weapon around him had been rusted with the blood of Scotland's
enemies. It was a fitting theatre for the recital of a tale of death. He
had gazed around for a few minutes, when heavy footsteps were heard
treading along the dreary passages, and the next moment Sir David Home
entered, armed as for the field.
"Your errand, stranger?" said the young chief of Wedderburn, fixing a
searching glance upon him as he spoke.