The Wolf Hunt—A Desperate Encounter.
They accordingly made their way through the intervening woods, lawns,
and alleys, and ascended the steep side of the hill. From the summit,
the beautiful vale of the Tyne was fully commanded, and the extent and
variety of the prospect was such as to occupy them for some time in
admiration of it. Hepborne discovered a thousand spots and points in it
connected with old stories of his youth. He touched on all these in
succession to Assueton, his heart overflowing with his feelings, and
his eyes with the remembrance of his beloved mother, whose image was
continually recurring to him. He made his friend observe the distant
eminences in parts of Scotland afar off; and Assueton, amongst others,
was overjoyed to descry the blue top of that hill at the base of which
he had been born, and whither his heart bounded to return.
“Hark,” said Hepborne, suddenly interrupting the enthusiastic greeting
his friend was wafting towards his distant home—“hark! methinks I hear
the sound of bugles echoing faintly through the woods below; dost thou
not hear?”
“I do,” said Assueton, “and methinks I also hear the yelling note of
the sleuth-hounds.”
“That bugle-mot was my father’s,” said Hepborne; “I know it full well;
I could swear to it anywhere. Nay, yonder they ride. Dost not see them
afar off yonder, sweeping across the green alures and avenues, where
the wood-shaws are thinnest? Now they cross the wide lawnde yonder—and
now they are lost amid the shade of these oakshaws. They come this way;
let us hasten downward; we shall have ill luck an we meet them not at
the bottom of the hill.”
Hepborne was so eager to embrace his father, that, forgetting his
friend was a stranger to the perplexities of the way, he darted off,
and descended through the brushwood, leaving Assueton to follow him as
he best might. Assueton, in his turn, eager to overtake Hepborne, put
down the point of his hunting-spear to aid him in vaulting over an
opposing bush. There was a knot in the ashen shaft, and it snapt
asunder with his weight. He threw it away, and, guided by the distant
sounds of the bugle-blasts and the yells of the hounds, he pressed
precipitately down the steep, but in his ignorance he took a direction
different from that pursued by Hepborne.
As he was within a few yards of the bottom of the hill, he saw an
enormous wolf making towards him, the oblique and sinister eyes of the
animal flashing fire, his jaws extended, and tongue lolling out.
Assueton regretted the loss of his hunting-spear, but judging him to be
much spent, he resolved to attack him. He squatted behind a bush
directly in the animal’s path, and springing at him as he passed, he
grappled him by the throat with both hands, and held him with the grasp
of fate. The furious wolf struggled with all his tremendous strength,
and before Assueton could venture to let go one hand to draw out his
anelace, he was overbalanced by the weight of the creature, and they
rolled over and over each other down the remainder of the grassy
declivity, the knight still keeping his hold, conscious that the moment
he should lose it he must inevitably be torn in pieces. There they lay
tumbling and writhing on the ground, the exertions of the wolf being so
violent, as frequently to lift Assueton and drag him on his back along
the green sward. Now he gained his knees, and, pressing down his savage
foe, he at last ventured to lose his right hand to grope for his
anelace; but it was gone—it had dropped from the sheath; and, casting a
glance around him, he saw it glittering on the grass, at some yards’
distance. There was no other mode of recovering it but by dragging the
furious beast towards it, and this he now put forth all his strength to
endeavour to effect. He tugged and toiled, and even succeeded so far as
to gain a yard or two; but his grim foe was only rendered more
ferocious in his resistance, by the additional force he employed. The
wolf made repeated efforts to twist his neck round to bite, and more
than once succeeded in wounding Assueton severely in the left arm, the
sleeve of which was entirely torn off. As the beast lay on his back
too, pinned firmly down towards his head, he threw up his body, and
thrust his hind feet against Assueton’s face, so as completely to blind
his eyes, and by a struggle more violent than any he had made before,
he threw him down backwards.
The situation of the bold and hardy knight was now most perilous, for,
though he still kept his grasp, he lay stretched on the ground; and
whilst the wolf, standing over him, was now able to bring all his
sinews to bear against him, from having his feet planted firmly on the
ground, Assueton, from his position, was unable to use his muscles with
much effect. The panting and frothy jaws, and the long sharp tusks of
the infuriated beast, were almost at his throat, and the only salvation
that remained for him, was to prevent his fastening on by it, by
keeping the head of the brute at a distance by the strength of his
arms. The muscles of the neck of a wolf are well known to be so
powerful, that they enable the animal to carry off a sheep with ease;
so that, with all his vigour of nerve, Assueton had but a hopeless
chance for it. Still he held, and still they struggled, when the tramp
of a horse was heard, and a lady came galloping by under the trees. She
no sooner observed the dreadful strife between the savage wolf and the
knight, than, alighting nimbly from her palfrey, she couched the light
hunting-spear she carried, and ran it through the heart of the
half-choked animal. The blood spurted over the prostrate cavalier, and
the huge carcase fell on him, with the eyes glaring in the head, and
the teeth grinding together in the agony of death.
The bold Assueton, sore toil-spent with the length of the contest,
threw the now irresisting body of the creature away from him, and
instantly recovered his legs. All bloody and covered with foam as he
was, he bowed gracefully to his preserver, and gazed at her for some
time ere he could find breath to give his gratitude utterance. She was
lovely as the morning. Her fair hair, broken loose from the thraldom of
its braiding bodkins by the agitation of riding, streamed from beneath
a hunting hat she wore, and fell in flowing ringlets over the black
mantle that hung from her shoulder. Her mild and angelic soul spoke in
expressive language through her blue eyes, though they were more than
half veiled by her modest eyelids. Her full fresh lips were half open,
and her bosom heaved with her high breathing from the exercise she had
been undergoing, and the unwonted exertion she had so lately made, and
her cheek was gently flushed by the consciousness of the glorious deed
she had achieved.
“Sir Knight,” inquired she, timidly though anxiously, “I hope thou hast
tane no hurt from the caitiff salvage? Thou dost bleed, meseems?”
“Nay, lady,” said Assueton, at last able to speak, “I bleed not; ’tis
the blood of the brute yonder. Perdie, thy bold and timely aid did rid
me of a strife that mought have ended sorely to my mischaunce. Verily,
thou camest like an angel to my rescue, and my poor thanks are but
meagre guerdon for the heroic deed thou didst adventure to effect it.
Do I not speak to the sister of my friend, Sir Patrick Hepborne? Do I
not address the fair Lady Isabelle?”
“Patrick Hepborne?” inquired she eagerly; “art thou, indeed, the friend
of my brother? Welcome, Sir Knight; thou art welcome to me, as thou
wilt be to my father. What tidings hast thou of my gallant brother?”
“Even those, I ween, beauteous lady, which shall give thee belchier,”
said Assueton; “my friend is well as thou wouldst wish him; nay, more,
he is here with me. We parted but now above yonder at the crop of the
hill. I lost him in the thickets on its side, just before I encountered
with gaffer wolf yonder.”
“Pray Heaven,” said Isabelle, with alarm in her countenance, “that he
may not meet with some of the wolves we drove hither before us. Thou
seemest to be altogether without weapon, Sir Knight; perhaps he is
equally defenceless.”
“Nay, lady,” replied Assueton, “I broke a faithless rotten shafted
hunting-spear ere I came down, and I lost my anelace from my
girdlestead as I was struggling with the wolf. Sir Patrick has both, I
warrant thee, and will make a better use of them than I did. Shall we
seek him, so please ye?”
“Oh, yes,” cried the Lady Isabelle joyfully; “how I long to clasp my
dear brother in these arms. But hold, Sir Knight,” said she, her face
again assuming an air of anxiety, “thou dost bleed, maugre all thou
didst say. Truly thy left arm is most grievously torn by the miscreant
wolf; let me bind it up with this rag here.” And notwithstanding all
Assueton’s protestations to the contrary, she took off a silken scarf,
and bound up his wounds very tenderly, even exposing her own lovely
neck to the sun, that she might effect her charitable purpose.
“And now,” said she, “let’s on in the direction my father took; he and
my brother may have probably met ere this. Hey, Robert,” cried she to a
forester who appeared at the moment, “whither went my father?”
“This way, lady,” said he, pointing in a particular direction; “I heard
his bugle-mot but now.”
“Charge thyself with the spoils of this wolf, Robert,” said the Lady
Isabelle; “I do mean to have his felt hung up in the hall, in
remembrance of the bold and desperate conflict, waged without aid of
steel against him, by dint of thewes and sinews alone, by this valiant
knight; ’tis a monster for size, the make of which is, I trow, rarely
seen.”
“Nay, lady,” cried Assueton, “rather hang up his spoils in
commemoration of thine own brave deed; for it was thou who killed him.
And had it not been for thee, gaffer wolf might, ere now, have made a
dinner of me.”
“In truth, Sir Knight,” replied Isabelle, “hadst thou not held him by
the throat so starkly, I trow I should have had little courage to have
faced him.”
The lady vaulted on her palfrey, and Assueton, his left arm decorated
with her scarf, and holding her bridle with his right, walked by the
side of the palfrey, like a true lady’s knight, unwittingly engaged,
for the first time in his life, in pleasing dialogue with a beautiful
woman.
Sir Patrick Hepborne, who thought only of seeing his father, had rushed
down the steep of Dunpender in the hope of meeting him somewhere near
the base of the hill, for the sound of the chase evidently came that
way. His old dog Flo had difficulty in following him; and stumbling
over the stumps of trees, and the stones that lay in his way, he was at
last completely left behind. As Sir Patrick had nearly reached the
bottom of the steep, he too observed a large wolf making up the hill.
The animal came at a lagging pace, and was evidently much blown.
Hepborne hurled his hunting-spear at him without a moment’s delay,
wounding him desperately in the neck; and, eager to make sure of him
with his anelace, rushed forward, without perceiving a sudden
declivity, where there was a little precipitous face of rock, over
which he fell headlong, and rolling downwards his head came in contact
with the trunk of an oak, at the foot of which he lay stunned and
senseless. The wolf, writhing for sometime with the agony of the wound
he had received, succeeded at last in extricating himself from the
spearhead, and then observing the man from whose hand he had received
it, lying at his mercy on the ground near him, he was about to take
instant vengeance on him, when he was suddenly called on to defend
himself against a new assailant.
This was no other than poor Flo, who, having followed his master’s
track as fast as his old legs could carry him, came up at the very
moment the gaunt animal was about to fasten his jaws on him. His
ancient spirit grew young within him as he beheld his master’s danger.
He sprang on the wolf with an energy and fury which no one who had seen
him that morning could have believed him capable of, and, seizing his
ferocious adversary by the throat, a bloody combat ensued between them.
Hepborne having gradually recovered from his swoon, and hearing the
noise of the fight, roused himself, and, getting upon his legs, beheld
with astonishment the miraculous exertions his faithful dog was making
in his defence, and the deadly strife that was waging between him and
the wolf. The fierce and powerful animal was much an overmatch for the
good allounde, who had already received some dreadful bites, but still
fought with unabated resolution. Hepborne ran to his rescue, and
burying his anelace in the wolf’s body, killed him outright. But his
help came too late for poor old Flo, who licked the kind hand that was
stretched out to succour and caress him, and, turning upon his side,
raised his dim eyes towards his master’s face, and slowly closed them
in death.
Hepborne lifted him up, all streaming with blood, and, carrying him to
a fountain a few paces off, bathed his head and his gaping wounds, with
the vain hope that the water might revive him; but life was extinct.
Sir Patrick laid him on the ground, and wept over him as if he had been
a friend.
The sound of the horns now came nearer, the yell of the dogs
approached, and by and by some of the hounds appeared, and ran in upon
their already inanimate prey. Immediately behind them came Sir Patrick
Hepborne the elder, a powerful, noble-looking man, in full vigour of
life, mounted on a gallant grey, and with a crowd of foresters at his
back. He took off his hunting hat to wipe his brow as he halted, and
though he displayed a bald forehead, the hinder part of his head was
covered with luxuriant black hair, on which age’s winter had not yet
shed a single particle of snow. His beard and moustaches were of the
same raven hue; and his eyes, though mild, were lofty and penetrating
in their expression.
“How now, young man,” said he to his son, as he reined up his steed,
“what, hast thou killed the wolf?”
“My father!” cried the younger Sir Patrick, starting up and running to
his stirrup.
“My son!” exclaimed the delighted and astonished Sir Patrick the elder;
and, vaulting from his horse, they were immediately locked in each
other’s arms.
It was some minutes before either father or son could articulate
anything but broken sentences. The minds of both reverted to the
overwhelming loss they had sustained since they last saw each other,
and they both wept bitterly.
“My dear boy, forgive me,” said the father; “but these tears are—we
have lost—but yet I see thou hast already gathered the sad
intelligence. ’Tis now three months—Oh, bitter affliction!—but she is a
saint above, my dear Patrick.”
Again they enclasped each other, and, giving way to their feelings, the
two warriors wept on each other’s bosoms, till the rude group of
foresters around them were melted into tears at the spectacle. Sir
Patrick the elder was the first to regain command of himself, and the
first use he made of the power of speech was to put a thousand
questions to his son. The younger knight satisfied him as to
everything, and concluded by giving him the history of his accident,
and the glorious but afflicting death of his faithful old allounde.
“Poor fellow,” said the elder Sir Patrick, going up to the spot where
he lay, and dropping a tear of gratitude over him—“poor fellow, he has
died as a hero ought to do—nobly, in stark stoure in the field. Let him
be forthwith yirded, dost hear me, on the spot where he fell; I shall
have a stone erected over him, in grateful memorial of his having died
for his master.”
Some of the foresters, who had implements for digging out the vermin of
the chase, instantly executed this command, and the two knights tarried
until they had themselves laid his body in the grave dug for him.
“And now let us go look for Isabelle and thy friend Sir John Assueton,”
said the elder Sir Patrick. “Sound thy bugles, my merry men, and let us
down to the broad-lawnde, where we shall have the best chance of
meeting.”
They had no sooner entered the beautiful glade among the woods alluded
to by the elder knight, than the younger Sir Patrick descried his
sister, the Lady Isabelle, coming riding on her palfrey, and his friend
Assueton leading her bridle-rein. He ran forward to embrace her, and
she, instantly recognizing him, sprang from the saddle into his arms.
The meeting between the brother and sister was rendered as affecting by
the remembrance of the loss of their mother, as that of the father and
son had been. But the elder Sir Patrick having mastered his feelings,
soon contributed to soothe theirs. The younger Sir Patrick introduced
his friend Assueton to his father, and after their compliments of
courtesy were made, the adventures of both parties detailed, and mutual
congratulations had taken place between them—
“Come,” said the elder Sir Patrick, “come Isabelle, get thee to horse
again, and let us straightway to the Castle. The welkin reddens i’ the
west, and the sun is about to hide his head among yonder amber clouds;
let us to the Castle, I say. I trow we shall have enow of food for talk
for the rest of the evening. We shall have the spoils of these wolves
hung up in the hall, in memorial of the strange events of this day—of
the gallantry of the Lady Isabelle, who so nobly rescued Sir John
Assueton, and of the courage and fidelity of the attached old allounde
Flo, who so nobly died in defence of his master.”
The bugles sounded a mot, and the elder Sir Patrick, with his son
walking by his side, moved forward at the head of the troop. The Lady
Isabelle sprang into her saddle, and Sir John Assueton, never choosing
to resign the reign he had grasped, led her palfrey as before, and
again glided into the same train of conversation with her which he had
formerly found so fascinating. The foresters, grooms, and churls who
formed the hunting suite, some on foot and others on horseback, armed
with every variety of hunting-gear, followed in the rear of march, and
in this order they returned to the Castle.