The Water Pit Vault—Friar or Devil, which?
Sir Patrick Hepborne went to his room, determined to leave Lochyndorbe
next day, to proceed to Tarnawa; so calling Maurice de Grey and
Mortimer Sang, and intimating his intention to both of them, he
dismissed them for the night and retired to his repose.
A little past midnight, however, he was suddenly awakened by the page,
who came rushing into his apartment in a state of intense apprehension,
and sunk into a chair, overcome by his terrors.
“Holy St. Baldrid,” exclaimed Sir Patrick, “what hath befallen thee,
Maurice? And of what art thou afraid? Speak, I beseech thee, and tell
me the cause of this strange alarm?”
“Oh, Sir Knight,” cried the boy, pale as ashes and ready to faint, “the
friar—the monk—the Franciscan! I was telling my beads by my lamp, as is
my custom, being about to undress to go to bed, when one of the doors
of my chamber opened slowly, and the figure of the Franciscan stood
before me. My blood ran cold when I saw him, for methought murder was
in his eye, and I fancied I saw the hilt of a poinard glittering from
his bosom. I waited not to hear him speak, but snatching up my lamp,
rushed through the farther door-way, and fled hither for succour.”
“Pshaw, Maurice,” said Sir Patrick, “verily thou must have dreamt that
thou didst see the friar. How couldst thou see him, who was plunged by
order of the stern Earl into the deep dungeon called the Water Pit
Vault?”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” cried Maurice, “but he may have ’scaped thence, and
may be now wandering about the Castle.”
“Nay, verily, that were impossible,” replied Sir Patrick; “’tis a
terrible place; I had the curiosity to peep into it, one of the times
it happened to be open, as I passed by the mouth of it. It is so much
below the level of the lake, that there is generally an ell’s-depth of
water in the bottom of it; and its profundity is such, that without
ropes, or a ladder, it were vain to hope to emerge from it, even were
the heavy stone trap-door that shuts it left open to facilitate escape;
nay, I tell thee it is impossible boy; believe me, the Franciscan
stands freezing there, God help him, among the cold water, for the
wretch cannot lie down without drowning. When I think of the horrors
the miserable man was so hastily doomed to, I cannot help regretting
that I did not make some attempt to soothe the Earl to mercy, though I
have strong reason to fear I might have brought a more hasty fate on
his head by my interference; but I shall surely use my endeavours to
move my Lord of Buchan for the poor friar’s liberation in the morning.
Trust me, boy, it could in no wise be the Franciscan thou sawest; and
by much the most likely explanation of thine alarm is, that thou hadst
become drowsy over thy beads, and, dropping asleep, didst dream of the
scene thou sawest pass in the banquet hall.”
“Nay, nay, Sir Knight,” cried Maurice de Grey, “it was the Franciscan,
flesh and blood, or”—said he, pausing and shuddering, “or—it was his
sprite.”
“Tush, boy Maurice,” said Sir Patrick, “in very truth, ’tis thy dreams
which have deceived thee; and, now I think of it, by St. Baldrid, I
wonder not that thou shouldst have dreamed of the friar, seeing that he
looked at thee so earnestly; and then he seemed to know thee too.
Pr’ythee, hast thou ever chanced to see him before?”
“Not as far as I can remember, Sir Knight,” replied the boy; “but sure
I am I shall not fail to recollect him if I should ever see him again,
which the blessed Virgin forbid, for there is something terrible in his
eye.”
“Tut, boy,” cried Hepborne, “what hast thou to fear from his eye?
Methinks thou hast displayed a wondrous want of courage with this same
peaceful friar.”
“Peaceful!” exclaimed Maurice de Grey.
“Ay, peaceful,” continued his master; “for a poor Franciscan friar
cannot well be aught else than peaceful. Thou hast played but a poor
part to run away from him, thou who didst attack the bison bull so
boldly; yea, thou who didst so nobly wage desperate strife with the
assassin who did attempt the life of thy master, at the Shelter Stone
of Loch Avon. Why didst thou not draw thy sword, and demand the cause
of his rude, intrusion?”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the boy, shuddering, “he did verily appear
something more than human.”
“Well, well,” said Hepborne, laughing, “I will but throw a cloak about
me and go with thee to thy chamber, to see whether he may yet tarry
there.”
But when they went to the page’s apartment they found not the slightest
vestige of the friar; and Sir Patrick, with the wish of convincing the
boy that he had been dreaming, laughed heartily at his fears. But the
youth resolutely maintained his assertion that he had not slept; and
his master, seeing that the vision, or whatever else it might have
been, had taken so strong a hold of the page’s mind, that it would be
absolute cruelty to compel him to sleep alone, admitted him into a
small closet adjoining the apartment he himself occupied; and the boy’s
countenance showed that he was sufficiently grateful for the boon.
When Sir Patrick Hepborne met the Earl of Buchan at breakfast, he
announced to him his determination to depart that day.
“Ha!” said the Wolfe, “by the mass, but it doleth me much that thou art
going, Sir Patrick. Thou hast as yet had but small enjoyment in
hunting, yea, or in anything else in Lochyndorbe. Thy visit hath been
one continued turmoil. Since thou wilt go, however, by’r Lady, I will
e’en resolve me to go with thee to this same tourney at Tarnawa. But I
must think how to bestow the corby Franciscan friar ere I go; he cannot
be left in the Water Pit Vault until I return hither, for one night of
that moist lodging hath been enow to set many a one ere this to eternal
sleep. I must look him out some drier, though equally secure place of
dortoure.”
“If I might not offend thee by the request,” said Hepborne, “I would
ask, as the last favour thou mayest grant me ere I go, and as it were
to put the crown upon the hospitality thou hast exercised towards me,
that thou wouldst give the poor wretch his freedom. Meseems it thou
hast done enough to terrify him, yea, and those also who sent him; and
the return of the ambassador with amicable proposals, may do more than
all his sufferings, or even his death. Forgive these gratuitous
advices, my Lord Earl, given in the spirit of peace and prudence, and
with the best intention.”
Hepborne’s firmness, courage, and temper had in reality gained a
wonderful ascendancy over the ferocious Wolfe, during the short space
he had been with him; besides, he always managed to take the most
favourable time for making his rational appeals. The Earl heard him to
an end most patiently, and then pausing for a moment in thought—
“Well,” said he, “Sir Patrick Hepborne, by the Rood, but there is
something right pleasing in seeing thee always enlist thyself on the
side of mercy—thou who so well knowest how to stand a bicker when it
comes, and who refuseth never to place thyself in the breach when of
needscost thou must. Well, we shall see, then; come along with me to
the Water Pit Vault, and we shall see what I can make of the
hooded-crow. He may be more tame by this time, and peraunter he will
croak less. Come along with me, I say, so please thee. Here, call the
jailor on duty—call him to the Water Pit Vault.”
A lacquey ran to obey his commands, and Sir Patrick descended with him
to the outer court-yard. They found the grim and gruff jailor standing
ready to raise the stone at his lord’s command. The vault was entirely
under ground, the mouth of it being immediately within the outer
rampart, and opposite to that part of the surrounding lake which was
deepest.
“Raise the stone trap-door, knave,” cried the Wolfe to the man; “we
need not send for a ladder or ropes until we see how the prisoner
behaves.”
The trap-door was lifted up with considerable difficulty by the sturdy
jailor, and all three cast their eyes downwards into the obscure depth
below. It was some moments ere their sight was sufficiently
accommodated to the paucity of light to enable them to see to the
bottom.
“Ha! what!” cried the Wolfe, “by the beard of my grandfather, but I see
him not; dost thou, Sir Patrick? Nay, by St. Andrew, there is no
Franciscan there, alive or dead; for now I can see even to the bottom
of the ell-depth of clear water that covereth the pavement. Hey! what!
by’r Lady, but it is passing strange. Knave,” cried he, turning to the
jailor, who appeared to be as much confounded as the Earl and his
guest, “didst thou see him lodged here yesternight with thine own
eyes?”
“I did put him down myself with a rope, so please thee, my noble Lord,”
said the man. The rest were called, and they all declared they had
assisted in lowering him, and in replacing the stone over the mouth of
the vault, and all were equally petrified to see that the prisoner was
gone.
“By all the powers of Tartarus,” cried the Wolfe, “but this passeth all
marvel! Of a truth, the devil himself must have assisted the carrion
corby; and, by my beard, but I did suspect that he was more the servant
of hell than of heaven, as he dared to call himself. Ha! well, if the
wizard caitiff do fall into my hands again, by all the fiends, but he
shall be tried with fire next, sith he can so readily escape from
water.”
Sir Patrick was not less astonished than the rest of those who beheld
the miracle. He thought of the strange and unaccountable appearance of
the Franciscan to the page, which he now readily believed to have been
real, and he shuddered at the narrow escape which the boy had made from
murder.
The news of the friar having vanished from the Water Pit Vault soon
spread like wildfire through the Castle, and many and various were the
opinions concerning it. Some few there were who secretly in their own
minds set it down as a miraculous deliverance worked in favour of the
Franciscan, to defeat the impiety and sacrilege of the Wolfe of
Badenoch, who had dared to order violent hands to be laid on a holy
man; but the greater part, who were of the same stamp with their
master, thought as he did; and some of them even went so far as firmly
to believe that the Franciscan was in reality no monk, but the devil
himself, disguised under the sanctified garb of a friar. The boldness
he had displayed, and the sudden and irresistible halt he had made, in
defiance of the power of the sturdy knaves who were dragging him away,
confirmed them in their notions. Nay, many of them even declared that
at that moment they had actually observed his cloven foot, pointed from
under the long habit, and thrust like iron prongs into the flag-stones
of the banqueting hall.