At the Scottish Court—The Penitential Procession—Sir Patrick and
the Friar.
It happened one day that Sir Patrick went to pay his duty to the King,
and understanding, as he passed through the ante-room, from those who
were in waiting, that His Majesty was in the apartment he usually
occupied as a private audience-chamber, he approached and opened the
door. To his unspeakable astonishment, he beheld the very Franciscan
whom he was so anxious to go in search of, standing beside His
Majesty’s chair, and in conference with him. They were alone. Holding a
letter and parchment carelessly folded in his hand, His Majesty seemed
to have been much moved with what had been passing between him and the
monk, and he was so much occupied in listening, that Sir Patrick’s
entrance could have hardly been observed, had not the opening of the
door startled both of them. Sir Patrick was so petrified with what he
beheld, that he had neither self-command enough to retreat, as he ought
to have done, nor to apologise, as the interruption demanded.
“Another time, Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the King, nodding him away.
But His Majesty was compelled to repeat the hint ere the knight had so
far regained his self-possession as to take it, and when he did retire,
it was with a face overwhelmed with confusion, and with a heart boiling
with rage against the monk.
“Ha!” said he, at length, in soliloquy; “at least I am now nearer the
object of my anxious quest than I did think I was. The friar must be a
fiend, who can thus so soon catch the King’s ear. But, fiend or mortal,
he shall not escape me. How malignant was his eye-glance, shot at me
the moment that he heard my name uttered. But, by St. Baldrid, were he
a basilisk I will seize him by the throat. He shall tell me where he
hath hid her who is the idol of my soul; yea, he shall disgorge all
that his black heart doth contain, even though the monarch himself
should endeavour to protect him. What if the Lady Beatrice may be here?
Oh, misery! so near me, and yet am I denied the delight of hearing that
voice, the which did so soothe mine ear when it came from the lips of
my faithful page—or of beholding that eye, which did so beam upon me
with looks that nothing but love could have explained. But the monk at
least shall not escape me this time. I shall station myself here, and
watch his approach, albeit he should tarry within till doomsday.”
After thinking, rather than uttering, all this, Sir Patrick mingled
with the crowd in the ante-room, where he waited patiently for the
greater part of the day, until the King came forth to get into his
litter to take the air. His Majesty appeared unattended by the friar,
and then it was that Sir Patrick Hepborne began to recollect, what his
agitation had made him overlook before, that the Franciscan must have
been admitted, and allowed to retire, by a private passage, only
accessible to those who received a very particular confidential
audience of His Majesty. Hepborne threw himself as much in the King’s
way as he could, and made a very marked obeisance to him as he passed;
but Robert, who usually received all his advances with peculiar
kindness and condescension, now turned from him with a certain distance
of manner that could not be mistaken, and which chilled Sir Patrick to
the heart. At once it flashed upon him that the Franciscan, who had so
strangely possessed himself of the King’s ear, must have poisoned it
against him, as he had formerly done that of Friar Rushak. His rage
against the monk grew to tenfold strength, and, in the agony of his
distraction, he resolved to risk His Majesty’s displeasure by seeking
his presence again, rather than not gain his object. He determined to
accuse the Franciscan to the King, as he who had stolen away, and
perhaps murdered, the Lady Beatrice, and this in defiance of all
consequences.
Sir Patrick again tried to catch the Royal eye, as the King returned
from his airing, but again he had the mortification to observe that he
was shunned and neglected. His Majesty appeared not at the banquet,
where, indeed, he had not been since the news of the burning of Elgin
had reached him; and when Hepborne thought on this, a faint hope came
over him that the King’s neglect might perhaps proceed from no
particular feeling against him, but might arise from the vexation that
must naturally fill the Royal breast on this unhappy occasion. But then
again he remembered, with incalculable chagrin, that although the
sunshine of the Monarch’s smiles had been eclipsed towards him, it had
fallen with all its wonted cheering influence upon some who were near
him, and who had hitherto been considered as planets of a much lower
order, and of infinitely less happy influence than himself.
But Sir Patrick now became so impatient to get at the truth, that he
threw aside all that delicacy which might have otherwise swayed him. He
resolved to make an attempt to obtain an audience of His Majesty at his
hour of couchée; and, accordingly, entering the ante-room a little
before the time, he made his enquiries for that purpose.
“The King hath given strict orders that no one be admitted to him,”
replied the Lord-in-waiting, to whom he addressed himself. “He doth
hold private conference. And between you and me, Sir Patrick Hepborne,
I do verily believe that it is with his son, the furious Wolfe of
Badenoch, who hath so besieged the Bishop of Moray, that he is to hold
parlance.”
“What, hath the Earl of Buchan arrived, then?” demanded Sir Patrick.
“Yea, he is here,” replied the nobleman with whom he talked. “Hast thou
not heard that to-morrow the streets of St. Johnstoun will see a sight
the like of which hath not been seen in Scotland before? for there the
fierce and proud Wolfe of Badenoch is to walk in penance from the
Castle, where he now hath his lodging, to the Church of the
Blackfriars.”
“And how dost thou know all this?” demanded Sir Patrick Hepborne, who
had probably heard the report, but who had been too much occupied with
his own thoughts to attend to anything extraneous, however interesting
it might be to others.
“The news hath already gone fully abroad,” replied the nobleman; “but,
moreover, all manner of preparation hath been already made for the
ceremony; yea, and all the world do make arrangement for witnessing so
great a miracle. I, for one, shall assuredly be there.”
Sir Patrick Hepborne retired. As he passed by the entrance to the
King’s private staircase, a portly figure brushed by him, and entered
it hastily. He called to mind that he had encountered the same as he
left the King’s presence at Aberdeen. It was indeed the Wolfe of
Badenoch, but he had passed Sir Patrick Hepborne without observing him.
King Robert was at this moment seated in a large antique chair, placed
close to the chimney corner, somewhat in the same dishabille as we have
described him to have worn on a former occasion. His foot-bath stood
ready prepared, and his attendant Vallance, who waited at a respectful
distance, ventured more than once to remind His Majesty that the water
was cooling. But the old man was deeply absorbed in serious thought.
His eyes were directed to a huge vacuum in the hinder part of the
chimney, amidst the black void of which the play of his ideas went on
without interruption. A gentle tap was heard at his private door.
“We would be private, Vallance,” said the King, starting from his
reverie, and pointing to his attendants to quit the apartment.
When they had withdrawn, Robert arose feebly, and propped himself on a
cane. The knock at the private room was repeated. The old Monarch
tottered towards the middle of the room. The knock was heard a third
time, and with more impatience.
“If it be thou, son Alexander, come in,” said the King.
The door opened and the Wolfe of Badenoch entered, with a chastened
step, and a mien very different from that which usually characterised
him. He made an humble obeisance to his father. He spoke not, but his
eyes glanced unsteadily towards the King, as if yet half in doubt what
his reception might be. He beheld the old man standing before him
struggling with emotions that convulsed his face and threw his whole
frame into a fit of trembling. He saw that a great and mortifying
change had taken place on his father since the last interview, and his
conscience at once struck him that his own disobedience and outrageous
conduct must have largely contributed to produce the decay which was so
evident. He was smitten to the heart.
“Oh, my father, my father!” cried he in a half-choked voice; “canst
thou forgive me? When all have forgiven me, canst thou refuse me
pardon?”
“Son Alexander,” said Robert, in a voice that shook from agitation as
well as debility, “all others may pardon thee, and yet it may be the
duty of thy King, albeit that he is thy father, to put on sternness
with thee. Nor have we been wanting in performance of the severe duty
of a King towards thee; for ere we did receive the godly Bishop of
Moray’s letters regarding thee from the hands of the good Friar John,
we had issued orders for the arrestment and warding of thy person in
the nearest and most convenient of our prisons. Nor did we ever spare
to meet thee with harsh reproof whilst thou were headstrong and
rebellious; but now that thou dost come before us as a penitent and
afflicted son, saying, ‘Father, I have sinned against Heaven and in thy
sight;’ when thou comest as one willing to submit thee to all that the
Church may demand of thee in reparation or in penance for thine
outrages, we can no longer remember that we are a King, but we must
yield us to those feelings which do now so stirringly tell us that we
are a father. Oh, Alexander, my son, my son!” cried the old man,
yielding to those emotions which he could no longer restrain, and
bursting into a flood of tears, whilst he threw his aged arms around
the manly form of the Wolfe of Badenoch; “the joy of this thy
repentance doth more than recompense for all the affliction thou hast
occasioned me during a long life. For thee, my son Alexander, have all
my nights been sleepless; yea, and for thee have all my prayers been
put up. Blessed be the holy Virgin, that they have not been put up in
vain. Verily, I do sink fast into the grave; but thanks be to the
Almighty King of kings, I shall now die in peace and with joy, sith
that it hath pleased Him to bring thee to a due sense of the enormity
of thy guilt.”
“Alas, alas!” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, deeply affected by his
father’s wasted appearance, and sobbing aloud from remorse; “alas! I do
fear that thy life hath been amenused by mine iniquities. Oh, father, I
could bear all but this, the bitterest punishment of all. Thou hast
sadly drooped sith that I did last behold thee. Would that I had then
listened to the voice of thy wisdom, when it did so eloquently speak.
But a devil hath possessed me; and, fiend that I was——”
“Speak not so, my son,” cried the old King, who had now sufficiently
recovered himself to be able to talk calmly. “Self-accusation, except
in so far as it is used as an offering before Heaven, is but a vain
thing. Let thy whole heart be given up to that contrition the which is
between thee and thy God alone, through the medium and mediation of the
blessed Virgin and her Son; and let the seemliness and sincerity of thy
public penance be an earnest of the amendment of thy future life.”
“I will, I will, my father,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, much moved.
“Would that ages of my penance could but add to the number of thy
peaceful and righteous years; cheerfully would I wander as a barefooted
palmer for the rest of my miserable days. Yet fancy not, my father,
that I have lacked mine own share of punishment. The viper for whom I
did risk thy wrath and that of Heaven, hath stung me to the heart. Ha!
but ’tis over now. The good Friar John hath taught me to keep down the
raging ire which her black and hellish ingratitude did excite within
me. May the holy Virgin grant me aid to subdue it, that my whole heart
may be in to-morrow’s work; for, sooth to say, ’tis cruel and cutting,
after all, for a hardy, haughty soul like mine to bend me thus beneath
the rod of the priesthood. Ha! by the bones of my ancestors, a King’s
son too—thy son! Nay, ’tis that the which doth most gall and chafe me;
to think that thou shouldst thus be brought into derision by the
disgrace which befalleth me. Thou, a King who——”
“Son Alexander,” said the venerable Monarch, calmly interrupting the
Wolfe of Badenoch, as he was gradually blowing up a self-kindled flame
of passion; “think not of us—think not of us now. Thou shouldst have
thought of us and of our feelings before thou didst apply the torch of
thy wild wrath to the holy temples of God and the peaceful habitations
of his ministers. Robert was indeed ashamed of a wicked son, glorying
in his mad and guilty rage; but Robert never can be ashamed of a son
who is an humble penitent. No, Alexander; thy penance will be a crown
of glory to us. Further, we would have thee remember that the
priesthood are but the ministers of the justice of a greater King than
any upon earth; and we would have thee to bear in mind how the Son of
that Almighty King did, in all His innocence, submit Himself to the
scourge and the cross, to infamy and cruel suffering, that He might
redeem such sinners as thou and I. Let this humble thy pride and tame
thy temper, if, indeed, pride or violence may yet remain with thee. And
now haste thee homeward, that, by a night spent in conversation and
prayer with the holy Friar John, thou mayest fit and prepare thyself
for to-morrow’s duty, the which ought to be rather esteemed a triumph
than a trial to thee. We shall be at the Castle of St. Johnstoun by
times to give thee our best comfort; till then take with thee a
father’s blessing.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch bowed his head to receive the benediction of the
good old King, who wept as he gave it him, and throwing one arm round
his son’s neck, he patted his head with the other hand, kissing his
cheek repeatedly with all the affection of a doating father, who
abandons himself to the full tide of his feelings and who is unwilling
to shorten the transports he enjoys.
The news of the intended penitential procession of the King’s son, the
terrible Wolfe of Badenoch, spread like wildfire through the town of
St. Johnstoun, as well as throughout the surrounding country, and
produced a general commotion. The Bishops of St. Andrews, Dunkeld, and
Dunblane, had already arrived at the Dominican Convent, each having
separately entered the town in great pomp, attended by all the high
dignitaries of their respective dioceses. It was a proud triumph for
the Church, and secret advices had been accordingly sent everywhere,
that it might be rendered the more imposing and impressive by the
numbers and importance of those religious persons who came as
deputations from the different monastic houses which were within reach.
Of the canons regular, there were the Abbots of Scone, Inch Colm, and
Inch Mahome, with the Priors of St. Andrews, Loch Leven, Port Moak, and
Pittenweem; of the Trinity, or Red Friars, were the Ministers of the
Hospitals of Scotlandwell and of Dundee; of the Dominicans or Black
Friars, the inmates of the Dominican Convent of Perth, where the
ceremony was to take place, with the heads of the Convents of Dundee,
Cupar in Fife, St. Monans, and St. Andrews; of the Benedictines, the
Abbot of Dunfermline; of the Tyronenses, the Abbot of Lundores; of the
Cistertians, or Bernardines, the Abbots of Culross and Balmerinoch; of
the Franciscans, or Grey Friars, the head of the Convent of
Inverkeithing; and, lastly, a numerous body of Carmelites, or White
Friars, from the neighbouring Convent of Tullilum. All these heads of
houses were largely attended; and if the crowd of these holy men was
great that of the laity and vulgar was tenfold greater. The houses of
the place were unable to contain them, and many were glad to encamp on
those beautiful meadows stretching to north and south of the town,
thankful to huddle themselves under any temporary shelter they could
procure. The Black Friars Monastery, which was to be the scene of the
humiliation of the Wolfe of Badenoch, was all in a ferment, and many
there were who, knowing the formidable character of him they had to
deal with, muttered secret ejaculations that all were well over.
The King left his Palace of Scone early in the morning, and entered
Perth in his litter, attended by the Regent and the courtiers, being
desirous to get as quietly as possible into the Castle. The King’s
body-guard were drawn out to line the street from the Castle to the
Church of the Dominican Convent. The distance was short, but the crowd
contained in that small space was immense. The murmur was great, and
the eyes of the spectators were constantly directed towards the gate of
the Castle, whence they expected the procession to come. Every motion
among the multitude excited an accession of impatience.
At length the King’s litter appeared, attended by the Regent, and
followed by the crowd of courtiers. They came without order, and the
litter hurried into the Church amidst the loud shouts of the people.
All was then eager expectation, and nothing interrupted the low hum of
voices, save the noise occasioned by those who made way for the
different religious deputations, who approached the Church from
different directions.
All these had passed onwards, and some time had elapsed, when a general
hush ran through the crowd—a dead silence ensued—all eyes were directed
towards the Castle gate—and the Wolfe of Badenoch appeared. He was
supported on his right hand by his confessor, the Franciscan Friar, and
he was followed by his two sons Andrew and Duncan, and by a very
numerous train of attendants, all clad in the same humiliating
penitential garb, walking barefooted. The Wolfe of Badenoch had no
sooner issued from the Castle gateway than he appeared to be astonished
and mortified at the multitude of people who had collected to witness
his abasement. Anticipating nothing of this sort, he had prepared to
assume a subdued air; but he was roused by the sight, and advanced with
his head carried high, and with all his usual haughtiness of stride,
his eyes flinging a bold defiance to all round, and their glances
travelling rapidly from countenance to countenance, as they surveyed
the two walls of human faces lining his way, as if he looked eagerly
for some one whose taunting smile might give him an apology for
breaking forth, and giving vent to his pent-up passion by felling him
to the earth. He went on, biting his nether lip, and still he scanned
them man by man; but everywhere he encountered eyes that quailed before
his, and peaceful, gaping faces, filled with vulgar wonder, perhaps,
and indicating much of fear, but nothing of scorn to be seen. The
Franciscan was observed to whisper him; he seemed to listen with
reverence, and, as he approached the entrance to the Church, he adopted
a more humble gait and look. As for his men, they hung down their heads
sheepishly from the first, like felons going to execution.
When the procession had reached the great door of the Church, which was
closed against it, the Franciscan approached, and knocked slowly and
solemnly.
“Who is he who knocketh for admission into the Church of God?” demanded
a voice from within.
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch, son of
Robert, our most pious King,” replied the Franciscan.
“We do know right well that there once was such an one as thou dost
name,” replied the voice; “but now he hath no existence. The great
sentence of excommunication hath gone forth against his hardened
obstinacy, and the Holy Church knoweth him no longer.”
“He cometh here as an humble penitent, to crave mercy and pardon of our
Holy Mother Church,” replied the Franciscan.
“Is he ready to confess his sins against God and man, then?” demanded
the voice. “Is he prepared humbly on his knees to declare his
penitence, and to implore that mercy and pardon, the which must of
necessity be extended to him ere he can again be received back into the
bosom of that Church which he hath so greatly outraged?”
“He is,” replied the Franciscan.
“Then, if such be his sincere professions,” replied the voice, “let him
and all understand, that albeit she can greatly and terribly punish,
yet doth the Church delight in mercy, and it is ever her most joyful
province to open her doors wide to her sincerely repentant children.”
These words were no sooner uttered, than the folding doors were thrown
wide, and the populace were dazzled with the grandeur of the spectacle
that presented itself. The verse of a hymn, that burst from a powerful
choir within, added to the sublimity of the effect, whilst it gave time
for the spectators to feast their eyes without distraction on what they
beheld. In the centre of the doorway stood Walter Traill, the Bishop of
St. Andrews, arrayed in all the splendour of his pastoral robes. Within
his left arm was his crosier, and in his right hand he raised aloft a
large silver crucifix. On his right and left were the Bishops of
Dunblane and Dunkeld, behind whom were the whole dignitaries of the
three sees in all their pomp of costume. The Church had been darkened
that it might be artificially lighted by tapers, so as to present
objects under that softly diffused and holy kind of illumination most
favourable for the productions of strong impressions of awe. By this
was seen a long train of Abbots and Priors, with Monks and Friars from
all those religious houses we have already particularised. The sight
was grand and imposing in itself, and picturesque in its grouping and
disposal. The Franciscan Friar John whispered the Wolfe of Badenoch,
and he bent down with a rigid effort until his knees were on the
pavement. His sons and his followers imitated his example.
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the
Bishop of St. Andrews, in a full and sonorous voice, when the music had
died away, “dost thou earnestly desire to be relieved from the heavy
sentence of excommunication which thy manifold crimes and iniquities
have compelled the Church to issue forth against thee?”
“I do,” replied the Wolfe in a firm voice.
“Dost thou humbly confess and repent thee of thy sins in general,”
demanded the Bishop; “and art thou willing to confess and repent thee
of each sin in particular at the high altar of this holy temple?”
“I do so repent me, and I am willing so to confess me,” replied the
Wolfe.
“Then arise, my contrite son,” said the Bishop, “and humbly follow me
to present thyself at the holy altar of God.”
The three Bishops with their attendants then turned away, and being
followed by the Wolfe of Badenoch and his long train of penitential
adherents, they moved in slow procession up the middle of the church
towards the high altar, before which the penitents kneeled down, with
their stern leader at their head, the monks of the various orders
closing in behind them. The most perfect silence prevailed, and the
soft fall of the footsteps on the pavement, and the rustling of
draperies, were the only sounds heard.
“Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, and Lord of Badenoch,” said the
Bishop of St. Andrews, “dost thou confess that thou hast greatly sinned
in thine abandonment of thine honourable and lawful wife Euphame
Countess of Ross, and dost thou repent thee of this thine offence?”
“I do repent me,” said the Wolfe in an humble tone.
“Dost thou confess that thou hast greatly sinned in taking to thy bosom
that foul and impure strange woman, Mariota Athyn?” demanded the
Bishop; “especially thou being——”
“I do so confess, and I do most sincerely, yea, cruelly repent me,”
cried the Wolfe, breaking in impatiently, and with great bitterness, on
the unfinished question of the Bishop, and shouting out his answer in a
tone that re-echoed from the Gothic roof.
“And art thou willing, or dost thou purpose to put this strange woman
far from thee?” demanded the Bishop.
“I have already turned her forth,” shouted the Wolfe, in the same
furious tone; “yea, and before God, at this His holy altar, do I swear,
that with mine own will these eyes shall never see her more.”
“And wilt thou take back thy lawful wife?” demanded the Bishop, now
willing to be as short as possible.
“I will,” replied the Wolfe.
“And now, dost thou sincerely acknowledge and repent thee of all the
outrages thou hast done to our Holy Mother Church, as well as to God
and His ministers?” demanded the Bishop.
“I do,” replied the Wolfe.
“Then do I, God’s servant, proceed to give thee and thine absolution,
and to remove from thee the excommunication which was hurled upon thee
by the Church in her just vengeance,” said the Bishop, who immediately
began to pronounce the form of absolution prescribed by his ritual, as
well as that for removing the excommunication.
Miserere was now sung by the choir, after which a mass was chanted, and
the impatient Wolfe of Badenoch, tired twenty times over of a ceremony
which would have worn out a much more submissive temper, tarried not a
moment in the church after it was concluded, but, attended by the
Franciscan, forced his way without any delicacy through the crowd,
which yielded him a ready passage, and made a hasty exit from the
church door. Having gained the open air, he strode along the lane of
the guards, with an air that might have led a bystander to fancy that
he gloried in his strange attire.
He was about to enter the Castle-gate, when a loud voice, calling
“Halt!” came from behind him. He stopped, and turning loftily round, he
beheld an armed knight, who came rushing through the abashed and
scattered ranks of his men, who were straggling after him. In an
instant, the mailed warrior made an effort to grapple the Franciscan by
the throat; and he would have succeeded, had not the friar sprung
nimbly aside to avoid him.
“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, in a voice like thunder, and at the same time
snatching a formidable Scottish axe from one of the guards, and
planting his unprotected body firmly before the Franciscan; “ha! who
art thou that doth thus dare to attack the father confessor of the
Wolfe of Badenoch? Dost thou think that I have tyned my spirit in
yonder Church? By all the solemn vows I have made, I will split the
skull of any he who may dare to lay impious hands on this holy
Franciscan.”
“Is this possible?” cried the knight, raising his vizor, and showing
himself to be Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger; “can it be that the
Earl of Buchan will thus defend the very friar whom mine ears have so
often heard him curse as a fiend? But let me pass to him, my Lord; I do
beseech thee to provoke me not, for, of a truth, I am mad, utterly mad,
at this present.”
“Mad or sober, Sir Patrick Hepborne,” cried the Wolfe, “for now I do
perceive that thou art indeed Sir Patrick Hepborne, and much as I do
love thee, I swear, by the beard of my grandfather, that neither thine
arm, nor that of any created man, shall reach the friar save through
this body of mine.”
“Wull she wants her helps? wull she wants her to grip him? wull she
cleave the Wolfe’s crown?” said Duncan MacErchar, who now stepped out
from the ranks, and spoke into Sir Patrick’s ear. “Troth, she wull soon
do that, though she be twenty Wolfes, and a hundert Badenochs.”
“Stand aside, Duncan,” cried the knight, now somewhat sensible of his
apparently unwarrantable violence, and altogether confounded by the
Wolfe of Badenoch’s unlooked-for defence of the Franciscan. “By St.
Baldrid, my Lord of Buchan, I should have as soon looked to have seen
the eagle defending the owl who hath robbed her nest, as to see thee
thus stand forth the protector of that accursed priest, that
foul-mouthed slanderer, and remorseless assassin. Let me secure him. He
is a criminal who must be brought to justice.”
“Thou shalt not touch the hem of his garment,” roared the Wolfe of
Badenoch.
“Nay, give him way, my noble Lord of Buchan,” said the Franciscan in a
taunting manner; “let this brave knight have way to use his poinard, or
his sword, against the defenceless body of a friar. But,” continued he,
snatching a long spear from one of those near him, whilst his eyes
flashed a fiery defiance against Hepborne, “let him come on now, and he
shall find that beneath this peaceful habit there doth beat as proud
and determined a heart as ever his bosom did own. As for his villainous
and lying charges, I do hereby cast them back in his teeth as false.”
“Caitiff,” cried Sir Patrick, “I should gain but little credit, I trow,
by attacking a vile friar. I did but intend to prevent thine escape
from the justice thou dost merit; and if I were but sure of seeing thee
again in fitter time and place, when and where I could bring forward my
charges, and prove them against thee, I should let thee go for this
present.”
“Nay, fear not, I will promise not to shun thee, Sir Knight,” said the
friar; “and thou, too, dost well know what charges thou shalt have to
defend. The Earl of Buchan here will answer for my presence in the
Castle when it shall be wanted; but who shall answer for thine?”
“I will,” said Sir John Halyburton, who chanced to come up at that
moment.
“Sir John Halyburton!” exclaimed the Franciscan, with an air of
astonishment. “Um—’tis well; and trust me, Sir John Halyburton, thou
wilt find that thou hast more interest in his being forthcoming than
thou dost at this moment imagine, and so the sooner he doth appear the
better.”
“Nay, I will follow thee now,” replied Sir Patrick; “by all the holy
saints, thou shalt not leave my sight.”
“Come on, then,” replied the Franciscan, with a bitter laugh; “and
yonder cometh the King’s litter, so thou shalt have little time to
wait, I wis, for ample justice.”
The monk then entered the Castle, followed by the Wolfe of Badenoch,
who still brandished the long Scottish axe, and looked sternly around
from time to time upon Sir Patrick as if suspicious that he might yet
meditate an attack upon the friar.
“Hoit oit,” cried Duncan MacErchar, “and has the Hepbornes lost their
spunks sith the battles o’ Otterburns? Who would hae thought that ony
ane o’ her name would hae ta’en the boast yon way even frae the Wolfes
o’ Badenoch hersel? Huits toots, Sir Patrick—uve, uve!”
“Pshaw,” replied Sir Patrick, much mortified to find that MacErchar had
attributed his forbearance to want of spirit, “Wouldst thou have had a
Hepborne attack a monk, or a man half naked, and at such a time as this
too!”
“Ou fye! faith an’ it may be’s,” replied Duncan, somewhat doubtfully;
“but she might ha’ gien him a clour for a’ tats. But can she do nothing
to serve her honour?”
“Yea,” replied Sir Patrick, “plant thyself here; let not that
Franciscan Friar leave the Castle until I have questioned him.”
“Ou, troth, and she’ll no scruples to gie him a clour,” replied Duncan.
Hepborne hastened into the Castle, and Captain MacErchar mechanically
took his stand, nor did even the approach of the King’s litter, and the
bustle that came with it, dislodge him from his post.