The Friar’s Tale—The Two Combatants—Lady Eleanore’s explanation—All
is well that ends well.
It was not wonderful that a sudden ecstasy of joy, such as that which
burst unexpectedly on Hepborne, coming after so much mental
wretchedness, and when his bodily frame had been so weakened by
fatigue, wounds, and loss of blood, should have thrown him into a
swoon, from which he only awakened to show symptoms of a feverish
delirium. He passed some days and nights under all the strange and
fluctuating delusions of a labouring dream, during which the angelic
image of her he loved, and the hated form of the Franciscan, appeared
before him, but in his delirium he knew them not.
It was after a long and deep sleep that he opened his eyelids, and
felt, for the first time, a consciousness of perfect calmness and
clearness of intellect, but combined with a sense of great exhaustion.
He turned in bed, and immediately he heard a light step move towards it
from a distant part of the room. The drapery was lifted up, and the
lovely, though grief-worn countenance of Beatrice looked anxiously in
upon him.
“Blessed angel,” said Sir Patrick, clasping his hands feebly together,
and looking upwards with a heavy languid eye, that received a faint ray
of gladness from what it looked upon; “blessed angel, is it a fair
vision that deceives me, or is it a reality I behold? I have dreamed
much and fearfully of thee and of others; tell me, do I dream still, or
art thou in truth Beatrice, the lady of my heart?”
“Hush, Sir Knight,” replied the lady, a smile of pleasure delicately
blending on her countenance, with a rich blush of modesty; “I am indeed
Beatrice. It joyeth me much to hear thee talk so calmly, seeing that it
doth argue thy returning health; but quiet and repose are needful for
thee, therefore must I leave thee.”
“Nay, if thou wouldst have me repose in peace, repeat again that thou
art Beatrice, that thou art mine own Beatrice,” cried Sir Patrick
feelingly. “Say that thy beauteous form shall never more flit from my
sight; and that we shall never, never part.”
“Do but rest thee quietly, Sir Patrick,” said Beatrice. “Trust me,
thine own faithful Maurice de Grey shall be thy page still, and shall
never quit the side of thy couch until health shall have again
revisited those wan and wasted cheeks.”
“’Tis enough,” exclaimed Sir Patrick, rapturously snatching her hand
and devouring it with kisses; “thou hast already made me well. Methinks
I do almost feel strong enow to quit this couch; and yet I could be ill
for ever to be blessed with such attendance.”
“Nay, thou must by no means think of rashly quitting thy sick-bed,”
said the Lady Beatrice, withdrawing her hand, and looking somewhat
timorous at his impetuosity, as she dropped the curtain.
A stirring was then heard in the apartment, then a whispering, and
immediately Assueton and Sang appeared, with anxious looks, at his
bedside.
“My dearest friend, and my faithful esquire,” said Hepborne, with a
face of joy, and with so collected and rational an expression, that
they could hardly doubt the perfect return of his senses; though they
soon began to believe themselves deceived, for his features suddenly
became agitated; “but what eye is that which doth glare from between
you? Ha! the face of mine arch enemy—of that demon, the enemy of the
Lady Beatrice. Doth he come to snatch her from me again? Seize him, my
beloved Assueton—seize him, my faithful esquire—let him not escape, I
entreat thee, if thou wouldst have me live.”
“We have been in terror, my dearest Hepborne,” said Assueton, calmly,
after having ascertained that it was the Franciscan, who had been
looking over his shoulder, that had excited Hepborne’s apparent fit of
frenzy; “this Franciscan, this friar, John de Vaux, hath now no evil
thought or wish against thee or the Lady Beatrice. He was worked upon
by false impressions, which were not removed until that Providential
discovery, the which did put a stop to thine unfortunate duel with Sir
John Halyburton. But sith that all is now cleared up, the holy
Franciscan hath made good reparation for all the evil his misjudgment
did occasion thee; for sith that thou wert laid here, he hath never
ceased day or night to watch by thy bedside, save when called to that
of another; and to him, under God, do we now owe the blessed hope of
thy speedy recovery.”
“Strange,” cried Hepborne; “but didst thou not say unfortunate duel? I
beseech thee speak—Hath my beloved friend, Halyburton, against whom
fate did so cruelly compel me to contend—oh, say not, I beseech thee,
that aught hath befallen him! What, thou dost hesitate! Oh, tell me not
that he hath died by my hand, or happiness shall ne’er again revisit
this bosom.”
“He is not dead,” said the Franciscan, “but he is still grievously sick
of his wounds; yet may we hope that he will soon recover as thou dost.”
“Thank God, he is not dead,” cried Hepborne with energy; “thank God,
there is hope of his recovery.”
“Nay, this good Friar John will keep him alive, as he hath done thee,”
said Assueton.
“Strange,” said Hepborne, “to see thee, my truest friend, Assueton,
thus in league with the man whom I did esteem my bitterest foe;
wonderful to learn from thee that he hath exerted himself to recall me
from death. Of a truth, then, I must of needscost yield me to
conviction so strong, and pray him and God to forgive me for the hatred
I did harbour against him.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the Franciscan, “of a truth much hatred and
misjudging doth need forgiveness on both our parts, and I do grieve
most sincerely and heavily for mine, as well as for the mischief it
hath occasioned.”
“But I do earnestly entreat thee to clear up my way through this
strange wilderness of perplexity in which I am still involved,” said
Sir Patrick.
“That will I most readily do for thee, Sir Knight,” replied the
Franciscan; “but anxiety for thy certain and speedy return to health
would lead me to urge thee to postpone thy curiosity, until thou shalt
have gained further strength.”
“Nay,” said Sir Patrick, “of a truth I shall have more ease and repose
of body after that my mind shall have been put at rest.”
“In truth, what thou hast said hath good reason in it,” replied the
Franciscan; “then shall I no longer keep thee in suspense, but briefly
run over such circumstances as it may be necessary for thee to know.
“My brother, the Lord of Dirleton, hath told me that thou art already
possessed by him of the story of the loss of his first-born infant
daughter. It was I, John de Vaux, his brother, to whom he did ever play
the part of a kind benefactor and an affectionate father—it was I who
repaid all the blessings I received from him by robbing him of his
child. My mother (’tis horrible to be compelled thus to allow it) was
the worst of her sex. I was young and violent of temper, and not being
at that time aware of her infamy, I was hurt by the neglect with which
she was treated, and, instigated by her, I boldly attempted to force
her into the hall of my brother’s Castle, then thronged by all the
nobility and chivalry of the neighbourhood, to witness the ceremonial
baptism of the little Beatrice. My brother was justly enraged with mine
impudence; he did incontinently turn both of us forth with disgrace,
and in doing so he struck me a blow. Stung with the affront, I gave way
to the full fury of my passion, and vowed to be revenged. My mother
wickedly fostered mine already too fiery rage, till it knew no bounds.
She urged me to watch mine occasion to murder the child; and although
my young soul revolted at a crime so horrible, yet did her proposal
suggest a plan of vengeance, which, with less of guilt to me, should
convey as much of misery to my brother, and especially to his wife,
against whom we had a peculiar hatred.
“It was long ere a fitting opportunity offered for carrying my purpose
into effect. At length, after frequent watching, I did one evening
observe the nurse walking in a solitary place, with the babe in her
arms. With my face concealed beneath a mask, and my person shrouded in
a cloak, I came so suddenly on her, that I snatched the child from her
arms before she was aware. Ere I could flee from the woman, she sprang
on me like a she-wolf robbed of her young—pulled the mantle from the
child in a vain attempt to reach her, and clung to me so firmly as I
fled, that, to rid myself of her, I was compelled to wound her hand
deeply with my dagger. My horse was at hand, and, to put the child
equally beyond the reach of the affection of its fond parents or the
cruelty of my mother, I wrapt it in my cloak, and, riding with it over
to Lammermoor, consigned it to the care of a shepherd’s wife. To avoid
suspicion, I returned home immediately; but conscious guilt would not
permit me to remain long near those I had injured. I withdrew myself
secretly, and entered on board the privateer of the brave Mercer, where
for six or eight years of my life I encountered many a storm, and bore
my part in many a desperate action. I was a favourite with the old man,
and did gain considerable wealth with him; but my proud spirit would
not brook command, so I quitted the sea-service, and travelled through
foreign lands as a knight, when I did share in many a stubborn field of
fight, and won many a single combat. Yet was I not always successful;
and, having been overthrown in a certain tournament, I was so
overwhelmed with mortification at the disgrace that followed me, that I
became soured with the world, and straightway resolved to exchange the
helmet and the cuirass for the Franciscan’s grey cowl and gown, vainly
hoping to humble my haughty temper by the outward semblance of poverty.
But my towering soul was not to be subdued by a mere garb of penance.
“From the foreign convent into which I entered, I chanced to be sent to
England, and, having been recommended as a proper person for confessor
in the family of the Earl of Northumberland, mine ambitious and proud
heart did again begin to show itself. Sir Rafe Piersie, to whom I was
more especially attached, made me large promises of future promotion in
the Church; and, having set his affections on the Lady Eleanore de
Selby, he did employ me to further his suit. To effect this, I bribed a
certain villainous pretender to necromancy, who was well known to have
much influence over the old knight. But the villain deceived me. Sir
Rafe Piersie had a flat denial, as well from the father as the
daughter, and this did I partly attribute to the traiterie of the
impostor, whose services I paid for, and partly to the interposition of
Sir Walter de Selby’s adopted daughter, whom I did not then know to be
my niece, the Lady Beatrice. Sir Rafe Piersie, believing that I had
been playing the cheat with him, drove me indignantly away. I burned to
be revenged against those who had occasioned this overthrow of my
hopes, and soon afterwards I had nearly glutted my rage against the
Ancient by a cruel death, from which he most narrowly escaped. I did
then journey northwards to the Franciscan Convent at Elgin, where I
arrived at the very time the Bishop of Moray was sorely lacking some
one bold enough to beard the Wolfe of Badenoch. It was a task quite to
my mind, and I accordingly readily undertook that, the which all others
did most anxiously shun. Thou, who wert present at Lochyndorbe, mayest
well remember how mine attempt was likely to have ended. As they
dragged me from the hall I did detect the companion of the Lady
Eleanore de Selby under her page’s disguise, having seen her by
accident at Norham. One of mine old seamates, who chanced to be among
the number of Lord Badenoch’s men, procured me admission to the Castle,
and he it was who effected mine escape from the horrors of the Water
Pit Vault. He would fain have had me flee instantly, but, much against
his will, I did insist on his showing me the page’s chamber; and I went
thither, determined to question closely her whom I did then only know
to be the companion of the Lady Eleanore de Selby, as to what share she
had in persuading her friend against an union with the Piersie. I
sought her chamber with my mind rankling with the remembrance of my
disgrace, inflamed and full of prejudice against her, and, Heaven
pardon me, it is in truth hard to say how far my blind rage might have
hurried me, had she not fled from me at the sight of my dagger.
“It was soon after this that my brother, William de Vaux, came to
Elgin. The remembrance of my ingratitude to him came powerfully upon
me. I contrived to bring him, at night, into the Church of the
Franciscan Convent, and then it was I discovered that his heart,
instead of being filled with a thirst of revenge against me, was full
of charity, compassion, and forgiveness. This discovery so worked upon
my soul, already beginning to feel compunction for mine early
wickedness, that I should have confessed all to my much-injured
brother, had not some one, accidentally approaching at that moment,
unluckily interrupted the conference and compelled me to retreat. But I
went straightway to the good Bishop of Moray, with whom by this time I
stood in high favour for my bold service, and to him did I fully
confess my sins against my brother, of the which, until now, I had but
little thought, and had never repented. I did then forthwith solemnly
vow to do all that might be in my power to restore his child to him, if
that she did yet live. In this good resolution the Bishop encouraged
me; yea, and he did moreover lend me ample means for effectuating the
purpose I had in view. I hastened to the South of Scotland, to find out
the woman with whom I had left the baby. From her I learned that
poverty and my neglect had induced her to part with Beatrice to Sir
Walter de Selby. Then did I shudder to think of the scene at
Lochyndorbe, where, but for the providence of God, I might have
murdered mine own niece, and I secretly blessed a merciful Being who
had snatched her from my hands.
“But now another cause of affliction took possession of me. Believing,
as I did, that Beatrice was the unworthy partner of thy journey, and
that thou hadst taken her with thee, by her own guilty consent, from
Norham, where I did well know thou hadst been, I cursed my villainy,
which had removed an innocent babe from that virtuous maternal counsel
and protection, the lack of which, I believed, had been her undoing. My
suspicions were confirmed when I beheld thee among the crowd at the
funeral of Sir Walter de Selby in Norham Church. I doubted not but thou
hadst come thither to meet with Beatrice, and by her own consent to
carry her off. Her eyes encountered mine as I stood near the altar,
and, as they were full of severity from the impressions then on my
mind, it is little marvel that the sight of me should have produced the
fainting fit into which she fell. That night I was deprived of all
chance of an interview with her; and when I sought for one in the
morning, I found that she had departed, no one knew whither. After
seeking her for many days, I at last returned to Dunbar in despair,
where I did by chance meet with the son of mine old sea captain,
Mercer, and from him I learned that she had been sojourning for some
time at Newcastle, but that she had sailed for London. Having heard of
the expedition of the Scottish knights thither, I readily believed that
her errand was for the purpose of meeting him who had so won her heart
from virtue. My soul boiled within me to rescue her from so base an
intercourse, and mine old sea-mate having offered to carry me to the
Thames in his ship, I did accept his aid, and did take her from thence,
as thou dost already know, Sir Knight; but instead of making the port
whence we had sailed, we were driven northward by a storm, and, after
much tossing, we suffered wreck on the eastern coast of Moray Land,
whence I conveyed Beatrice to the Hospital of the Maison-Dieu at Elgin,
on that night the place was burnt by the Wolfe of Badenoch. As I was
well assured that the lady had escaped from the fire, and that I could
nowhere hear tidings of her, it was no wonder that I believed she had
fled to thee; for our stormy voyage had left me no leisure to undeceive
myself by the discovery of her innocence.”
The Franciscan then went on to give Sir Patrick such other explanations
as his eager questions called for. But his patient seemed to be
insatiable in his thirst of information. Afraid that he might do
himself an injury, the learned leech forbade him further converse, and,
having ordered some proper nourishment for the invalid, desired that he
should be left quiet. Sir Patrick accordingly fell into a deep and
refreshing sleep, from which he next day awakened, with pleasing dreams
of future happiness.
Sir Patrick Hepborne the elder had not yet returned to Scone. The
younger Sir Patrick saw less of the Franciscan after he became
convalescent; but his friend, Assueton, was indefatigable in his
attendance on him, and Mortimer Sang did not even permit his love for
Katherine Spears to carry him away from the affectionate duty he paid
his master. It was not surprising, then, that his cure went on rapidly,
being so carefully looked to. As he got better, he was visited by many.
The King sent daily inquiries for him; the Regent came himself; and the
Wolfe of Badenoch, though his impatient temper would never permit him
to make his visit long, generally called three or four times a day to
see how he did. But the grateful Duncan MacErchar lay in the ante-room,
like an attached dog, from the moment that Hepborne was carried into
the Palace, and never quitted the spot save when he thought he could
run off for something that might do him good or give him ease.
Hepborne was a good deal surprised, and even a little hurt, that,
amongst all those who came to see him in his wounded state, he had
never beheld the old Lord of Dirleton, who had ever shown so warm a
heart towards him until the late unfortunate misunderstanding. The
Franciscan, too, came but to dress his numerous wounds, which were fast
healing up, and then left him in haste. But when some days more had
passed away, and he was enabled to quit his bed, he learned
intelligence that explained this seeming neglect of the De Vaux, and
filled him with grief and anxiety. It was the anticipation of its
producing this effect upon him, indeed, which had occasioned the
concealment of it, as the Franciscan feared that his recovery might
have been retarded by the communication. Sir John Halyburton’s case had
been much less favourable than Hepborne’s. His life still hung
quivering in uncertainty. The Lord of Dirleton, his lady, and the
unhappy Lady Jane de Vaux never left him; and the Franciscan, who had
been the unfortunate cause of bringing it into its present peril, was
reduced to the deepest despair.
No sooner had Sir Patrick learned those doleful tidings, than, calling
to his esquire, he put on his garments, and demanded to be instantly
led to the apartment of Sir John Halyburton, where he found those who
were so deeply interested in him sitting drowned in affliction,
believing that they should soon see him breathe his last. Sir Patrick
mingled his tears with theirs; but he did more—he spoke the words of
hope, comfort, and encouragement; and the Franciscan and the others
being worn out, and almost rendered unserviceable with watching, he
took his instructions from the learned leech, and then seated himself
by the wounded knight’s bedside. It seemed as if a kind Providence had
blessed the hand which had inflicted the wounds with a power of healing
them. From the moment that Sir Patrick sat down by his friend’s couch,
he had the satisfaction of finding his disease take a favourable turn.
He never left his patient, who continued to improve hourly. In less
than a week he was declared out of danger, and in a few days more he
was able to join Hepborne and the two happy sisters, Beatrice and Jane
de Vaux, in their walks on the terrace of the Palace.
The reader may easily fancy what was the subject of conversation that
gave interest to these walks. It was during one of them that the Lady
Beatrice de Vaux was suddenly met by a woman of the most graceful mien,
who, standing directly in her path, threw aside a mantle that shrouded
her face. Astonishment fixed Beatrice to the spot for an instant, when,
recovering herself, she sprang into the arms of the stranger,
exclaiming—
“Eleanore—my beloved Eleanore de Selby!”
The meeting was overpowering, and Hepborne hastened to conduct the two
friends into the Palace, where they might give full way to their
feelings without observation. After their transports had in some degree
subsided, the Lady Beatrice eagerly inquired into the history of her
friend.
“Proud as thou knowest me to be, Beatrice,” replied Eleanore, “I do
here come to thee as a suppliant, nor do I fear that I come in vain;
albeit I have peraunter but ill deserved a favour at thy hands, since I
did deceive thee into being the propagator of a falsehood, by telling
thee that he with whom I fled from Norham was Sir Hans de Vere——”
“Ah! if thou didst but know into what wretchedness that falsehood had
nearly betrayed me,” exclaimed Beatrice; “but who then was thy lover?”
“Thou dost well know that my poor father was early filled by a wicked
and lying witch with a superstitious dread of the union of his daughter
with a Scottish knight, the cunning fortune-teller having discovered
his prejudice, and fostered it by prophesying that such a marriage
would lead to certain misery. So he did ever study to keep me from all
sight of Scottish chevaliers. But, when visiting my aunt at Newcastle,
I did chance to meet with Sir Allan de Soulis, who had fled from
Scotland for having killed a knight in a hasty brawl, and to him did I
quickly resign my heart. ’Twas this which made me despise the splendid
proposals of the proud Sir Rafe Piersie, and which rendered the thought
of the horrid union with the Wizard Ancient, if possible, even yet more
insupportable. I agreed to fly into the arms of Sir Allan; but, to
effect mine escape, thy connivance was indispensable, nay, without
thine aid it would have been impossible to have carried my scheme into
execution. I did well know thine attachment and devotion to my father,
and I felt how difficult it would be to shake thee from what thou
wouldst conceive to be thy duty to him. I saw, however, that I had thy
full pity for the unwonted harshness I was enduring; yet I feared that
if thou shouldst discover the country of my lover, thou wouldst never
consent to keep my secret, far less to become my accomplice in an act
that would tend to make Sir Walter so unhappy. I was therefore
compelled to resort to falsehood. I did introduce Sir Allan to thee as
Sir Hans de Vere, one who, from being kinsman to King Richard’s
favourite, De Vere, Duke of Ireland, was likely to rise to high
honours. By doing this, I hoped to weaken thine objections to the step
I was about to take. Nor was I wrong in my conjecture, for thou didst
at last kindly agree to facilitate my flight.”
“And whither didst thou fly, then?” demanded Beatrice.
“First to Newcastle,” replied the Lady de Soulis, “and then to Holland.
Being banished from his own country, and dreading to remain in England,
where he, too, could not tarry during war without proving himself a
traitor to Scotland, we were compelled to retreat beyond sea for a
time. It is not long since that the sad news of my father’s death did
reach me. I was struck with deep remorse for my desertion of him. We
hastened back to Norham. There I found that some low-born kinsmen of my
father’s, trusting that I should never return, had seized on the
greater part of his effects and divided the spoil. The small remnant
that was left me was saved by the fidelity of the trusty Lieutenant
Oglethorpe. There doth yet remain for us Sir Allan’s paternal lands in
Scotland, the which have not yet been forfaulted; but without the Royal
remission he dare not return to claim them. To thee, then, my Beatrice,
do I look to use thine influence with the merciful King Robert in
behalf of the gallant De Soulis, that he may be restored to his
country, his estates, and the cheering countenance of his Sovereign.”
We need push the conversation between these two friends no farther. It
is enough to say that the united entreaties of Hepborne, Halyburton,
and the two Ladies de Vaux, soon prevailed in moving the clemency of
the good old King, and the happy Lady de Soulis flew to England to be
the bearer of her own good news to the brave Sir Allan.
The joy of the old Lord of Dirleton and his lady in contemplating the
happiness that awaited their children may be imagined; and it will also
be readily believed that the delight of the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne
was no less, when he returned to Scone, and found that he had lost his
share of the general misery, and had arrived just in time to have full
enjoyment in the unalloyed pleasure that spread itself throughout the
whole Court.
The King resolved that the double nuptials should be celebrated in his
presence, with all the splendour that he could shed upon them. The
Bishop of Moray came from his diocese, at His Majesty’s particular
request, to perform the marriage rites; and the Wolfe of Badenoch, to
mark his respect for the good man, actually made one of his rapid
journeys into Buchan, to bring thence his neglected spouse, Euphame,
Countess of Ross, that she might be present with him on the happy
occasion. So magnificent and proudly attended a ceremonial had not been
witnessed in Scotland for many a day. Old Adam of Gordon, who was now a
member of the younger Sir Patrick Hepborne’s household, composed and
performed an epithalamium that put all the other minstrels to shame;
and as for Squire Rory Spears, and Captain MacErchar, of His Majesty’s
Guards, their joy was so totally beyond all restraint, that, much to
the amusement of the company, they performed a bargaret together—a sort
of dance of these days which antiquarians have supposed to have borne
some resemblance to the fandango of Spain, or the saltarella of Italy.
If the two knights who thus married the co-heiresses of Dirleton were
friends before, they now became attached to each other with an
affection almost beyond that of brothers, and Sir John Assueton was
united with them in the same strict bonds. Sir Patrick Hepborne being
aware that the unexpected discovery of Beatrice had diminished the
prospect of wealth which would have eventually accrued to Halyburton,
had Jane de Vaux been the sole heiress of her father, privately
influenced the old Lord to leave his Castle, and the larger part of his
estates, to his brother-in-law. On the death of William De Vaux,
therefore, Sir John Halyburton became Lord of Dirleton. For the
descendants from these marriages, those who are curious in such matters
may consult “Douglas’s Peerage,” vol. i., pp. 223 and 687. [2]
We must not forget to mention that Rory Spears and Captain MacErchar
were called on soon afterwards to repeat their dancing exhibition which
had met with so much applause; and this was on occasion of the wedding
of Squire Mortimer Sang and the lovely Katherine Spears. Many a happy
hour had Squire Roderick afterwards, in teaching his grandson the
mysteries of wood and river craft, whilst the youth’s father, the
gallant Sir Mortimer, was gathering wreaths of laurel in foreign lands,
whither he travelled as a valiant knight.
One of the last acts of King Robert was to bestow a small estate in the
valley of the Dee upon the veteran MacErchar. Thither he retired to
spend a comfortable and respectable old age, and, having married,
became the head of a powerful family.
It has always been a very common belief in Scotland that, when a wicked
man becomes unexpectedly good, the circumstance is a forewarning of his
approaching death. It was so with the Wolfe of Badenoch, for he lived
not above two or three years after the reformation that was so
surprisingly worked in him. The Franciscan, who still continued with
the Earl as his confessor, gained a great ascendancy over his ferocious
mind; and his endeavours to subdue it to reason had also the good
effect of enabling him the better to command his own proud spirit,
which he every day brought more and more under subjection. The happy
effects of this appeared after the demise of him to whom he had been so
strangely linked; for, despising that Church advancement which was now
within his grasp, he retired into the Franciscan Convent at Haddington,
where he subjected himself to the penance of writing the Chronicle from
which these volumes have been composed; and those who have suffered the
tedium of reading the produce of it, may perhaps be judges of the
severity of this self-inflicted punishment. That the Wolfe of Badenoch
had not failed to make good use of the remnant of his life, in wiping
off old scores with the Church by making it large donations, we may
well guess, from the following epitaph, which may yet be read in
well-raised, black-letter characters sculptured around the edge of the
sarcophagus in which his body was deposited in the Cathedral of
Dunkeld; but where now, alas! there remains not as much of the dust of
Alister-more-mac-an-righ as might serve to make clay sufficient for
the base purpose to which the fancy of our immortal dramatic Bard has
made his moralizing Prince of Denmark trace a yet mightier Alexander,
and an Imperial Cæsar,
To stop a hole to keep the wind away.
The Epitaph is:—
Hic Jacet
Dominus Alexander Seneschallus
Comes de Buchan et Dominus de Badenoch,
Bonæ Memoriæ,
Qui Obiit xx Die Mensis Februarii,
Anno Domini MCCCXCIV. [3]
THE END.
NOTES
[1] Having some debates with the Earl of Huntly, he laid him under
ecclesiastical censure, which so provoked the Gordons that they
threatened to pull the Bishop out of his pigeon-holes. “I will build a
house,” said the Bishop, “out of which neither the Earl nor his clan
shall pull me,” and he accordingly erected that strong tower still
known by the name of Davy’s Tower. Even the present walls were of date
posterior to that alluded to in the text.
[2] The reader, on consulting the second reference of our text, will
find that Douglas has run into much confusion in regard to the
Halyburtons. The Sir John Halyburton who married the co-heiress of
Dirleton, he kills at the battle of Nisbet in 1355. Now, by consulting
the first reference, p. 223, it will be found that Sir Patrick
Hepborne, younger of Hailes, who married the other sister, was killed
at the battle of Nisbet in 1402, at which time Sir Patrick Hepborne,
sen., was alive. This we know to be true, and perfectly according to
history; but to suppose that Sir Patrick Hepborne’s brother-in-law
could have been killed in 1355 is a glaring absurdity. The
inconsistency is easily explained, however, for there were several Sir
John Halyburtons, and two battles of Nisbet. There was a Sir John
Halyburton killed at the battle of Nisbet in 1355, and there was a Sir
John Halyburton taken at the battle of Nisbet in 1402. On this last
occasion Sir Patrick Hepborne commanded. It is therefore quite natural
that his brother-in-law should have had a share in this
expedition.—Vid. Fordun, II., p. 433.
[3] This monument is still in tolerable preservation, though it
suffered mutilation by a party of Cameronians about the time of the
Revolution.