Wha’s friends, wha’s faes, in this cauld warld,
Is e’en richt ill to learn;
But an evil e’e hath looked on thee,
My bonnie, bonnie bairn.
_A. M’Laggan._
When Ruthven mounted his steed, and passed the gate of Hawksglen, he
found that all his followers, with the exception of Edie Johnston, had
retired. Laden with booty, they had made tracks for Hunterspath, well
knowing that their Captain was able to defend himself from the attack
of any English straggler.
“It’s a bonnie sicht,” said Edie, as he indicated the English dead,
“them a’ lying heids and thraws. An’ it was a bonnier sicht to see the
lads gae aff wi’ the plunder.”
But Ruthven was in no mood for conversation. He had learned from
Eleanor that Lady Elliot was desirous of marrying her to Sir Anthony
Maxwell, and he well knew that Maxwell’s valour that day must
have greatly advanced him in the eyes of Hawksglen. Deep in
thought--almost unconscious of the presence of Edie--he rode on,
while the shades of night descended upon them.
By and by the friendly light of a wayside tavern burst upon their
view, and roused Ruthven from his stupor. Edie watched the Captain’s
eyes light upon the inn.
“It’s dry wark ridin’ in silence,” he ventured to remark.
“Ay, Edie, ay, but I had thoughts that kept me frae thirst.”
“Ye’ve been unco quiet sin’ ye left Hawksglen. What ails ye, gin I may
mak’ bold to speir?”
They had alighted from their steeds. Ruthven put his hand on Edie’s
shoulder.
“Twa men and a’e woman,” he said, in a low tone.
“The auld complaint,” answered Edie; “put yer sword in him. Wha is
he?”
“Sir Anthony Maxwell.”
“Him that ettles to mairry Elliot’s dochter?”
“Ay, the same. And, Edie, I love the lass. I lived--it’s a secret, and
I give it to you alone--for twenty years at Hawksglen, and I loved
Eleanor from childhood.”
“Ay, twenty ’ear,” repeated Edie, “you’re the lad--”
“That was left one night with nothing but this,” and he touched a
little golden reliquary that hung round his neck, “to tell who I was.”
Edie looked keenly at his Captain. Would he tell him there and then
that he was the man who had passed him through the portal of
Hawksglen, and tell him whence was his origin? Would he?--
Before he had time to do aught, his arms were pinioned behind his
back, and three stout Englishmen had thrown themselves suddenly on
Ruthven.
The assault was so unexpected and sudden that neither the Captain of
Hunterspath nor Edie could offer the least resistance. Amid the jeers
of their captors they were mounted on their horses. Sir Dacre de
Ermstein rode up to Ruthven and whispered in his ear:
“The robber of Hunterspath shall not always prevail against the house
of Ermstein.”
By an ill-turn of Fortunes wheel the man who had beaten off the
English foe from Hawksglen was now in the hands of that same foe--the
victor led off in bonds by the vanquished!
A long night ride saw the forces of Sir Dacre de Ermstein across the
Border, and on the afternoon of the following day the towers of
Warkcliff Castle rose before Sir Dacre and his followers.
The Lady of Warkcliff, the childless wife of Sir Dacre de Ermstein,
was sitting at her chamber window, vacantly watching the conflict that
raged in the bosom of the sweet valley, between the heavy morning
mists and the sun and wind. Lady de Ermstein had come of a noble
English line: in her youth she had been peerless for her charms, but
middle-age had reft all those youthful charms away; still, she was a
stately dame, and still possessed those graces of manner which had so
much enhanced her youthful beauty. But she was childless. This was the
secret sorrow that preyed everlastingly upon her soul. Her husband was
the last of his ancient line. With him would perish the noble house of
De Ermstein, and the lordly domains of Warkcliff would pass away to
the stranger.
Watching the battle in the valley between the mists and the sun and
wind, she thought of that great cloud which had heavily enveloped her
heart and hopes so long, which no sun, no breath of promise, would
ever dissipate. Her husband burst into the chamber. His countenance
was flushed, and his eye kindling, and his look elated. The lady had
heard the tumult in the castle, but it only cost her a passing
thought.
“Such tidings as I have to tell, Alice!” he exclaimed, grasping her by
both hands. “Such tidings as make my heart leap!”
“They are not of sorrow, then!” said the lady, with a wan smile.
“No! why of sorrow? I have won a proud triumph, Alice. Mountjoy, whom
I despatched to watch the Scots at their Weaponschaw, or military
muster of the shire, has captured the villain Somervil, the robber who
keeps a tower on the Cheviot hills, who infests the whole English
marches, Mountjoy has made _him_ a prisoner.”
“And brought him to the castle?”
“Yes; and the mosstrooper now lies in the Donjon with iron on wrist
and ankle.”
“He has troubled the Border long,” said the lady thoughtfully. “But
you do not resolve to have his life?” she added, looking full in her
husband’s face.
“I have determined that he shall suffer the penalty due to his
crimes,” cried Sir Dacre; “and that within three days. Has he not been
my relentless foe, the relentless spoliator of my lands? I never can
forget that, through him, I suffered that disgraceful repulse before
the tower of Hawksglen, which, but for his interposition, would have
yielded to the assaults of my gallant soldiers. No, no, Alice, speak
not a word for him; I will hear no petition from human lips that his
life should be spared. Since the day at Hawksglen how often have my
vassals been plundered and slain by the mosstroopers of Hunterspath? I
will not listen to appeals for mercy to this noted outlaw--this
villain whose pride and boast it is to plunder the domains of
Warkcliff, and mortify their lord.”
“But, husband,” entreated the gentle-hearted lady, “resolve upon
nothing until your passion has cooled down. Your spirits are flushed
at this moment. There is no knightly virtue so brilliant as that of
compassion for the vanquished foe.”
“But what a foe this is, Alice,” said the knight, “a mosstrooper--an
outlawed and broken man--a miscreant who lives upon spoliation and
rapine. _He_ can claim no compassion.”
“Still, to put him to death, miscreant as he is, may bring the
vengeance of his confederates on the Scottish side upon you, husband.
Consider this: his death may add another to the many grounds of feud
and fray which the turbulent Scottish chiefs have against you. And we
have suffered much from the hatred of the Border Scots.”
“It does not move my compassion for this ruffian,” returned the
knight, with a dark gloom on his brow, “thus to rake up the memories
of our past wrongs and sorrows. Can I forget that, through the fell
hatred of some caitiff-Scot, we are this day childless and heirless?”
“Childless, indeed!” sighed the lady, as, with a burst of grief, she
sank on her husband’s shoulder and wept aloud.
Sir Dacre was equally affected, but he forbore all signs of woe. He
essayed to soothe his weeping wife, and laid her gently into a chair.
“Ay,” said the knight, as he moodily perambulated the room, “Scottish
hatred has struck at the root of our house, and will behold its
extinction in a few short years. The house of De Ermstein traces its
long descent from the chivalrous Norman who followed the Conqueror,
and shared in the perils and glories of the field of Hastings. And
shall this long line terminate with _me_? Alas! my name shall be
erased for ever from the princely roll of English nobles.”
“O, that child--that lost, lost child!” sobbed the weeping lady.
“Twenty years have deepened the sad wound of my soul!”
“Childless, heirless,” resumed Sir Dacre. “And this old house to close
with me? One of my ancestors received the praise of King Edward on the
field of Falkirk, where the Scottish rebels were scattered; another
did his devoir gallantly under bold King Hall at Agincourt; and a
third stabbed down the hump-backed Richard on Bosworth. We have all
our ancient baronial honours about us. But oblivion is destined to
swallow up all!”
“Let this outlaw live,” cried the lady, starting from the chair, and
clasping her husband’s hands. “Shed no blood that may cry from the
ground against us. Vengeance is the prerogative of Heaven alone. We
who are in the midst of sorrow, who have no prospects but dark ones,
we should excel in deeds of mercy. Let him live, keep him captive all
his days, but shed no blood. I implore his life, husband; I implore it
from the bottom of my heart.”
The knight beheld her with amazement.
“Alice,” he said calmly, “your feelings overpower you. This outlaw
_must_ suffer. I am here in the stead of the minister of Justice, who
shall perform my duty.”