“I curse the hand that did the deed,
The heart that thocht the ill;
The feet that bore me wi’ sic speed
The comely youth to kill.”
--_Gil Morice._
Die! Not while there was a hand to save! Not while there was keen
steel unsheathing to break the captive’s bonds! Not while there was a
power to control evil destiny, and blast the malice of the remorseless
De Ermstein. Die? The star of Ruthven Somervil was in the ascendant,
swiftly culminating.
What sound was that which rose from the swaying concourse? What sight
was that which startled the grim executioner? The blast of a horn, and
the drawing of a dagger by the priest. Somervil was no less startled.
The priest had thrown down his missal and drawn a dagger, and, with
deadly spring, he struck the dagger through the executioner, who, with
a piercing howl, fell heavily on his face in the cart. To recover his
steel from the body of the howling hound, and to cut the outlaw’s
bonds asunder was, to the intrepid priest, but the work of an
instant, and Somervil was free. Free, and thus environed by the armed
bands of De Ermstein? Yes; for from every side dashed forward numbers
of mounted rustics, well armed, who, trampling down all in their way,
reached and surrounded the cart, whilst shouts of “Cheviot! Cheviot!”
rent the heavens.
All was the wildest riot; but in that wild riot was Ruthven Somervil’s
safety. He and the priest vanished from the cart, and it seemed that
the armed strangers mounted them both on steeds, and put swords in
their hands.
And the victim was rent from between the very fangs of the destroyer!
It was indeed so. All the power of Warkcliff could not bring that
victim to the doom which the relentless knight had pronounced in his
pride. He had flattered himself that he would cause that doom to be
executed in the open face of day, and at his own market cross, that it
might be a spectacle of his vengeance, and a terror to his foes. He
had made a Gordian knot which he vainly imagined no one could or dared
unloose--but the sword of the mosstrooper had severed it at a
blow--and he must now fight to retrieve his stained honour, else that
stain would disgrace him for ever.
The onset of the strangers had been so sudden and so fierce that it
frightened the crowd and paralysed the armed guards. The great tumult
and confusion admirably favoured the designs of the assailants. The
scene became frightful; and not less so by the furious attack than by
the shrieking of women, and cries of those unlucky wretches who were
trampled down beneath the horses’ hoofs. The horse which drew the
condemned cart plunged from the hands of its driver, and rushed madly
through the village. Roughly pressed upon, the gibbet quivered and
shook like a tree in the storm, and at last fell with a crash. More
died by the fall of that ghastly instrument of death than had died on
it for many a year. Inextricable uproar and dismay reigned on every
hand; for on every hand was the enemy.
De Ermstein’s voice was heard at length exhorting his retainers to
avert the disgrace which was falling upon them. The enemy were forcing
a retreat down the village, carrying off the false priest and the
condemned outlaw. Their object was retreat--retreat was their only
safety, for they did not boast overwhelming numbers; fifty horsemen
were perhaps their utmost force; but fifty horsemen only as they were,
not a man amongst them but would have died ere Ruthven Somervil was
re-taken. Down they galloped through the village amidst a tempest of
shouts and the clash of steel.
And down like a torrent swept the forces of De Ermstein, headed by the
old, stern-hearted knight, who would not relinquish his victim. His
men seemed animated by his own fury, and, with a devotion worthy of a
better cause, nobly seconded his efforts. The pursuit was hot. Away
they swept in the wake of the mosstroopers. The village was cleared.
They were careering through the valley, all in a confused and
disorderly band. De Ermstein kept foremost, sometimes far in advance,
for he rode with the fury of a blast. To take the outlaw, to drag him
back to the fallen gibbet; he perilled his life--everything--to
gratify his mortified pride and disappointed revenge. What disgrace it
was to behold the outlaw free once more. Free! And on some following
night the valley of Warkcliff might be gleaming with the red blaze of
the burning village, and echoing the death-cries of the ravaged. The
gibbet for the outlaw!
Amazed at the sudden rescue--snatched from death at the last
moment--Ruthven Somervil’s brain reeled and swam when he was dragged
out of the condemned cart, and mounted upon a horse. It was so like a
troubled dream. _Was_ he rescued? He would have fallen from the saddle
had not friendly and firm hands upheld him. He was sternly calm when
the hangman approached him with the noosed rope in his hand--calm and
collected _then_. But, when the first blow was struck, he became
almost oblivious of what followed. And the great tumult that deafened
his ear might have been the roaring of the tempestuous torrents of
that unseen Jordan which rolls in darkness, washing the shores of Time
and Eternity.
But, when the flight began, his recollection returned. He was in the
midst of his men; he knew this one and the other around him in their
disguises. Someone had put a steel cap upon his head, and he now found
that he had a naked sword in his right hand, clutched as by the grasp
of death. All at once he was restored to himself, saw and comprehended
all clearly, felt his blood kindling in the headlong motion of flight,
saw the pursuers following fast, brandished his sword, and faltered to
his men, “Courage.”
Courage? They had need of it. The pursuers were gaining upon them at
every bound. The valley was far in the rear, hidden by the wreathing
mists. The open Border was in front, and yonder stretched the blue
heights of Cheviot. On and on; and now a scattered thicket received
the mosstroopers. They were glad of its shelter, for the Southrons
were at their heels.
“Halt! turn!” exclaimed Ruthven Somervil. “If we escape, we must bear
these villains back. Turn upon them! Front De Ermstein! He will think
of the disasters of Hawksglen and fly from our spears again.”
At the stern word they halted, and reined round their panting steeds
within the covert of the thicket, which prevented a general charge
being made upon them. The Southrons, all scattered in twos and threes,
came plunging up to the trees, as if in anticipation of an easy
victory. But they had to fight the battle ere that victory could be
won. The foremost daring spirits were received upon the hostile
lances, and easily overthrown, some slain, others crushed beneath the
weight or by the mad struggles of their transfixed horses.
Now came De Ermstein and the flower of his band. Their headlong
assault was met by a straggling discharge of firearms, but the
struggle came to be decided by the cold steel alone. Pressing upon
each other, stumbling and trampling over their fallen comrades, the
dying horses, and the thick bushes and underwood, they at last
penetrated the thicket, and a deadly struggle, man to man, ensued. The
outlaws were outnumbered; but who recked of a disparity of forces?
They fought for their gallant captain’s life--they fought and bled to
humble the haughty pride and avenge the malice of the haughty and
fierce-souled Sir Dacre. It was a confused, tumultuous conflict, for
the combatants lost all union, and scattered themselves through the
straggling wood, which was filled with battle and bloodshed and death.
The two foes, for whose sakes all this fatal strife was waged, eagerly
sought the last mortal encounter. Ruthven Somervil was destitute of
all defensive armour save the bascinet cap on his head; but,
regardless of exposure, and with the irresistible fury of a lion, he
threw himself into the thickest of the battle, bearing down, as with
an arm of iron, all who dared to oppose him. His eagle eye glared
through the thicket for the tall form of Sir Dacre, on whom he sought
to wreak his vengeance. Hidden by the trees, or lost in the
confusion, he could not now be seen. But at length he emerged into
open view, and, ere either of them seemed aware, they met each other,
knew each other at the first wild glance, and halted face to face.
“Miscreant!” gasped Sir Dacre, half-choked with fury. “The hangman’s
fell hand should have rid the earth of thee. Why should Fate throw thy
worthless life upon the sword of an English noble?”
Somervil replied not to the insolence of his foe, but, brandishing his
blood-dyed falchion, he spurred upon him. They encountered with a
crash, and the outlaw’s blade was shivered to the hilt. An instant’s
hesitation would have sealed his fate, but, almost flinging himself
from his saddle, he grappled Sir Dacre’s sword hand, and wrenched the
sword from him. This was scarcely done when the plunging of their
horses threw them both on the ground, locked in each other’s arms,
boiling with fury, gasping for breath. It was a death-struggle in all
its fearful intensity.
Several of the outlaws, seeing their leader’s danger, instantly
abandoned their steeds and flew to extricate him and stab his
adversary; but as many of the Southrons were equally ready to fly to
the rescue of Sir Dacre, a mortal conflict ensued around the two
struggling combatants. The false priest was conspicuous for his wild
heroism, his trenchant blade, his voice of thunder; and the veterans
of Hunterspath were there mingling in the strife to save their
captain.
It seemed as though their aid was doomed to be unavailing, that they
could not save the outlaw. His strength was unequal to that of the
iron-nerved Sir Dacre, whose hand clutched his throat, whose knee rose
upon his breast. Alas for the outlaw! A dagger glittered in Sir
Dacre’s grasp--glittered in the air--when a frightful voice arose
above the din of battle, and arrested the clashing weapons, and a man,
breathless, wounded, haggard, distracted in aspect, his eyes bloodshot
and glaring, his head uncovered, his blood trickling to the ground--a
spectacle of death and horror--staggered, with sinking strength,
through the combatants, and seized Sir Dacre’s uplifted hand.
“Mother of Heaven!” he gasped; “would you slay your son? Would you
shed the blood of him whom you have lamented for twenty years?”
It was the gentle Johnston. At last the mighty secret was divulged. At
last he had revealed, in the face of the world, the dark thought that
so long wrung his heart and embittered his life. In the jaws of death,
with his life-blood rushing from his wounds, he had avouched his
guilt, and saved the father from a deed of unnatural guilt. By such a
disclosure, at such a time, he had atoned for many of the crimes that
lay heavy on his dark soul.