“’Tis he! ’tis he himself! It is my son.”
--_Douglas._
What a cry that was--“Would you slay your son?” Had the proud, noble,
childless knight of Warkcliff--the last of his illustrious
line--lamented the fate of the lost infant so long, and now was about
to plunge his dagger into the breast of that very child? Had Heaven
spared that child’s life, and preserved him through many troubles,
only that he might perish beneath the blow of the blinded father? The
fateful, astounding words sounded to him like a death-knell; his hand
relinquished the blood-stained steel, and he sprang from the ground,
speechless and bewildered. As if by concert, the struggling parties
forbore their fierce contest, and drew back with lowered weapons.
Exhausted and swooning in the struggle, Somervil, if he heard the
startling exclamation, scarcely knew what it meant; his mind was
wandering, his senses were failing him, his brain swam round, and,
though relieved of the pressure of his adversary, he made no effort
to rise from the earth, but lay supine, with scarce a movement of hand
or foot.
Johnston, with his wild and haggard aspect, cast his blood-shot eyes
around him; he staggered to and fro, and then fell prone on the turf.
“I only ask for breath--to disclose all this secret of woe,” he
gasped, as he turned on his side, and endeavoured to raise himself on
his elbow--“breath to restore the lost son to the father--that is all
I wish--and then let me die!”
What could the outlaws think of this? Their bold captain the son of
their deadliest foe! They had striven with their blood and lives to
restore him to the tower of Cheviot and to liberty, and it had
resulted in the discovery that he was De Ermstein’s son! Could they
credit the incredible assertion from the mouth of a villain whose
perfidy, falsehood, and guile they abhorred--whose very name they
detested? No, no, it was but a fabrication of the dying ruffian. They
would fight for their captain yet! Up with the slogan-cry and the
deadly steel. Cheviot! Cheviot! Somervil should be borne off free.
With a wild shout they brandished their weapons; but their hostile
attitude recalled the bewilderment of De Ermstein.
“Stay, stay,” he shouted, almost in frenzy. “No more blood shall be
shed. Implore all to stay the conflict. This secret must be disclosed.
Somervil shall pass away free and scaithless though he be of no
kindred to my house. Stay, stay!”
“Let us rest on the assurance of this noble knight,” cried Reginald de
Oswald. “His knightly word is passed for the safety of your leader. I
for one will forbear further conflict,” and he sheathed his sword.
His example was followed by such of the mosstroopers as were at hand,
and, in a minute or two, the battle throughout the thickets had
entirely ceased, and the combatants came all crowding together around
the interesting group.
“Look to Somervil,” groaned the gentle Johnston, pointing eagerly to
the inanimate youth. “He may die of his wounds, and never look upon
his father’s face.”
Comyn, Sinclair, and others of Somervil’s band, instantly knelt around
their captain. He was unwounded, but much bruised; his respiration was
deep, his eyes were shut; but sensibility was returning, and he could
answer, though faintly, when they spoke to him.
“Dacre de Ermstein,” cried the gentle Johnston, “come hither to me. I
have not many moments to live, but what remains of my mortal breath
shall be devoted to the disclosure of this my blackest crime. Come
hither.”
De Ermstein rushed breathlessly towards him, bent over him, cast on
his dark visage a look that might have pierced him through.
“I conjure you,” he cried vehemently, “to disclose the naked truth,
however deeply it may criminate you. I know you now--I remember your
features, Johnston, and tremble to hear your revenge. Speak, speak,
deceive not an agonised father. Restore to me my son, if your cruel
hand spared my son to this mournful day.”
“Ay,” said Johnston, “my hand has long been cruel and dark with blood;
but, cruel and ruthless as it is, it could not but spare the child o’
De Ermstein. Behold your son--in Ruthven Somervil you behold him. And
forgive me for the great wrong of the past in that I have saved you
from the darkest crime that could stain living man!”
“My wife--his mother--pled sore for him,” exclaimed Sir Dacre. “The
mysterious sympathy betwixt mother and child had stirred her heart,
and she would have saved him, though she was ignorant that he was the
child of her youth and joy. And I spurned her prayer, and strove to
incur a guilt which would have branded me with infamy, and crushed me
with despair! My son! And can this be my son?” he faltered, as he
thrust aside the eager crowd around the prostrate mosstrooper, and,
throwing himself on his knees, threw his arms around the
half-unconscious youth’s neck, and gently raised his head to look upon
him. It was a long, burning, searching gaze.
Ruthven opened his eyes.
“He has the look of his mother!” exclaimed Sir Dacre. “He has his
mother’s features! Why could I not remark this before?”
The little golden reliquary now attracted his eye, for it was half
visible on the outlaw’s breast, his doublet having been torn open in
the struggle. In a moment Sir Dacre snatched it in his hand, and, in
extreme agitation, he at length touched a secret spring in one of the
edges, and the reliquary flew open, discovering within, in exquisite
engraving, the Arms of Warkcliff, the name of _Stephen de Ermstein_,
and the day and year of his birth,
“My son! my son indeed!” faltered Sir Dacre, letting the jewel fall
back again upon the outlaw’s breast. “But, as I remember, my child had
a scar above his left temple--the scar of an accidental wound received
in his infancy; that scar will close all proof,” and, casting back the
clustering hair from the outlaw’s forehead, there was the scar, faint,
indeed, but perceptible to the father’s eyes.
This was enough. The proof was complete, even without the dying
attestation of the gentle Johnston.
“My son! my long-lost son!” cried Sir Dacre, as, bursting into tears
of joy, he folded the outlaw to his bosom. “The house of De Ermstein
shall not yet be extinguished. Joy, joy! O, thou inscrutable
Providence, how shall I offer my gratitude for this mighty boon?”
The mosstrooper heard the words of recognition--heard that he was
called the son of De Ermstein, and heir of Warkcliff--felt himself
pressed in the arms of a father. What were his emotions? The event was
stupifying. And father and son rose from the ground with tumultuous
feelings.
“You are safe--you will live?” cried Sir Dacre. “I have not stained my
hands with your blood?”
The mosstrooper was unwounded. He might be giddy and faint; but not a
life-drop of his had been lost. How the band stared in speechless
amazement. No man could scarce credit what he heard and saw.
“Why did you not throw yourself into the arms of your father long
ago?” cried Sir Dacre, in joyful reproach.
“Never till this moment,” answered the outlaw, “did I know the secret
of my birth.”
“De Ermstein,” groaned the dying Johnston.
“Ah, this man will reveal all,” said Sir Dacre, and they all crowded
around the jackman.
“I have restored the son to the father,” said Johnston, with painful
effort, for his life was ebbing away from him fast, “and I now can
meet death, having, as I hope, expiated the darkest of my crimes. De
Ermstein, here, with my last breath, I declare that youth your son.
Cherish him and love him; he is of brave renown, and will bravely
uphold the honour of Warkcliff. It is long since we parted, Sir
Dacre, and I ha’e often wished ne’er to see your face again, for how
could I look the man in the face whom I had wronged so basely?”
“It was by your hand, Johnston, that all my wrongs were inflicted,”
interrupted the outlaw. “Alas, what wrongs to expiate! but I forgive
you.”
“Had I not borne your father malice,” answered Johnston, “you ne’er
wad ha’e suffered what you ha’e suffered. But on my head, on my head
alone, lies the whole weight of all your misfortunes. In my young days
I was your father’s jackman. In an evil hour, for some offence, he
chained me in his Donjon, degraded me in the eyes of my comrades, and
expelled me ignominiously from his service. My blood was hot, my brain
was on fire, and I vowed revenge. I lingered about Warkcliff for some
days, and one gloaming, being faint and weary, I lay down on a
braeside, under the bield o’ a bush, to rest my heavy head. Sir Dacre,
you came riding by with your hunting train, and you set them upon me,
and, in the desperate struggle for my life, I received a wound, the
mark of which I shall bear with me to my grave. I was borne down by
unequal numbers, and chased, like a wolf, before your hounds. Could I
forgive that?”
“But your revenge was frightful,” said Sir Dacre. “You might have
spared the child; he was innocent.”
“I knew that that child’s life was dear to you,” resumed Johnston.
“Had I had the power, I might have come, with a ruthless band at my
back, and filled all the valley of Warkcliff with smoke, and flame,
and ruin; but _that_ revenge would not have pierced you to the heart
so deeply as I wished. No, Sir Dacre, I vowed a revenge which would
crush you, and I had it, I had it! I came prowling back to Warkcliff,
and watched my purpose like an adder coiled up to spring upon the
victim. On the brae behind the castle I found your son in the nurse’s
arms--some of the other attendants had wandered to a little
distance--and, unseen by any, I seized the infant from the woman’s
arms. She shrieked, and I struck her, and the blow cast her down the
face of the brae. I then rushed away with the child.” He paused for
breath, and then continued his startling confession. “It was my
intention to wring the child’s life out, but my heart, rough as it
was, revolted at a deed so felon and atrocious. I crossed the Border,
and at last thought of a scheme by which I might also accomplish my
revenge upon Elliot of Hawksglen. I once was in Elliot’s train, but
he, too, degraded me, and I detested him for it. In the dead of night
I reached his castle. On the previous day I met with one of his
retainers on the English Border, and accidentally learned the
watchword at Hawksglen. This knowledge served me well, and bore me
through the deep fraud. I knocked at the gate, answered the warder’s
interrogatory, and, when the gate was unbarred, I put the child in the
old man’s arms and fled. I flattered myself that I had sown the seeds
of a deep revenge, for, thought I, should you discover that your son
was in Elliot’s power, you would charge upon him the crime of having
bribed some miscreant to murder the nurse and seize the child.”
“I would have charged him so,” cried Sir Dacre, “had I known; for with
Hawksglen I was ever at feud.”
“Elliot protected the child,” continued Johnston, “and brought him up
as his own son--”
“And I was base enough,” ejaculated Sir Dacre, “to levy war against
the man who protected my son! Did he ever know the child’s parentage?”
“Never,” answered the outlaw captain; “but, after growing up to
manhood, I was forced to abandon his house. In my helplessness I
joined the band of Hunterspath; their leader was slain in a foray, and
I was chosen in his stead.”
“Did Elliot drive thee to desperation?” cried Sir Dacre. “Upon the
villain’s head I will visit it an hundred-fold.”
“I have revealed all,” said Johnston, who was fast sinking, “and now I
can die in peace. It has long been a weary burden on my heart; but my
heart is lightened of it at last. My dying moments are cheered by this
restoration, even though it has come through crime and bloodshed.
Embrace! Embrace!”
Father and son, so long apart, so wonderfully restored, fell, with an
irresistible impulse, into each other’s arms, and embraced with the
intensest affection. The crowd of attendants burst out into a loud
cheer, with which the wood resounded.
“But we shall hold merry times of it no more in old Hunterspath,” said
Ringan Sinclair, lugubriously, in the ear of Ellis Comyn. “Who would
have thought our brave captain a Southron? And who shall be captain
now?”
“Ah, but who can lead us to foray and fray,” said Habbie Menmuir,
“like Ruthven Somervil? To my mind, Ringan, our mosstrooping days are
over.”
“Often,” said the gentle Johnston, “did my heart misgive me, and I
yearned to restore the son to the father; but then the fierce and
revengeful mood would come over me, and all my good thoughts were
crushed.”
“Had you come to Warkcliff,” cried Sir Dacre, “and disclosed the
secret to me, you would have been rewarded to the utmost. Why did your
revenge last so long? The degradation of my son might have filled up
your craving for vengeance, and led you to relent.”
“I was present when your men took him,” responded Johnston, “and I
fought and shed my blood for him, and all was of no avail. Even his
men detested me, and, when I offered to join them in a rescue, they
scorned my aid. Wounded and feeble as I was, I set out to Warkcliff,
and reached it on this morning, when I met with the band of
Hunterspath, and heard from them the tidings that your son was to
die. They had been informed by their spies of all that passed in the
castle regarding his destined fate, and had come under disguise to
attempt a rescue at the place of execution. I offered again to join
them in the rescue; but they drove me away with detestation. They had
no need of my aid, they said, for Ellis Comyn had entered the castle
under the guise of a priest, and would save the captain. I again
thought of throwing myself upon your mercy, Sir Dacre, and disclosing
all; but terror overtook me, and I wandered up and down the valley
like a madman. Then came the flight and the battle. I fought against
you, and, at the last extremity, revealed the terrible secret.”
His strength was almost wasted away, but still he struggled with
death, for he still had something to crave of the outlaw. It was his
forgiveness; and he freely gave it.
“One last request I have, which I implore you to grant,” cried the
dying man. “I will die here, but I fain would have my bones to lie
beside those of my father and mother in the little kirkyard of Eburn,
on the banks of the Teviot. I mind weel o’ the day that I laid my
mither’s head in that grave; and I fain would rest beside her. When
but a bairn I used to come in the gloamings wi’ my mither, and sit
doon aside the grassy hillock that rose over the remains of my father.
The clods o’ that kirkyard would be sweet to me.”
Could the outlaw have rejected such a request, even to his worst foe?
He granted it fervently. Johnston’s head fell back; he was speechless,
and his limbs were quivering in the struggle of death. But his parting
moment was eased by the thought that he should sleep in the sod of
that kirkyard which was endeared by the love of father and mother.
Even his rude heart still retained some remnant of the old feelings
and affections of childhood. He would lie in the grave of his kindred,
with the water of Teviot murmuring sweetly past. There came a smile to
his lips, and his eye flashed brightly for a moment like an expiring
lamp. But the lamp of his life was quenched in the waves of Jordan.
The gentle Johnston--that man of ruth and rapine--was no more!
* * * * *
And now De Ermstein and his son, with the greater part of their
attendants, proceeded towards the castle. It should have been a
progress of triumphal joy; but the joy was dashed with so much
bloodshed. The strange tidings flew to the village before them,
filling men’s minds with amazement. The tumult in the village became
greater than ever as the restored son approached, and those who had
come out to see him die now surrounded him with shouts of welcome and
demonstrations of gladness. And that gladness might have been greater
had the stern knight listened to the solicitations of his lady, and
not, with blind passion and with inflexible determination, hurried on
a scene of tumult and death.