As the three wayfarers neared the pass, the dusky forms of their enemies were already drawn up in its shadow; and a shot, fired at Maxwell, which cut the ribbon from his sleeve, sufficiently denoted their intentions. A voice, too, from the midst of the little black mass was heard to exclaim, in more polished language than might have been expected—
‘Dead or alive, Rough Rob! take the man in the centre, and let the others go free!’
‘Thank you,’ observed the Englishman, who occupied that position between his servant and Maxwell, adding, through his set teeth, ‘I shall owe you one, whoever you are, and pay it before I’ve done with you, or my name is not Thomas Randolph!’
Maxwell heard the promise, but had no time for astonishment at thus finding himself the companion of Elizabeth’s ambassador to the Scotch court under such uncomfortable circumstances, inasmuch as a grim borderer, on a tall bay horse, was already within lance’s length of him, and in another stride his own tired animal was rolling on the heather, and he was defending himself as well as he could on his feet.
Two or three shots were fired, the flashes from the pistols and musquetoons lighting up the faces of the combatants, as they rode to and fro through the skirmish. With the exception, however, of Mr Randolph’s first shot, which made ‘Rough Rob’s’ good gray mare masterless, the fire-arms did little damage, save rendering three or four of the horses perfectly unmanageable.
As Maxwell shifted his ground, and traversed here and there, parrying with his sword the thrusts of his adversary’s long lance, a tall man rode up to him, and shouting, ‘A Carmichael!’ seemed about to cut him down; then, as if perceiving his mistake, he checked his raised arm, and turned upon Mr Randolph, whom he attacked with considerable energy, shouting his war-cry, as though from the force of habit, once more.
The latter defended himself valiantly, but notwithstanding the assistance of his servant who fought with the cool intrepidity of an Englishman in a difficulty, he had too great odds to contend with, and must have fared badly, had not assistance come from an unexpected quarter at the very moment when honest Jenkin fell from the saddle with an awkward knock on his pate from the back of a Jedwood axe, running his assailant through the arm, however, as he went down.
Mr Randolph’s bridle had already been seized, and the valise torn from his saddle by the tall man who seemed to command the party. Both Maxwell and the ambassador were now surrounded and nearly overpowered, when two more horseman, followed by a numerous troop of cavalry, came galloping up from the rear, and charged into the mêlée, with a violence that made a clean breach through the outlaws. One of them, a gigantic borderer, with a broad, good-humoured face, rolled Maxwell’s antagonist, horse and man, to the ground, knocking the rider down again with the butt end of his lance, when he strove to rise; whilst the other, a tall cavalier magnificently accoutred, turned Mr Randolph’s horse courteously out of the press, dealing one of his assailants a buffet, that must have cut him in two, had it not been mercifully delivered with the flat of the sword, and rebuking the others in a voice of authority that all seemed to recognise. Indeed, a cry of ‘the Warden! the Warden!’ was by this time passed from lip to lip amongst the outlaws, and horses’ heads were already turned, and spurs plied to seek safety in flight. For the third time, too, to-night, Maxwell heard the name spoken which kindled so many recollections in his breast. Disembarrassed of his enemies by the rescue that arrived so opportunely, he noticed the Warden ride rapidly up to the leader of the band, and say in a low voice, ‘You here, Carmichael! for shame!’ after which, the other turned rein, and galloped off at the utmost speed, accompanied by all his followers save two, one of whom was dead, and the other disabled. It struck him also that the pursuit was not nearly so vigorous as might have been expected from the rescue, and that the Warden appeared far more anxious to pay every attention to Mr Randolph than to take vengeance on those who had attacked him. The latter had never lost his sang froid during the encounter, and was, if possible, more self-possessed than usual at its termination.
‘Your Scottish welcomes, my Lord Earl,’ said he, ‘are hearty, though rough. I never was more glad to see your lordship. It is fortunate for us all, except this gentleman, whose acquaintance I regret to have made so inopportunely, that you came to-night somewhat further than the drawbridge to meet your guests.’ As he spoke he pointed to the dead body of ‘Rough Rob,’ which was lying at his horse’s feet.
‘Who is it?’ asked Bothwell of his henchman anxiously, ere he replied to the courtier; and the gigantic horseman who had rescued Maxwell, dismounting, turned the dead man’s face to the moonlight.