"I know not," said Kenric. "But methinks 'tis a pity he did not drive it into the villain's heart."
"My son! my son! let me not hear you utter such evil thoughts again. It ill becomes a pupil of our holy abbot to speak thus. And yesternight you were disposed to leave the guilty earl to whatever punishment the wise men should appoint."
"Reflection has changed me, Dovenald; and were Roderic before me at this moment I would willingly lay him dead at my feet. Should Alpin fail to slay him, then will I fulfil my revenge. In fair fight or by stealth Roderic shall surely die."
"Alas, that I should ever hear such words from one so young!" murmured Dovenald.
And the old man continued his complaints until they had entered the castle gates.
[CHAPTER VIII. AN ERIACH FINE.]
Under the clear sky of high noon the people of Bute had assembled on the great plain of Laws, at the margin of Loch Ascog. They had come from all parts of the island, for the word had travelled round with the swiftness of a bird's flight that their good king, Earl Hamish, had been cruelly slain by his own brother, and all were eager not only to see the man who had done this treacherous deed, but also to hear judgment passed upon him for his crime.
At the foot of the great standing stone Sir Oscar Redmain, as steward or prefect of Bute, took his seat as judge. Noble and comely he looked, holding his great glittering sword, point upward, waiting for the prisoner and his accuser. At his right stood Godfrey Thurstan, the good abbot of St. Blane's, with his cowl drawn over his reverend head to shield him from the warm sun. At his left Dovenald, most learned in the laws of the land, ready to explain and discuss the ancient legal customs; and round them in a circle were the others of the twelve ruthmen. The witnesses or compurgators stood in an outer ring within a fencing of cords running from stake to stake. Without the verge of the sacred circle of justice were gathered a great crowd of islanders -- herdsmen and husbandmen, tribesmen, fishermen, and thralls -- who had left their labours on hill and in vale, or on the sea, and come hither crying out loud for speedy vengeance.
Duncan Graham the seneschal and his guards of the castle had already gone amongst these onlookers to see that no man carried weapons, for it was held in strict custom that none should bear arms or make disturbance at such a time on pain of life and limb.
These hardy islanders, as they stood in silence, were a rugged set of men, with sunburnt faces and bushy beards. Many of them were clothed in garments of sheepskin, others of a better condition wore a plaid or mantle of frieze. They had buskins made of rawhide, and a knitted bonnet, though many of them wore no covering for their heads but their own shaggy hair tied back with a leathern strap.