“This robber chief—his name?” he demanded.
“Ruthven Somervil. He keeps the Tower of Hunterspath with a powerful and desperate band.”
“Ruthven Somervil,” said the knight slowly; “he shall be remembered. Chance may yet throw vengeance into my power. But Elliot may thank his robber allies, for, had not they come to his aid, the flag of Dacre de Ermstein would now have been floating triumphantly over the towers of Hawksglen.”
Giving vent to his anger in these and similar words, the English knight withdrew his forces, and retired in the direction of the Border. The raiders of Hunterspath, greedy of booty, did not hesitate to despoil the English dead, and went about their business, while the servants of Hawksglen succoured those who had been wounded in defence of their house.
Sir James Elliot invited Maxwell, and others who had come to his relief, to partake of his hospitality, and Lady Elliot was most assiduous in her attentions to the guests.
“The chief of Hunterspath,” she said to her husband, as she noticed that Ruthven was not in the banqueting hall.
“Ay; I had almost forgotten,” returned Sir James, as he went in search of the mosstrooper.
A moment later he held his breath in wonder: Eleanor and Ruthven were in conversation in the courtyard. The mosstrooper’s visor was still down, as it had been during the fight. Sir James approached.
“You will drink to the defeat of our foes?” he said.