“I have determined that he shall suffer the penalty due to his crimes,” cried Sir Dacre; “and that within three days. Has he not been my relentless foe, the relentless spoliator of my lands? I never can forget that, through him, I suffered that disgraceful repulse before the tower of Hawksglen, which, but for his interposition, would have yielded to the assaults of my gallant soldiers. No, no, Alice, speak not a word for him; I will hear no petition from human lips that his life should be spared. Since the day at Hawksglen how often have my vassals been plundered and slain by the mosstroopers of Hunterspath? I will not listen to appeals for mercy to this noted outlaw—this villain whose pride and boast it is to plunder the domains of Warkcliff, and mortify their lord.”
“But, husband,” entreated the gentle-hearted lady, “resolve upon nothing until your passion has cooled down. Your spirits are flushed at this moment. There is no knightly virtue so brilliant as that of compassion for the vanquished foe.”
“But what a foe this is, Alice,” said the knight, “a mosstrooper—an outlawed and broken man—a miscreant who lives upon spoliation and rapine. He can claim no compassion.”
“Still, to put him to death, miscreant as he is, may bring the vengeance of his confederates on the Scottish side upon you, husband. Consider this: his death may add another to the many grounds of feud and fray which the turbulent Scottish chiefs have against you. And we have suffered much from the hatred of the Border Scots.”
“It does not move my compassion for this ruffian,” returned the knight, with a dark gloom on his brow, “thus to rake up the memories of our past wrongs and sorrows. Can I forget that, through the fell hatred of some caitiff-Scot, we are this day childless and heirless?”
“Childless, indeed!” sighed the lady, as, with a burst of grief, she sank on her husband’s shoulder and wept aloud.
Sir Dacre was equally affected, but he forbore all signs of woe. He essayed to soothe his weeping wife, and laid her gently into a chair.
“Ay,” said the knight, as he moodily perambulated the room, “Scottish hatred has struck at the root of our house, and will behold its extinction in a few short years. The house of De Ermstein traces its long descent from the chivalrous Norman who followed the Conqueror, and shared in the perils and glories of the field of Hastings. And shall this long line terminate with me? Alas! my name shall be erased for ever from the princely roll of English nobles.”
“O, that child—that lost, lost child!” sobbed the weeping lady. “Twenty years have deepened the sad wound of my soul!”
“Childless, heirless,” resumed Sir Dacre. “And this old house to close with me? One of my ancestors received the praise of King Edward on the field of Falkirk, where the Scottish rebels were scattered; another did his devoir gallantly under bold King Hall at Agincourt; and a third stabbed down the hump-backed Richard on Bosworth. We have all our ancient baronial honours about us. But oblivion is destined to swallow up all!”