Somervil replied not to the insolence of his foe, but, brandishing his blood-dyed falchion, he spurred upon him. They encountered with a crash, and the outlaw’s blade was shivered to the hilt. An instant’s hesitation would have sealed his fate, but, almost flinging himself from his saddle, he grappled Sir Dacre’s sword hand, and wrenched the sword from him. This was scarcely done when the plunging of their horses threw them both on the ground, locked in each other’s arms, boiling with fury, gasping for breath. It was a death-struggle in all its fearful intensity.
Several of the outlaws, seeing their leader’s danger, instantly abandoned their steeds and flew to extricate him and stab his adversary; but as many of the Southrons were equally ready to fly to the rescue of Sir Dacre, a mortal conflict ensued around the two struggling combatants. The false priest was conspicuous for his wild heroism, his trenchant blade, his voice of thunder; and the veterans of Hunterspath were there mingling in the strife to save their captain.
It seemed as though their aid was doomed to be unavailing, that they could not save the outlaw. His strength was unequal to that of the iron-nerved Sir Dacre, whose hand clutched his throat, whose knee rose upon his breast. Alas for the outlaw! A dagger glittered in Sir Dacre’s grasp—glittered in the air—when a frightful voice arose above the din of battle, and arrested the clashing weapons, and a man, breathless, wounded, haggard, distracted in aspect, his eyes bloodshot and glaring, his head uncovered, his blood trickling to the ground—a spectacle of death and horror—staggered, with sinking strength, through the combatants, and seized Sir Dacre’s uplifted hand.
“Mother of Heaven!” he gasped; “would you slay your son? Would you shed the blood of him whom you have lamented for twenty years?”
It was the gentle Johnston. At last the mighty secret was divulged. At last he had revealed, in the face of the world, the dark thought that so long wrung his heart and embittered his life. In the jaws of death, with his life-blood rushing from his wounds, he had avouched his guilt, and saved the father from a deed of unnatural guilt. By such a disclosure, at such a time, he had atoned for many of the crimes that lay heavy on his dark soul.
[Chapter XIV.]
“’Tis he! ’tis he himself! It is my son.”