—Douglas.
WHAT a cry that was—“Would you slay your son?” Had the proud, noble, childless knight of Warkcliff—the last of his illustrious line—lamented the fate of the lost infant so long, and now was about to plunge his dagger into the breast of that very child? Had Heaven spared that child’s life, and preserved him through many troubles, only that he might perish beneath the blow of the blinded father? The fateful, astounding words sounded to him like a death-knell; his hand relinquished the blood-stained steel, and he sprang from the ground, speechless and bewildered. As if by concert, the struggling parties forbore their fierce contest, and drew back with lowered weapons.
Exhausted and swooning in the struggle, Somervil, if he heard the startling exclamation, scarcely knew what it meant; his mind was wandering, his senses were failing him, his brain swam round, and, though relieved of the pressure of his adversary, he made no effort to rise from the earth, but lay supine, with scarce a movement of hand or foot.
Johnston, with his wild and haggard aspect, cast his blood-shot eyes around him; he staggered to and fro, and then fell prone on the turf.
“I only ask for breath—to disclose all this secret of woe,” he gasped, as he turned on his side, and endeavoured to raise himself on his elbow—“breath to restore the lost son to the father—that is all I wish—and then let me die!”
What could the outlaws think of this? Their bold captain the son of their deadliest foe! They had striven with their blood and lives to restore him to the tower of Cheviot and to liberty, and it had resulted in the discovery that he was De Ermstein’s son! Could they credit the incredible assertion from the mouth of a villain whose perfidy, falsehood, and guile they abhorred—whose very name they detested? No, no, it was but a fabrication of the dying ruffian. They would fight for their captain yet! Up with the slogan-cry and the deadly steel. Cheviot! Cheviot! Somervil should be borne off free.
With a wild shout they brandished their weapons; but their hostile attitude recalled the bewilderment of De Ermstein.
“Stay, stay,” he shouted, almost in frenzy. “No more blood shall be shed. Implore all to stay the conflict. This secret must be disclosed. Somervil shall pass away free and scaithless though he be of no kindred to my house. Stay, stay!”
“Let us rest on the assurance of this noble knight,” cried Reginald de Oswald. “His knightly word is passed for the safety of your leader. I for one will forbear further conflict,” and he sheathed his sword.