His example was followed by such of the mosstroopers as were at hand, and, in a minute or two, the battle throughout the thickets had entirely ceased, and the combatants came all crowding together around the interesting group.
“Look to Somervil,” groaned the gentle Johnston, pointing eagerly to the inanimate youth. “He may die of his wounds, and never look upon his father’s face.”
Comyn, Sinclair, and others of Somervil’s band, instantly knelt around their captain. He was unwounded, but much bruised; his respiration was deep, his eyes were shut; but sensibility was returning, and he could answer, though faintly, when they spoke to him.
“Dacre de Ermstein,” cried the gentle Johnston, “come hither to me. I have not many moments to live, but what remains of my mortal breath shall be devoted to the disclosure of this my blackest crime. Come hither.”
De Ermstein rushed breathlessly towards him, bent over him, cast on his dark visage a look that might have pierced him through.
“I conjure you,” he cried vehemently, “to disclose the naked truth, however deeply it may criminate you. I know you now—I remember your features, Johnston, and tremble to hear your revenge. Speak, speak, deceive not an agonised father. Restore to me my son, if your cruel hand spared my son to this mournful day.”
“Ay,” said Johnston, “my hand has long been cruel and dark with blood; but, cruel and ruthless as it is, it could not but spare the child o’ De Ermstein. Behold your son—in Ruthven Somervil you behold him. And forgive me for the great wrong of the past in that I have saved you from the darkest crime that could stain living man!”
“My wife—his mother—pled sore for him,” exclaimed Sir Dacre. “The mysterious sympathy betwixt mother and child had stirred her heart, and she would have saved him, though she was ignorant that he was the child of her youth and joy. And I spurned her prayer, and strove to incur a guilt which would have branded me with infamy, and crushed me with despair! My son! And can this be my son?” he faltered, as he thrust aside the eager crowd around the prostrate mosstrooper, and, throwing himself on his knees, threw his arms around the half-unconscious youth’s neck, and gently raised his head to look upon him. It was a long, burning, searching gaze.
Ruthven opened his eyes.
“He has the look of his mother!” exclaimed Sir Dacre. “He has his mother’s features! Why could I not remark this before?”