“If by your question, how the animal came there, you would ask what road he took, Sir Knight,” replied Dugald, “I must tell you that the man that could answer you would need to deal with the devil, for no one but the foul fiend himself could follow the Priest of Dalestie; for, unless he be most wickedly belied, his ways follow those of the Evil One, as much as our good father, Peter of Dounan, is known to travel in the path of his blessed Master.”
“Nay, but I would know from thee, in plain terms, where thou judgest that the rider of the horse may be?” said Sir Walter, impatiently.
“With your lady mother, the Lady Stradawn, I reckon,” said Dugald, sinking his voice to a half whisper.
“Call her not my lady mother!” said Sir Walter, angrily, “my lady step-mother, if thou wilt, or my step-mother without the lady, for that, in truth, would better befit her, disgrace as she hath been and still is to us all.—Here, undo this buckle!—But what, I pr’ythee, hath she to do with the proud Priest of Dalestie, as thou hast so well named him?”
“Nay, nothing that I know of, Sir Walter, unless it be to confess her,” replied Dugald.
“Why, the good old father, Peter of Dounan, was here but yesterday, was he not?” exclaimed Sir Walter, “might he not have shriven her?”
“Father Peter was here sure enough,” replied Dugald, “but it would seem that he is not to the lady’s fancy.”
“Beshrew her fancy!” cried Sir Walter, bitterly,—“Where could she, or any one, find a worthier confessor than Father Peter of Dounan? He is, indeed, a good and godly man, and, frail as he is in body, we know that he is always ready to run, as fast as his feeble limbs can carry him, wherever his pious duties or his charities may call him.—Moreover, he is at all times within reach, what need, then, hath she to send so far a-field for one whose character is, by every one’s report, so very questionable—give me my hose and sandals, Donald.—Now thou may’st go.—By the Rood, I like not that pestilent and ill-famed fellow coming about our house! He hath more character for arrogance, and self-indulgence as a glutton and a toss-pot, than for sanctity.—It was an ill day for this country side when it was disgraced by his coming into it.”
After muttering this last sentence to himself, Walter quickly descended the narrow stair, and approached the door of the lady’s bower in another part of the building.—It was partially open.—He tapped gently, and, no answer being returned, he pushed it up, and great were his surprise and disgust at the scene which he beheld. The Lady Stradawn was sitting, or rather reclining in her arm-chair, with a pretty large round table before her, covered with good things.—A huge venison pasty occupied the centre of it, and around it stood several dishes, in no very regular order, containing different dainties. Two well-used trenchers, showed that some one else had assisted her, in producing the havoc that appeared to have been wrought in the pie, and among the other viands—and a black-jack half full of ale—and a tall silver stoup, which, though now empty, still gave forth a potent odour of the spiced wine which it had contained—together with two mazers of the same metal, which bore the marks of having been used in the drinking of it, proved that the guest, who had just left the lady, must have been a noble auxiliary in this revel, which, judging from the fact of an over-turned drinking horn that lay on the floor, and one or two other circumstances that appeared, must have been a merry one. The deep sleep in which the lady lay, and her flushed countenance, left no doubt in Sir Walter’s mind that she had enjoyed a full share of this private banquet. By the time he had leisure to make himself fully aware of all these particulars, the lady’s bower-woman appeared at the chamber door. She started, and would have retreated—but Sir Walter seized her by the wrist, and adroitly put a question to her before she had time to recover from her confusion.
“When did the priest of Dalestie go forth from hence, Jessy?” demanded he.