“It does, Sir Knight,” replied Dugald.
“Then get thee down through the wood,” said Sir Walter; “get thee down through the wood ere it hath ceased to sound, and tell the proud priest of Dalestie that I, Walter Stewart of Clan-Allan, am upon the hill, and that, if he dares to mumble a word, yea, or a syllable, before I come, his life shall pay for it.”
“Stay, stay,” cried Patrick Stewart, eagerly; “stay him, dear brother! What sudden fit is this that hath seized thee? A priest!—how canst thou think of sending such a message as this to a priest?”
“Dugald Roy, begone, and obey thy master’s bidding!” cried Sir Walter, sternly. “Brother, I forgive thee this thine interference, though I cannot allow myself to be swayed by it. Trust me, I have mine own good reasons for so acting, though this be no fitting time for making thee aware of them.”
Patrick, whom affection, as well as habit had long disposed to show implicit deference and obedience to his brother Walter’s will, said no more, but followed his solemn footsteps down the mountain path that led to the chapel. They had not gone half the way till the bell had ceased to toll. And they had not gone two-thirds of the way till Dugald Roy met them.
“Thou hast not sped on thine errand, then?” said Sir Walter, with an expression in which more of satisfaction than of disappointment might have been read. “Speak, Dugald; how did the arrogant caitiff receive my message?”
“Since I must say it, Sir Knight,” replied Dugald, with some hesitation,—“he received it very scurvily.—‘Tell the proud Stewart,’ said he, ‘that though he may be lord of the land, I am the king as well as the priest in mine own chapel.’—And so he straightway began the holy service, but rather, methought, as if he had been dighting himself for single combat, than for prayer, and in a manner altogether so irreverent, that the few people who were there, with faces full of dismay, quietly arose and left the chapel, as if some wicked thing had ta’en up the priest’s surplice in mockery.”
“By the Rood, but they were right if they so thought!” cried Sir Walter, quickening his pace—“He is a vile obscene wolf that hath crept like a thief into the fold.—But I’ll speak to him anon.”
The rate at which Sir Walter now strode down the hill, kept his astonished brother Patrick, and the whole party at their full bent. The trees grew thinner as they came nearer the level valley, and by and bye they ceased altogether, so that a full view was obtained of the haugh at the bottom. There the Priest of Dalestie was seen leaving the chapel to go homewards.
“There he goes!” cried Sir Walter—“there he goes stalking along with an air and a gait, that might better befit a proud prince of the earth, than Heaven’s humble messenger of peace, as his profession ought to have made him.—What, ho, Sir Priest!—I would speak with thee.”