“Murdered!” cried Patrick, in an agony of anxiety; “My brother Walter murdered!—Where?—when?—how?—by whom?—Oh, speak, that I may hasten to avenge him! But, no!—’tis impossible!—speak!—I have mistaken thee—surely it cannot be!”
“Master Murdoch says that it is true,” replied Neil. “But the worst of all is, that he hath accused thee, Sir Patrick, of having done the deed, with an arrow, somewhere in the wood on the hill of Dalestie.”
“Merciful Saints!” exclaimed Patrick; “can he indeed be such a villain? But who will believe so foul and unnatural a calumny? Oh, Walter, my brother, my brother! Heaven above knows that thy life was ten thousand times dearer to me than mine own!”
“Nay,” replied Neil, “he hath called all the clansmen who were there to witness and to support the strong suspicions which he hath industriously raised against thee.”
“What argument hath he against me?” cried Patrick Stewart impatiently.
“He says that the men who were present can testify that you and your brother, Sir Walter, went into the wood together,” replied Neil; “and that Sir Walter hath not been seen since; and then, he contends, that the sudden flight which you made from Drummin, under the cloud of night, is enough to show that you have taken guilt home to your conscience.”
“And is this all?” demanded Patrick Stewart.
“Nay,” replied Neil, “there was more stuff of the same kind, by the use of which he hath contrived so to persuade them with his wily tongue, that they are all clamorous against thee. Nay, he hath even warped the feeble judgment of Sir Allan himself to the same belief.”
“Serpent that he is!” cried Patrick Stewart. “But let me hasten home to confront this vile traducer. My brother!—my brother Walter!” continued he, bursting into tears. “My brother Walter gone!—and I accused of his murder!—Oh, my brother!—my dear brother! Heaven above knows how willingly I would have laid down my life to have saved thine! Nay, how willingly would I now lay it down at this moment, were it only to secure to me the certainty that thou art yet alive! The very thought that it may be otherwise is agony and desolation to me. But let us hasten to confront this villainy. Let us hasten to revenge! For the love of Heaven, let us hasten home, Dugald!”
“Nay, my good master,” said Dugald weeping, “for if this sad tale be true as to Sir Walter’s death, other master than thee, I fear me, that I now have none. Neil says well that Drummin is no place for thee to-night, with so sudden and tumultuous a clamour excited against thee. Thine innocence will avail thee nothing. Even the innocence of an angel would naught avail against the diseased judgments of men, with minds so poisoned and so possessed. Be persuaded to go elsewhere, until the false and weak foundations of this most traitorous accusation fail beneath it, and the mists drop from men’s eyes. Who can say for certain that my beloved master, Sir Walter, is dead? I cannot believe in so great a calamity. What proof is there that he is dead? There is no news that his body hath been found.”