“Keep off,” cried he immediately, “keep off, my friends, if ye love me; one man is enow, in all conscience, upon one man; so let him kill me if he can, but interfere not between us.”
They rained down their blows upon each other with tremendous force, and the combat hung doubtful for a considerable time. Proudfoot’s expression of countenance was savage and devilish. He tried various manœuvres to break through Lindsay’s cool determined guards, but without effect; and, being more desirous of wounding his adversary than of saving himself, he received some severe thrusts. At length, as he attempted to throw his point in on Lindsay’s body, he received a cut from him that laid his arm open from the shoulder to the wrist, and at once rendered it useless. The sword dropped from his hand, and, fainting from the loss of blood that poured from his other wounds, he staggered back a few paces, and fell senseless on the ground. The generous Lindsay, forgetting the brutal threats Proudfoot had uttered against him, ran up to his assistance.
“He was my companion when we were boys,” cried he; “oh, let me save him if I can.”
And so saying, he ran to the stream, filled his morion with water, and poured it on Proudfoot’s face. He then bathed his wounds, and bound up his arm, and tried to staunch the bleeding from the thrusts he had given him. Nor were his pious and merciful exertions unattended with success. Proudfoot opened his eyes, and, his senses returning to him, he gazed with silent wonder in the face of the man who had, a moment before, fought so manfully against him, and who was now so humanely employed in endeavouring to save his life, and assuage the acuteness of his pains. His own villainous and cruel determinations against Lindsay, which he had been contemplating, the having it in his power to carry into execution that very night, now rushed upon his mind. His conscience, long hardened by guilt and atrocity, was at once melted by that single, but bright ray of goodness, which darted on it from the anxious eye of Lindsay; and days long since past recurring to his memory, he remembered what he had been, and burst into an agony of tears.
Assueton had no sooner rid himself of his enemies than he went to assist the wounded and discomfited Sir Miers de Willoughby; and on unlacing his helmet, discovered, to his no small [[171]]surprise, the features of the very forester who guided him to Burnstower.
The evidence of Sir Miers de Willoughby’s villainy was now complete; yet was not the gallant Assueton’s compassion for his hapless state one atom diminished by the discovery. The wound in his neck, though not mortal, bled most profusely, and he lay in a swoon from the quantity of blood he had already lost. The Lady Isabelle and the esquire now coming up, every means were used to stop the effusion, and, happily, with success, but he still remained insensible. Assueton therefore ordered his people to catch some of the horses of those who had fallen; and having placed de Willoughby, Proudfoot, and one or two others of whose recovery there seemed to be good hope, across their saddles, they proceeded charily onwards, and after some hours’ slow travel, brought them safely to Carham, and lodged them under the care of the Black Canons of its Abbey.
Having rested and refreshed themselves and their horses there, they crossed the Tweed, and being impatient to return to Hailes, that they might relieve the anxious mind of the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne, they arrived there by a forced march.
The joy of Sir Patrick at the unexpected return of his daughter may be conceived. He had, as he resolved, gone in pursuit of Assueton, and had used every means in his power to discover the direction in which the Lady Isabelle had been carried; but all his efforts had been fruitless, and they found him in the deepest despair. It is easy to guess what happiness smiled upon that night’s banquet.