While the guide was thus employed, Hepborne sat musing at the fire, listlessly and almost unconsciously supplying it with fuel from time to time, and gazing at the fragments of wood as they were gradually consumed. His back was towards the entrance-passage of the place where the mountaineer was occupied, and the page lay to his right hand, under the shadow of the rock.
As Sir Patrick sat thus absorbed in thought, he suddenly received a tremendous blow on his head, that partly stunned him, and almost knocked him forwards into the flames. The weight and force of it was such that, had he not had his steel cap on it, his brains must have been knocked out. Before he could rise to defend himself, the blow was repeated with a dreadful clang upon the metal, and he was brought down upon his knees; but ere it fell a third time on him, a piercing shriek arose, and a struggle ensued behind him. Having by this time gathered his strength and senses sufficiently to turn round, he [[197]]beheld the horrible countenance of their savage guide glaring over him, his eyeballs red from the reflection of the fire, his lips expanded, his teeth set together, and a ponderous stone lifted in both hands, with which he was essaying to fell him to the earth by a third blow. But his arms were pinioned behind, and it was the feeble page who held them. Hepborne scrambled to get to his feet, but, weakened by the blows he had already received, his efforts to rise were vain. The murderous ruffian, furious with disappointment, struggled hard, and at length, seeing that he could not rid himself of the faithful Maurice whilst he continued to hold the stone, he quickly dropped it, and, turning fiercely round on the boy, groped for his dirk. Already was it half unsheathed, when the gleam of a bright spear-head came flashing forth from the obscurity on one side, and with the quickness of thought it drank the life’s blood from the savage heart of the assassin. Down rolled the monster upon the ground, his ferocious countenance illumined by the light from the blazing wood. In the agony of death his teeth ground against each other; his right hand, that still clenched the handle of the dirk, drew it forth with convulsive grasp, and, raising it as if for a last effort of destruction, brought it down with a force that buried the whole length of its blade in the harmless earth. Hepborne looked up to see from what friendly hand his preservation and that of the courageous boy had so miraculously come, when to his astonishment he beheld Duncan MacErchar standing before him.
“Och, oich!” cried the worthy Highlander. “Och, oich! what a Providence!—what a mercy!—what a good lucks it was that she was brought here!”
“A Providence indeed!” cried Hepborne, crossing himself, and offering up a short but fervent ejaculation of gratitude to God; “it seems indeed to have been a most marked interposition of Providence in our favour. Yet am I not the less grateful to thee for being the blessed instrument, in the hands of the Almighty, in saving not only my life, but that of the generous noble boy yonder, who had so nearly sacrificed his own in my defence. Maurice de Grey, come to mine arms; take the poor thanks of thy grateful master for his safety, for to thy courage, in the first place, his thanks are due. Trust me, boy, thou wilt one day be a brave knight; and to make thee all that chivalry may require of thee shall be mine earnest care.”
Whether it was that the boy’s stock of resolution had been expended in his effort, or that he was deeply affected by his master’s commendation, it is not easy to determine; but he [[198]]shrank from the knight’s embrace, and, bursting into tears, hurried within the Shelter Stone.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Another Night Attack—A Desperate Encounter.
“By what miracle, good mine host,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne to Master Duncan MacErchar—“by what miracle do I see thee in this wilderness, so far from thine own dwelling?”
“Uch! uch! miracle truly, miracle truly, that she’s brought here; for who could have thought that the false faitours and traitrous loons would have led her honour this round-about gate, that they might knock out her brains at the Shelter Stone of Loch Avon? An it had not been for Donald and Angus, her two cushins, that hunts the hills, and kens all the roads of these scoundrels, she would never have thought of coming round about over the very shoulders of the mountains to seek after them. But—uve! uve!—where’s the t’other rascals? and where’s her honour’s men and beasts?”