They now crossed the river by a broad ford, and began winding through the forests that stretched from its northern banks, and continued gradually rising over its pine-covered hills. The day was approaching its close as they were winding along the side of a steep hill, that rose over the head of a deep but narrow glen, surrounded by fantastic rocks shooting here and there from amongst the oak woods that fringed its sides. Sir Patrick’s attention was attracted by the sight of some white tents that were pitched on a small level area of smooth turf in the bottom, where it was divided by the meanders of a clear rill.
“She be the Wolfe of Badenoch yonder,” said his guide, pointing downwards with a face of alarm.
“The Wolfe of Badenoch!” cried Sir Patrick eagerly; “what, are those the tents of the Earl of Buchan?” for he knew that the King’s son, Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan and Lord of Badenoch, whom he was about to visit, had obtained that nom de guerre from his ferocity.
“Ay, ay,” said the guide, “she’s right; tat’s the Earl of Buchan—tat’s the Wolfe of Badenoch. Troth she’s at the hunts there. Uve, uve!”
“Then, mine honest fellow,” said Hepborne, “if those be indeed the tents of the Earl of Buchan, thy trouble with us shall be soon ended. Do but lead me down thither, and thou shalt be forthwith dismissed, with thy promised warison.”
The guide paused and hesitated for a time, his countenance betraying considerable uneasiness and apprehension; but at length he began slowly to retrace his steps along the side of the hill, and, turning off into a path that led down through the wood over a gentle declivity, he finally brought them out into the bottom of the glen, about a quarter of a mile below the spot [[207]]where they had seen the tents. As they issued from the covert of the trees into the narrow glade, the winding of a bugle-mot came up the glen, and Sir Patrick halted for a few moments, to listen if it should be repeated. By and by the neighing of steeds, and a loud laughing and merry talking, announced the approach of a crowd of people, who very soon appeared, filing round the turning of a rock.
“Mercy be about her! yon’s ta Wolfe now,” cried the guide, in the utmost trepidation; and, without waiting for reward or anything else, he darted into the adjoining thicket and disappeared.
At the head of the numerous party that advanced came a knight, mounted on a large and powerful black horse. And well was it indeed for the steed that he was large and powerful, for his rider was as near seven as six feet in height, while his body and limbs displayed so great a weight of bone and muscle, that any less potent palfrey must have bent beneath it. But the noble animal came proudly on, capering as if he felt not the weight of his rider. The knight wore a broad bonnet, graced with the royal hern’s plume, and a hunting-dress of gold-embroidered green cloth, over which hung a richly ornamented bugle, while his baldrick, girdle-stead, hunting pouch, anelace, and dirk, were all of the most gorgeous and glittering materials. His boots were of tawny buckskin, and his heels armed with large spurs of the most massive gold. The furniture of his horse was equally superb, the bits in particular being heavily embossed, and the whole thickly covered over with studs and bosses of the same precious metal. His saddle and housings were of rich purple velvet, wrought with golden threads, and the stirrups were of solid silver.
But, accustomed as Sir Patrick Hepborne had been to all the proud pomp and splendid glitter of chivalry, he minded not these trifling matters beyond the mere observance of them. It was the head and face of the person who approached that most particularly rivetted his attention. Both were on a great scale, and of an oval form. The forehead was high and retreating, and wore on it an air of princely haughtiness; the nose was long and hooked; the lips were large, but finely formed; and the mouth, though more than usually extended, was well shaped, and contained a set of well-arranged teeth, of uncommon size and unsullied lustre. The complexion was florid, and the hair, beard, whiskers, and moustaches, all ample and curling freely, were of a jet black, that was but slightly broken in upon by the white hairs indicating the approaching winter of life. But the [[208]]most characteristic features were the eyes, which would have been shaded by the enormous eyebrows that threw their arches over them, had it not been for their extreme prominence. They were fiery and restless, and although their expression was sometimes hilarious, yet they generally wore the lofty look of pride; but it was easy to discern that they were in the habit of being perpetually moved by an irritable and impatient temper, that was no sooner excited than their orbs immediately assumed a fearful inclination inwards, that almost amounted to a squint.
This knight, whom Sir Patrick immediately recognized, by the description he had often heard of him, to be Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan, the Wolfe of Badenoch, was about the age of fifty, or perhaps a few years younger. By his side rode a lady, clad in a scarlet mantle, profusely embroidered with gold, and seated on a piebald palfrey, covered with trappings even more costly than those of the horse that carried the Wolfe of Badenoch himself. She seemed to be approaching the age of forty, and was slightly inclining to embonpoint, fresh in face and complexion, and very beautiful. Behind them rode five gay and gallant young knights, the eldest of whom might have been about twenty. They were all richly apparelled, and accoutred in a taste somewhat similar to that of the elder knight who rode before them, and were mounted on magnificent horses, that came neighing and prancing along, their impatience of restraint adding to the pleasure of their youthful riders, especially of the younger, who were boys.