The ferocious Wolfe could stand this no longer. His eyes flashed fire, and, catching up a large silver flagon of wine, from which he had been going to drink, he hurled it at his son’s head with so much celerity and truth of aim that had not Hepborne raised his left arm and intercepted it in its flight, though at the expense of a severe contusion, the hot Sir Alexander would never have uttered a word more. Heedless of the escape he had made, he rose to return the compliment against his father; but Hepborne, and some of those nearest to him, interfered, and with some difficulty the anger of both father and son was appeased. It was a feature in the Wolfe’s character, and one also in which his son Alexander probably participated, that, although his passion was easily and tremendously excited on every trifling occasion, so as to convert him at once into an ungovernable wild beast, capable of the most savage and cruel deeds, yet there were times when he was not unapt to repent him of any atrocious act he might have been guilty of, particularly where his own family was concerned. He loved his son Alexander—with the exception of the child Duncan, indeed, he loved him more than any of the others, perhaps because he more nearly resembled himself in temper. After the fray had been put an end to he sat for some moments trembling with agitation; but, as his wrath subsided, and he became calmer, he began to picture to himself his son stretched dead at his feet by a blow from his own hand. His countenance became gloomy and oppressed; he fidgetted upon his seat, and at length starting hurriedly up—
“Depardieux, I thank thee, Sir Patrick,” said he, taking Hepborne’s right hand, and squeezing it heartily—“depardieux, I thank thee for having arrested a blow I should have so much repented—Alexander,” continued he, going up and embracing his son, “forgive me, my boy; but provoke not mine ire in the same way again, I beseech thee.”
“Nay, father,” said Sir Alexander, “perhaps I went too far; but, by the mass, I was irritated by the thought that John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, should have got between thee and the King with his silky curreidew tongue.”
“Right, boy,” cried the Wolfe, relieved by finding a new outlet for his rage, and striking the table furiously with his fist as he resumed his seat—“right, boy: there it is. If I but find that my suspicions are true, by the beard of my grandfather his being my sister Margery’s husband shall not save him from [[215]]my wrekery. But, Sir Patrick,” continued he, after a short pause, “so please thee, let me see the old man’s letter thou wert charged with, Knowest thou aught of its contents?”
“No, my good lord,” said Hepborne, taking the embroidered silken case that contained the King’s epistle from his bosom. “His Majesty put it himself into my hands as I kissed his, to take my duteous leave, and here it is as he gave it to me.”
The Wolfe glanced at the royal signet, and then, with his wonted impatience, tore up the silk, and began to read it to himself. His brow darkened as he went on, his teeth ground against each other, and his lip curled with a growing tempest. At length he dashed down the King’s letter on the table, and struck the board with his clenched fist two or three times successively—
“Ha! see, Sir Knight, what it is thou hast brought me,” cried he, in a fury so great that he could hardly give utterance to his words. “Read that, read that, I say. By all the fiends, ’tis well I read it not at first, ere I knew thee better, Sir Knight, or thou mightest have had but a strange reception. Read it—read it, I say!”
Hepborne took up the letter, and read as follows:—
“To the High and Noble, our trusty and well-beloved son, Alexander Stewart. Earl of Buchan, Earl of Ross, Lord of Badenoch, and our faithful Lieutenant over the northern part of our kingdom, from the bounds of the county of Moray to the Pentland Frith, these greeting—
“Son Alexander,—We do hope these may find thee well. It hath reached our ears that thou dost still continue to keep abiding with thee thy leman, Mariota Athyn. Though she, the said Mariota, be the mother of thy five boys, yet is the noble Lady Euphame, Countess of Ross, thy true and lawful wife; with her, therefore, it behoveth thee to consort, yea, and her it behoveth thee to cherish: yet are we informed, and it doleth us much that it should be so, that thou dost still leave her to grieve in loneliness and solitude. Bethink thee that thou yet liest under the threatened ban of holy Mother Church, and under the penalty laid on thee by the godly Bishops of Moray and Ross for having cruelly used her, and that thou dost yet underly, and art bound by their sentence to live with her in a virtuous and seemly manner. Let not gratitude permit thee to forget, also, that she did bestow upon thee rich heritages in land, and [[216]]that it is through her thou dost hold thy title of Earl of Ross, which we did graciously confirm to thee. Return, then, from thy wicked ways, and cleave unto thy lawful wife, to her cherisaunce, as thou wouldst value our good favour, and as thou wouldst give jovisaunce to these our few remaining years of eld. And so, as thou dost obey these our injunctions, may God keep thee and thine in health, and soften thine heart to mercy and godliness. So prayeth thy loving father and King,
“Robert Rex.”
Hepborne laid down the King’s letter without venturing a single comment on it, and it was instantly snatched up by Sir Alexander Stewart.