“I but cry for pity, Sir Knight,” said the boy. “Thy tale, too, doth somewhat touch mine own, and so doth it, peraunter, affect me the more. May Heaven in its mercy clear away those cruel clouds that do at present so darken our souls!”
“Amen!” said the knight fervently. “Then get thee to thy couch, Maurice, for I will to mine.”
Sir Patrick Hepborne had already slept for a considerable time, when he was awakened by the clamour of voices. This, perhaps, would have excited little astonishment, had he not previously remarked the uncommon degree of quietness that had been preserved in the little encampment, the probable effect of the stern character and alert discipline of him who was at the head of it. He sat up, and leaning for some moments on his elbow to listen, he by and by heard the trampling of steeds, and the bustle of preparation, as if for a departure. He then called to the page, who answered him so immediately, that Hepborne suspected, what was really the case, that he had not as yet slept.
“What noise is that we hear, Maurice?” said he.
“Methinks,” said the page, “it is some party that sets forth. [[220]]Perhaps it may be one moiety of the retinue who go before, to prepare those of the Castle for the Earl’s coming.”
This very natural explanation satisfied Hepborne. He soon heard the noise increase, and the neighing and prancing of the horses, with the voices of many men, though their words were not intelligible; then he heard a loud command to march, and the gallop of the troop died away upon his ear, and then again all was quiet, and his repose was uninterrupted until morning.
He was hardly dressed when Sir Andrew Stewart came courteously to offer the usual morning compliments, and to conduct him to the great pavilion.
“My father,” said he, “hath been called on urgent business into Badenoch; he left this yesternight, to ride thither sans delay: my brothers, Alexander, Walter, and James, also went with him; but he left me here to do thee what poor hospitality I may until his return. To-day, with thy good leave, we shall hie us to Lochyndorbe, and to-morrow I hope he will be there to do the honours of the Castle in his own person.”
This sudden departure of the Wolfe of Badenoch accounted to Hepborne for the disturbance he had met with in the night. The Lady Mariota received him graciously.
“But where is my handsome good-for-nothing page?” eagerly inquired she. “Ah, there comes the naughty boy, I see. Come hither, Sir Scapegrace; I trow I did school thee to some purpose yestreen; but parfay, thou shalt have more on’t anon. Come hither, I say. Verily, the young varlet hangeth his ears like a whelp that feareth the rod; but i’faith I am not come to that yet,—though, never trust me,” added she, laughing, “but thou shalt have it ere long, an’ thou be’st not more docile. Sit thee down here, I say. And see now how, in hopes of thine amendment, I have carved for thee the tenderest and whitest part of this black grouse’s breast; yea, Sir Good-for-Nothing—with mine own fair fingers have I done it.”