“Dost thou admit or deny the charge the Lady Mariota hath made against thee?”
“I most solemnly deny it,” replied the page.
“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, “then is there no more to be said. Let him be removed; and let everything be prepared for a single combat to-morrow between Sir Patrick Hepborne and me—the place to be the lawnde beyond the land sconce; and the time, the moment the welkin sees the sun. ’Tis well ’tis so soon settled. Now let us dine, Sir Patrick, We may be merry companions to-night, though we be to fight like fiends i’ the morning. The banquet, I say—the banquet. Why dost thou tarry with thy prisoner?”
“One word, I pray,” said Maurice de Grey, now thrown into extreme agitation by hearing that his master’s life was to be put in jeopardy for him—“I crave one word ere I go.”
“My Lord,” said Sir Patrick to the Wolfe, “I claim thy solemn behote; thou didst promise free and ample speech for the youth; hear him, then, I beseech thee.”
“Well, youth, well,” cried the Wolfe, very impatiently, “what hast thou to say? Be quick, for time wears, and hunger galls me; be quick, I say.”
“I demand a private conference, noble Earl,” said the page. “I have something to unfold that will altogether change the complexion of this case. If I do not make the Lady Mariota clear me of all guilt, I hereby agree to hold myself as condemned [[235]]to instant death, and shall patiently submit to whatever fate thou mayest award me.”
“Nay, nay, dear Maurice,” cried Hepborne anxiously, and putting more faith in his own prowess than in anything the page could urge to convince the Lady Mariota, of whose villainous falsehood in the foul charge she had brought against the youth he had been fully convinced from the first—“nay, nay, dear Maurice, rather leave the matter as it is; rather——”
“By the bloody hide of St. Bartholomew,” cried the Wolfe, with evident joy, “but the boy shall have his way. We shall thus have this mysterious affair cleared up, and settled forthwith, instead of delaying till to-morrow. By the mass, but he hath excited queer thoughts in my mind. But we shall see anon. Come then, let him along with me, that I may show him to the Lady Mariota’s apartment. I swear by the Holy Rood, Sir Patrick, that the youth shall have justice—justice to the fullest extent of what he hath demanded. Clear the way, then, I say; come, Sir Page, come along; thou shalt dance hither anon at freedom, or thou shalt dangle it and dance it on the gallows-tree below, where many as brave and stout a youth as thou hath figured before thee. Come on, I say.”
After the Earl and the page were gone, Sir Alexander Stewart paced the hall in gloomy silence, his fiery soul boiling within him, so that he could with difficulty restrain his rage. Every now and then a stamp on the pavement louder than the rest proclaimed the excess of his internal agitation. The cool Sir Andrew sat him quietly down, without uttering a word, or appearing to be much interested in the matter at issue. The three boys had not yet come in, but a crowd of the retainers, who were usually admitted to sit below the salt, stood in groups whispering at the lower end of the hall. Sir Patrick Hepborne had been rendered so unhappy by the turn the affair had taken, and was so oppressed with distress, anxiety, and dread as to the result, that he thrust himself into the deep recess of one of the windows, to hide those emotions he felt it impossible to repress. Not a word passed between the chief persons of the scene. The time, which was in reality not in itself long, appeared to Hepborne like an age; and yet, when at length he did hear steps and voices approaching along the passage, leading from the Lady Mariota’s apartment into the banqueting-hall, brave as he was, he trembled like a coward, lest the moment should have come too soon for the unhappy page.