The door opened, and the Wolfe entered, frowning and gnashing his teeth. Then came the page, freed from his fetters. [[236]]The Wolfe of Badenoch’s red eye was disturbed from recent ire, which he seemed even yet to keep down with difficulty; yet he laughed horribly from time to time as he spoke.
“Ha! well,” said he, “the page Maurice de Grey hath proved his innocence beyond further question. By the blood of the Bruce—ha! ha! ha!—but it is ridiculous after all. The red fiend catch me if I—but pshaw!—let us have the banquet,” cried he, hastily interrupting himself in something he was going to say—“the banquet, I tell thee. Give me thy hand, Sir Patrick. Thou wert afraid to trust thy beauteous page with me, wert thou?—ha! ha! ha! Thou wouldst rather have fought me at outrance. By’r Lady, but thou art a burly knight; but I like thee not the worse. Depardieux, but thou art safe enow in my hands; trust me, thou shalt hear no more on’t. Ha! ha! ha! I confess that thy page is as innocent—I hereby free him from guilt. The banquet, knaves—the banquet. Ha! the curse of the devil’s dam on me, if I could have looked for this.”
“What strange mystery is here?” said Sir Alexander Stewart impatiently. “Where is the Lady Mariota, my mother?”
The Wolfe had all this time been reining in his wrath with his utmost power; it was all he could do to curb it; and it was ready to burst all bounds at the first provocation that offered.
“Better hold thy peace, Sir Alexander,” cried he, darting an angry glance at him. “By the infernal flames, I am in no humour to listen to thy folly. I have pledged my sacred word as a knight to secrecy, and thou nor no one else shall know aught of this mystery, as thou callest it. Be contented to know that the boy Maurice is innocent.”
“And am I to be satisfied with this?” cried Sir Alexander, his wrath kindling more and more as he spoke; “am I to remain satisfied with this, without my mother’s word for it?”
“Nay,” said the Wolfe, hastily, “by the holy Rood, thou shalt have no word from thy mother to-night.”
“No word from my mother!” exclaimed Sir Alexander. “What! dost thou treat me as a child? By all the fiends, but I shall see her, though. Where is she? Why doth she not appear? By the holy mass, I must see her, and that instantly.”
“By the martyrdom of St. Andrew, then,” cried the Wolfe, gnashing his teeth, and foaming at the mouth from very ire—“by the martyrdom of St. Andrew, but thou shalt not see her. I have sent her to cool her passions in the dungeon to which she consigned the page; and hark ye, son Alexander, if thou darest to prate any more about her, by all the fiery fiends of [[237]]Erebus, but thou shalt occupy the next chamber to that assigned her, there to remain during my pleasure. Ha! what sayest thou to that, Sir Alexander?”
“I say thou art a tyrant and a beast,” exclaimed his son, boiling with rage; “and if thou dost not instantly liberate my mother, by all the powers of darkness, I will choke thee in thine armour;” and he strode across the banquet-hall in a frenzy, to put his threat into immediate execution.