The lacqueys and attendants had hitherto been standing in silence and horror, but they were all put instantly in motion. The banquet appeared. The Wolfe ate more voraciously than usual, and swallowed deeper draughts of wine also than he ordinarily did; but it was evidently rather to wash down some vexation that oppressed him than from anything like jollity. His conversation was hasty and abrupt, and after drinking double his wonted quantity in half the usual time, he broke up the feast and retired to his apartment.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Maurice’s Song—The Franciscan Friar—Excommunication.
As Sir Patrick Hepborne retired to his apartment, he called Maurice de Grey, to inquire into the mysterious means by which he had so effectually defeated the false charge which had been brought against him; but the youth hung his head in answer to his master’s inquiries, and hesitated in replying to them.
“Sir Knight,” said he at length, “there hath been a mutual promise passed on both sides, that neither the Earl of Buchan nor I shall reveal what did pass in the converse held between him, the Lady Mariota, and myself at our conference. I am therefore compelled to refuse thee that satisfaction which I should otherwise be glad to yield to thee.”
With this answer Hepborne was compelled to remain satisfied, and the page being suffered to depart, he retired to rest. [[239]]
Next morning the Wolfe and he met at breakfast, where were also Sir Andrew and the younger brothers, but the Lady Mariota, with her eldest son, Sir Alexander, were absent.
“My Lord of Buchan,” said Sir Patrick, as they sat together, “I presume not to touch thee on the subject of the Lady Mariota, because, with regard to her, I can have no plea or right to interfere; but wilt thou suffer me to entreat thee again in behalf of thy son Sir Alexander Stewart? It grieveth me much that I should in any way have contributed to his punishment, however greatly he may have merited thy chastisement. Forgive me, I beseech thee, for being thus solicitous; but as an especial boon granted to myself, I crave his liberation.”
“Ha! well, Sir Patrick,” said the Wolfe, after listening to him with more patience and moderation of aspect than he usually exhibited; “it is somewhat strange that thou and the child Duncan are the only two persons who have had the heart to make any appeal to me, either about my son Alexander or his mother.” And as he said so, he darted an indignant and reproachful glance towards Sir Andrew, who, as if nothing amiss had occurred, had been talking of the weather, and of hunting, and was at that moment helping himself largely to venison pasty. “As for Sir Andrew there, he cares not who suffereth, so that his craven bouke be well fassed with food, like a kite as he is. True indeed is the saying, that misfortunes try hearts. But trust me, I thank thee as heartily for the tenderness thou hast displayed, as for the spirit thou didst show yesternight in checking that foolish boy Alexander. Let me but finish my meal, then, and I shall hie me straight to the dungeons of the prisoners, and observe in what temper they may now be, after a night’s cooling, when I shall judge and act accordingly.”