“Pshaw, Maurice,” said Sir Patrick, “verily thou must have dreamt that thou didst see the friar. How couldst thou see him, who was plunged by order of the stern Earl into the deep dungeon called the Water Pit Vault?”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” cried Maurice, “but he may have ’scaped thence, and may be now wandering about the Castle.”
“Nay, verily, that were impossible,” replied Sir Patrick; “’tis a terrible place; I had the curiosity to peep into it, one of the times it happened to be open, as I passed by the mouth of it. It is so much below the level of the lake, that there is generally an ell’s-depth of water in the bottom of it; and its profundity is such, that without ropes, or a ladder, it were vain [[248]]to hope to emerge from it, even were the heavy stone trap-door that shuts it left open to facilitate escape; nay, I tell thee it is impossible boy; believe me, the Franciscan stands freezing there, God help him, among the cold water, for the wretch cannot lie down without drowning. When I think of the horrors the miserable man was so hastily doomed to, I cannot help regretting that I did not make some attempt to soothe the Earl to mercy, though I have strong reason to fear I might have brought a more hasty fate on his head by my interference; but I shall surely use my endeavours to move my Lord of Buchan for the poor friar’s liberation in the morning. Trust me, boy, it could in no wise be the Franciscan thou sawest; and by much the most likely explanation of thine alarm is, that thou hadst become drowsy over thy beads, and, dropping asleep, didst dream of the scene thou sawest pass in the banquet hall.”
“Nay, nay, Sir Knight,” cried Maurice de Grey, “it was the Franciscan, flesh and blood, or”—said he, pausing and shuddering, “or—it was his sprite.”
“Tush, boy Maurice,” said Sir Patrick, “in very truth, ’tis thy dreams which have deceived thee; and, now I think of it, by St. Baldrid, I wonder not that thou shouldst have dreamed of the friar, seeing that he looked at thee so earnestly; and then he seemed to know thee too. Pr’ythee, hast thou ever chanced to see him before?”
“Not as far as I can remember, Sir Knight,” replied the boy; “but sure I am I shall not fail to recollect him if I should ever see him again, which the blessed Virgin forbid, for there is something terrible in his eye.”
“Tut, boy,” cried Hepborne, “what hast thou to fear from his eye? Methinks thou hast displayed a wondrous want of courage with this same peaceful friar.”
“Peaceful!” exclaimed Maurice de Grey.
“Ay, peaceful,” continued his master; “for a poor Franciscan friar cannot well be aught else than peaceful. Thou hast played but a poor part to run away from him, thou who didst attack the bison bull so boldly; yea, thou who didst so nobly wage desperate strife with the assassin who did attempt the life of thy master, at the Shelter Stone of Loch Avon. Why didst thou not draw thy sword, and demand the cause of his rude, intrusion?”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the boy, shuddering, “he did verily appear something more than human.”