“Enemy!” cried the Earl, “what enemy can there be here? And yet it may have been done by some marauding band of plundering peelers. Yet that seems impossible—it cannot be. But let me not waste time here, when I can ride to the spot. Ho, there, in the court-yard—my horse, d’ye hear?” shouted he over the battlements, and then rushed down stairs.
Sir Patrick followed him, with the determination of accompanying him to the blazing town. Both speedily donned their riding gear and light armour, and sallied forth. On the terrace they found a crowd of the nobles and knights collected together in amazement. The Earl only stopped to throw out a few hasty words of apology for so abruptly leaving his guests, and then, accompanied by Hepborne, descended to the court-yard, vociferating loudly for their horses. In a short time both mounted and galloped off, attended by a few horsemen, who threw themselves hastily into their saddles.
“Let us take our way by the Mead of St. John’s,” cried the Earl, pushing his horse thitherward; “we can cross the river by the bridge, and we shall then be able to alarm the people, who have there a temporary abode at present. Their aid will be of much avail, if, as I fear, all aid be not already too late.”
On they galloped through the dark alleys of the forest, every now and then overtaking some straggler, who was hurrying on, out of breath, in the direction they were going, shouting at intervals to those who had outrun him, or who had lagged [[271]]behind him; but when they reached the Mead of St. John’s, those plains, which were lately so full of animation, were now silent as death; not a human being seemed to have remained within their ample circuit; all had been already summoned away, some by anxiety to arrest the destruction of their houses and goods, others by the charitable wish to assist in subduing the conflagration, and others, again, by the nefarious desire and hope of an opportunity of pilfering, but the greater number by that universal human passion, curiosity.
“Let us hasten onwards to Forres, for there is no one here,” cried the good Earl, after riding in vain over part of the ground, and knocking and shouting at most of the temporary erections on the Eastern Mead, as he swept past them. “This way, Sir Patrick; our road lies up this steep bank; I hope some good may yet be done by the united force of such multitudes. By St. Andrew, it was good they were here; and ’twill be a lucky tournament if it be the means of stopping this sad malure.”
Sir Patrick followed him over some irregular hillocks, covered with the forest; and, winding amongst them, they entered a defile, where the trees grew thinner, giving place, in a great measure, to a natural shrubbery, composed of scattered bushes of furze, broom, and juniper. The fire had been all this time hid from their eyes, but it burst upon them through the farther opening of the defile in all its terrific grandeur, at about a mile’s distance. The destructive element had now all the appearance of speedily gaining resistless dominion over the little town, for the several independent detachments of flame which had appeared in different parts of it, as they surveyed it from the Castle, had now run together, and united themselves into one great sea of red and overwhelming destruction, that heaved and tossed its tumultuous billows high into the air. The appalling blaze filled up the entire sky that was visible through the defile they were threading. Against the bright field it presented, a dark group of armed horsemen were seen standing on the path before them, where it wound from among the hillocks, their figures being sharply relieved against the broad gleam beyond. The Earl of Moray reined up his steed, but his previous speed had been such that he was almost upon them ere he could check him. [[272]]
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The Burning of the Church and Town of Forres.
“By’r Lady, but the bonfire brens right merrily,” cried a stern voice, which they immediately knew to be that of the Wolfe of Badenoch. “Ha! is’t not gratifying to behold? Morte de ma vie, see there, son Alexander, how the Archdeacon’s manse belches forth its flaming bowels against the welkin. By St. Barnabas, but thou mayest tell the very blaze of it from that of any other house, by the changes produced in it from the abundant variety of ingredients that feed it. Thou seest the cobwebby church consumeth but soberly and meekly as a church should; but the proud mansion of the Archdeacon brenneth with a clear fire, that haughtily proclaims the costly fuel it hath got to maintain it—his crimson damask and velvets—his gorgeous chairs and tables—his richly carved cabinets—his musty manuscripts, the which do furnish most excellent matter of combustion. By the mass, but that sudden quenching of the flame must have been owing to the fall of some of those swollen down-beds, and ponderous blankets, in which these lazy churchmen are wont to snore away their useless lives. But, ha! see how it blazes up again; perdie, it hath doubtless reached the larder; some of his fattest bacon must have been there; meseems as if I did nose the savoury fumes of it even here. Ha! glorious! look what a fire-spout is there. Never trust me, if that brave and brilliant feu d’artifice doth not arise from the besotted clerk’s well-stored cellars. Ha, ha, ha! there go his Malvoisie and his eau-de-vie. The vinolent costrel’s thirsty soul was ever in his casks; so, by the Rood, thou seest, that, maugre every suspicion and belief to the contrary, it hath yet some chance of mounting heavenward after all. Ha, ha, ha! by the beard of my grandfather, but it is a right glorious spectacle to behold.”