“My Lord brother-in-law,” cried the Earl of Moray, in a voice of horror and dismay, as he now advanced towards the group, “can it be? Is it really thou who speakest thus?”
“Ha, Sir Earl of Moray,” cried the Wolfe, starting and turning sharply round, “what makest thou here, I pray thee? Methought that ere this thou wert merry in thy wine wassail?”
“Nay, perhaps I should have been so,” replied the Earl of Moray temperately, “had not news of yonder doleful burning [[273]]banished all note of mirth from my board. Knowest thou aught of how this grievous disaster may have befallen?”
“Ha, ha, ha! canst thou not guess, brother of mine?” cried the Wolfe, with a sarcastic laugh.
“I must confess I am not without my fears as to who did kindle yonder wide-spreading calamity,” said the Earl of Moray gravely; “yet still do I hang by the hope that it was impossible thou couldst have brought thyself to be the author of so cruel, so horrible, so sacrilegious a deed. Even the insatiable thirst of revenge itself, directed as it was against one individual, could hardly have led thee to wrap the holy house of God, and the dwellings of the innocent and inoffensive burghers, in the same common ruin with the tenements belonging to those whom thou mayest suspect as being entitled to a share of thy vengeance. ’Tis impossible.”
“Ha! by the flames of Tartarus, but it is possible,” cried the Wolfe, gnashing his teeth; “yea, and by all the fiends, I have right starkly proved the possibility of it too. What! dost think that I have spared the church, the which is the very workshop of these mass-mongering magpies? Or was I, thinkest thou, to stop my fell career of vengeance, because the beggarly hovels of some dozen pitiful tailors, brogue-men, skinners, hammermen, and cordwainers, stood in my way?—trash alswa, who pay rent and dues to this same nigon and papelarde Priest-Bishop, who hath dared to pour out his venomous malison on the son of a King—on the Wolfe of Badenoch! By all the infernal powers, but the surface of the very globe itself shall smoke till my revenge be full. This is but a foretaste of the wrekery I shall work; and if the prating jackdaw’s noxious curse be not removed, ay, and that speedily too, by him that rules the infernal realms, I swear that the walthsome toad and all the vermin that hang upon him shall have tenfold worse than this to dree!”
“Alexander Stewart!” cried a clear and commanding voice, which came suddenly and tremendously, like that of the last trumpet, from the summit of the knoll immediately above where the group was standing. There was an awful silence for some moments; a certain chill of superstitious dread stole over every one present; nay, even the ferocious and undaunted Earl of Buchan himself felt his heart grow cold within him, at the almost more than human sound. He looked upwards to the bare pinnacle of the rising ground, and there, standing beside a scathed and blasted oak, he beheld a tall figure enveloped in black drapery. The irregular blaze of the distant conflagration [[274]]came only by fits to illumine the dusky and mysterious figure, and the face, sunk within a deep cowl, was but rarely and transiently rendered visible by it, though the eyes, more frequently catching the light, were often seen to glare fearfully, when all the other features were buried in shade, giving a somewhat fiendish appearance to the spectre.
“Alexander Stewart!” cried the thrilling voice again; “Alexander Stewart, thou grim and cruel Wolfe, when will the measure of thine iniquity be filled up? Thou sweepest over fair creation, levelling alike the works of God and man, regardless of human misery, like the dire angel of destruction; the very green of the earth is turned into blood, and hearts are rent beneath every tramp of thy horse’s hoofs: yet art thou but as a blind instrument in the hands of the righteous Avenger; and when thou shalt have served the end for which thou wert created, verily thou shalt be cast into eternal fire. If thou wouldst yet escape the punishment which speedily awaits thine atrocities, hasten to bow, in penitence, before those altars thou hast dared to pollute, and make full reparation to the holy ministers of religion for the unheard of insults and injuries thou hast offered them. Do this, or thine everlasting doom is fixed; death shall speedily overtake thee, and thou shalt writhe amidst the ineffable torments of never-ceasing flames.”
As the voice ceased, there arose from the distant town a strong and more enduring gleam of light, which rendered visible every little broom-blossom and heath-bell that grew upon the side of the knoll, and threw a pale, but distinct illumination over the features of the figure.
“Holy Virgin! blessed St. Andrew! ’tis the mysterious Franciscan,” whispered several of the Earl of Buchan’s attendants, as they crossed themselves, in evident alarm.