The Earl and Sir Patrick Hepborne hastily surveyed the wide scene of ruin, and were soon aware of its full extent. The manse of the Archdeacon, to which the incendiaries had first set fire, was already reduced to a heap of ashes. The priest who owned it had fled in terror for his life when it was first assailed; and the greater part, if not all the population of the little burgh having been employed on the Mead of St. John’s in the preparations for the tournament, or in loitering as idle spectators of what was going on there, little interruption was given to the vengeful Wolfe of Badenoch in his savage work. He and his troop were tamely allowed to stand by until they had seen the residence of the churchman so beleagured by the raging element, that little hope could remain of saving any part of it. He next set fire to one end of the church; and ere he and his party mounted to effect their retreat, they fired one or two of the intervening houses. Many of the tenements being of wood, and the roofs mostly thatched with straw, the fire spread so rapidly as very soon to form itself into one great conflagration, that [[278]]threatened to extend widely on all sides. Still, however, it was confined to one part of the town, and there yet remained much to save. Hitherto there had been no head to direct, but the moment the Earl appeared all were prepared to give implicit and ready obedience to his orders. He took his determination in a few minutes, and, imparting his plan to Hepborne, they proceeded to carry it into instant execution.
The portion of the street that was already in flames had been abandoned by the people, the fire having gained so hopeless an ascendancy there that all efforts to subdue it would have been vain. The Earl therefore resolved to devote his attention to confining it within its present limits. He stationed himself within a few yards of that extremity which they had first reached, and, having ordered the crowd to withdraw farther off, he brought forward the useful and active in such numbers as might be able to work with ease, and he began to pull down some of the most worthless of the houses. Hepborne, in the meanwhile, called together a few hardy and fearless-looking men, and followed by these and Mortimer Sang, who was rarely ever missed from his master’s back when anything serious or perilous was going forward, he proceeded, at the risk of life, to ride down the narrow street, between two walls of fire, where blazing beams and rafters were falling thick around them. His chief object was to get to the farther boundary of the conflagration, and he might have effected this by making a wide circuit around the town; but, besides gaining time by forcing the shorter and more desperate passage, the generous knight was anxious to ascertain whether, amidst the confusion that prevailed, some unfortunate wretches might not have been left to their fate among the blazing edifices.
He moved slowly and cautiously onwards, his horse starting and prancing every now and then as the burning ruins fell, or as fresh bursts of flame took place; and, steering a difficult course among the smoking fragments that strewed the street, or the heaped-up goods and moveables, which their owners had not had time to convey farther to some place of greater security, he peered eagerly into every door, window, and crevice, and listened with all his attention for the sound of a human voice. More than once his eyes and his ears were deceived, and he frequently stopped, in doubt whether he should not rush boldly through fire and smoke to rescue some one whom his fancy had caused him, for an instant, to imagine perishing within. His mind being so intensely occupied, it is no wonder that he could pay but little attention to his own preservation; and accordingly [[279]]he received several rude shocks, and was at last fairly knocked down from his saddle by the end of a great blazing log, which grazed his shoulder as it descended from a house he was standing under. Mortimer Sang caught the reins of his master’s horse, and Sir Patrick was speedily raised from the ground by the people who were near him; and he regained his seat, having fortunately escaped with some slight bruises received from the fall, and a contusion on his shoulder, arising from the blow given him by the beam.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Sir Patrick and the Earl at Forres.
Sir Patrick Hepborne had hardly recovered himself when, as he was passing a house to which the fire had but just communicated, he encountered a crowd of people rushing out, hastily attired in all manner of strange coverings. It was the inn of the burgh. Among those who came forth there was one gigantic figure, who ran against his horse like a battering-ram, and almost threw the animal on his haunches by the concussion. Ere Hepborne could recover himself the monster was gone; but his attention was quickly diverted from this incident by the sound of a voice chanting irregularly in broken song, mingled with the notes of a harp. It came from the upper part of the building. The house, though extending a good way backwards from the street, was of two storeys only; but as the flames were briskly attacking the lower part, no time was to be lost in making the musician leave it.
Hepborne sprang from his horse, and, hastening down a lane to the doorway, rushed up the narrow stair, and being led by ear towards the music, ran along a passage and entered an apartment over the gable next the street, where, to his utter astonishment, he beheld the minstrel, Adam of Gordon, seated on a stool, in his nightcap and under-garments, accompanying his voice by striking wild chords upon the harp, and looking upwards at intervals, as if seeking inspiration.
“Adam of Gordon!” cried Hepborne, in absolute amazement, “what dost thou here? Quick, quick, old man; thy life is in peril; throw on thy cloak and fly with me; the flames gain upon us!”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the minstrel, “disturb me not, I beseech thee; I do but work myself here into proper bardic [[280]]enthusiasm, that I may the better describe the grandeur of this terrific scene. Trust me, this is the minstrel’s golden moment; let it not pass by unimproved.” And saying so he again began to strike on his harp, and to recur to his subject.