“The murderer of my child!” cried the wretched De Vaux, starting from his knees, and pacing the church, wringing his hands. “Were my worst fears true, then? was my innocent infant, my smiling cherub, was my Beatrice murdered? The few words thou didst let fall had overpowered my first suspicions, and had already engendered hopes that my brother’s violence had at least stopped short of a crime so horrible. Murdered, saidst thou? Oh, most foul, most foul! He whom I did love and cherish from boyhood as my son—yea, loved as the issue of my own loins—in whose nurture I so interested myself, and on whom I did propose to bestow large possessions—What, the flesh of mine own father to murder my helpless babe!”
“Thy forgiveness is indeed of most marvellous and unexampled excellence,” cried the Franciscan in a whining tone, the true meaning of which could hardly be interpreted; “wouldst thou, then, that thy brother should be brought before thee, that he may receive full pardon at thy hands for the cruel coulpe he hath committed against thee?”
“Nay, nay, nay,” cried the wretched Lord of Dirleton with rapid utterance, “let me not see him—let me not see him. I loved the sight of him once as the darling son of mine aged father—let me not see him now as the murderer of my child. The taking of the life of my brother cannot restore that of which he did bereave my Beatrice. As I hope for mercy from on high, so do I forgive him. Let him then live and repent; let him do voluntary penance, that his soul may yet meet with mercy at Heaven’s high tribunal; but let me not see him. Had he only robbed me of my child, I mought peraunter have been able to have yielded him my forgiveness face to face; yea, and moreover to have extinguished all animosity by weeping a flood of tears upon his bosom; for verily I am but as a lone and bruised reed, and a brother’s returning love were a healing balm worth the purchasing. But the murderer of my child—oh, horrible!—let me not see him.”
The Franciscan drew his cowl more completely over his face, and stood for some moments with his head averted, as if to hide those emotions to which De Vaux’s agitation had given rise. Starting suddenly from the position he had taken, he sprang forward a pace or two towards the Lord of Dirleton, and then halted suddenly ere he reached him. De Vaux, wrapped up in his own thoughts, was unconscious of the movement of the monk. He threw himself again on his knees before the shrine of the [[355]]Virgin, and began offering up sincere but incoherent and unconnected petitions, at one time for the forgiveness of his own sins, at another for the soul of his murdered daughter, and again for mercy and pardon from Heaven for the crimes of his brother. The Franciscan, with his arms crossed over his breast, stood with his body gently bent over the pious supplicant, absorbed in contemplation of him, and deeply moved by the spectacle. A footstep was heard—the Lord of Dirleton’s ear caught it too at length, and he arose hastily; but the Franciscan friar with whom he had been holding converse was gone.
“Father,” said the knight eagerly to a brother of the convent who now approached him from an inner door, “tell me, I pray thee, who was he of thine order who passed from me but now?”
“Venerable warrior,” replied the monk with an air of surprise, “in truth, I saw no one. May the blessing of St. Francis be with thee. Peraunter thine orisons hath induced our Blessed Lady to send some saint miraculously to comfort thee. Nay, perhaps St. Francis himself may have been sent by the Holy Virgin to reward thy piety for thus seeking her shrine at such an hour. Leave me something in charity for our poor convent, and her blessing, as alswa that of St. Francis, will assuredly cleave to thee.”
“Hath not one of thy brethren loitered in the streets until now?” demanded the Lord of Dirleton.
“Nay,” replied the monk, “I this moment left the dormitory, where they are all asleep. Trust me, they are not given to wander in the streets at such an hour as this; and no one else could come hither, seeing that the door of our church is carefully locked at night.”
The Lord of Dirleton was lost in thought for some moments; but, recollecting himself, he gave gold to the begging friar, who received it meekly. He then craved the monk’s guidance to the house of the canon, where his lady and daughter were lodged; and the holy man, taking a key from his girdle, unfastened the door of the church, and De Vaux silently followed him, ruminating as he went on the mysterious interview he had had, as well as on the sad story of his murdered daughter, the whole of his affliction for whom had been so strangely and so strongly brought back upon him.
In the morning, the march of the nobles, knights, and men-at-arms was swelled by the presence of the Bishop of Moray, attended by a large party of his churchmen and followers. The whole body reached the ancient city of Aberdeen early on the fourth day, and Sir Patrick Hepborne had reason to be fully [[356]]satisfied with the gracious reception he met with from King Robert. He was gladdened by a happy meeting with his father, and with his friend Assueton, who had come to attend on His Majesty.