CHAPTER LII.
The Wolfe of Badenoch at Aberdeen—Father and Son.
Duncan MacErchar’s intellect was so much confused by the unexpected discovery that he had been standing and talking before his King, a being whom he had always conceived to be something more than man, and whose image had floated like a spirit before his misty eyes, that it was some time ere Sir Patrick Hepborne could make him comprehend the good fortune that had befallen him. He then inquired eagerly into the nature and advantages of the situation which had been so graciously bestowed upon him by His Majesty; and finding that he was to be an officer in that corps of stipendiaries who were always on Royal duty, with the best possible pay and perquisites, and superb clothing, he asked Hepborne, with some degree of earnestness, what became of the corps during the time of war.
“They never go to war, unless when the King appears in the field in person,” replied Sir Patrick; “and of that I well wot there is but little chance during this reign.” [[367]]
“Uve, uve,” cried MacErchar, with a look that showed he was but half satisfied; “and is she never to see the English loons again? Sure, sure, of what use will be the pay and the harness, an she must liggen at home while tothers folks be at the wars? And is she never to have the good luck to fight at the back of the good Sir Patrick again! Oich, oich, she would like full weel to see her down, and ane Englishman cleavin’ her skull, and her nainsel wi’ a pike in the body o’ the chield—oich, hoich! it would be braw sport. Sure, she would rather fight for Sir Patrick, yea, and albeit she got nothing but cuffs and scarts for her pains, than sit wi’ her thumbs across serving a king himsel, though she got goupins of gold for her idleness. Troth, she would die for Sir Patrick.”
“And wouldst thou sacrifice the honour, yea, and the weighty emolument of a commission in the King’s Guards, with all the fair promise of advancement the which it doth hold forth to thee, for the mere gratification of a chivalric self-devotion to my father?” demanded Hepborne, desirous to try him.
“Out ay—surely, surely, she would do that; and little wonder o’ her, too, she would think it,” replied MacErchar.
“Wouldst thou, then, that I do resign thy commission to the King, and that I do obtain for thee a lance among my father’s spears?” asked Hepborne.
“Oich, oich!” cried MacErchar, rubbing his hands, and with his eyes sparkling with delight; “surely her honour is ower good—ower good, surely. But if her honour will do that same, oich, oich! Duncan MacErchar will be happy—oop, oop, happy. Troth, she will dance itsel for joy. Oit, she may need look for no more till she dies; God be good unto her soul then! Oich, will her honour do this for her?” demanded Duncan eagerly of Hepborne, and in his more than usual keenness, taking the knight’s hand, and squeezing it powerfully; “will her honour do but this for her?”