“Nay, in truth, it must be confessed that the Bishop spake only from hearsay as to this head of charge against thee,” replied the King, “and, of a truth, thou hast lightened our mind of a right grievous part of its burden by thy solemn denial of this cruel part of the accusation against thee. Verily, it was to my soul like the hair-shirt to the back that hath been seamed by the lash of penance, to think that flesh of ours could have done such wanton murder on innocent and inoffensive burghers. But yet, what shall we say to thy brenning of God’s holy house—of the gratification of thy blind and brutal thirst of vengeance even by the destruction of his altars, and of the images of his saints?”
“Nay, mine intent was not against the Church,” replied the Wolfe, “but rage reft me of reason, and I deny not that it was with mine own hand that I did fire it; yet was it soon extinguished, and the choir only hath suffered. But,” continued he, as he turned the subject with increasing irritation, “but had not an excommunication gone forth so rashly against me, yea, and poured out alswa by him who hath ever been mine enemy, the flood of my vengeance had not flowed; and if it had swept all before it, by the Rood, but Bishop Barr himself must bear the coulpe of what evil it may have wrought.”
“Speak not so horribly, son Alexander,” said the King, with emotion. “Thine impious words do shock mine ear. Lay not blame to Bishop Barr for at last hurling upon thee the tardy vengeance of the Episcopal chair, which thine accumulated insults did loudly call for, long ere his long-suffering temper did permit him to employ them. Didst thou not outrageously and sacrilegiously ravish and usurp the lands of the Church in Badenoch? and didst thou not refuse to restore them to the righteous possession of our holy Mother when called on so to do?”
“Yea,” replied the Wolfe of Badenoch, waxing more angry, and less scrupulous in his manner of speaking, as well as in his choice of terms, as his father thus began to approach nearer to the source of all his heart-burnings with the Bishop—“yea, I did indeed seize these lands, but, by the mass, it was not against the Church that I did war in so doing, but against mine insidious enemy, Alexander Barr, who did feed himself fat upon their revenues. And well I wot hath he worked for my vengeance. Hath he not poisoned thine ear against me?—hath he not been ever my torment?—hath he not been eternally meddling with [[372]]my domestic, with my most private affairs?—hath he not sported with my most tender feelings?—hath he not done all that in him lay to rend the ties of my dearest affections?”
“Ah, there, there again hast thou touched a chord the which doth ever vibrate to our shame,” replied the King, deeply distressed by the remembrance of the subject which the Wolfe had awakened. “That disgraceful connection with thy leman Mariota Athyn—’tis that which hath poisoned the source of all thine actings, and that hath thereby transmewed the sweet waters of our life into bitterness and gall. Did we not write to thee with our own hand, urging thee to repentance, and beseeching thee to dismiss thy sinful and impure mate, and cleave to thy lawful wife, Euphame, Countess of Ross? and——”
“Nay, my liege-father, I wot this is too old a wound to be ripped up now,” interrupted the Wolfe of Badenoch, beginning to wax more and more ireful; “ha! by the Rood, but ’tis sore to bear—cruelly sore. I did come hither to complain of the evil usage, of the disgrace, of the insults which this upstart priest hath thrown on me, hoping for a father’s lenient interpretation of mine actings; yea, and that some salve might have been put to the rankling sores this carrion hath wrought on me; but the croaking raven hath been here before me—he hath already sung his hoarse and evil-omened song in thine ear, and all that I may now say cannot purge it of the poison with which it has been filled. By my trusty burly-brand, but thou hast forgotten the mettle of thy son Alexander.”
“Oh dole, dole, dole!” cried the old King, clasping his hands in bitter affliction at the obstinacy shown by his son; “what can be done with a heart which beareth itself so proudly, which refuseth to listen to the voice of reason, which despiseth a father’s counsels, and which resolveth to abide in its wickedness.”
“Wickedness!” replied the Wolfe fiercely, and enchafing more and more as he went on; “by the holy Rood, but I do think that the word is ill applied. Meseems that to throw her off who hath borne me five lusty chields, and who hath stuck to me through sun and wete, would savour more of wickedness than to continue her under the shadow of my protection. Ha! by my beard, but the voice of reason—ha, ha, ha!—is like to be as much with me in this case as against me. Thank God, I have reason—yea, and excellent reason too—full, vigorous, and perfect reason—whilst thou hast thine, old man, far upon the wane. Whatsoever mountaunce of reason thou mayest have once had, by Heaven, thou dost now begin to dote. Yet what [[373]]was thy reason in like matters when it was at the best? Didst thou not thyself live a like light life in thy youthhood, and dost thou school me for having followed thine example?”
“Oh, dole, dole!—oh, woe for my sins!” cried the old man, agonized by his son’s intemperate accusation of him; “’tis bitter, I wot, to bear the reproach of a wicked and undutiful son. O, alas for my sins! yet sure, if I have had any, as the blessed Virgin knoweth, I do humbly confess them, and may her holy influence cleanse me from them; if I have had sins, surely I have dreed a right sore penance for them in having thee as an everlasting scourge to my spirit. God, doubtless, gave thee to me for the gracious purpose that thou mightest be as bitter ligne-aloes to purge away the disease of my soul; and may He sanctify the purposes of mine affliction! But what art thou, sinful wretch that thou art, who wouldst thus cast blame on thy father, yea, and ignominy on thyself? If I sinned in that matter, did I not awaken from my sin and repent me? did I not do all that mortal could do to salve the misery I had begotten? did I not——. But thou art a cruel and barbarous wretch, a disgrace and infamy to thy father—a diseased, polluted, and festering limb, the which should be cut off and buried out of sight.”
“Old dotard,” cried the Wolfe, his fury now getting completely the better of him, “talk not thus—I—I—I—ha!—provoke me not—thou hadst better——”