“Get thee to thy home,” replied the King; “turn thy vile strumpet forth, and, above all, humble thyself in penitence before the good Bishop Barr, who, godly man, hath been unwearied in his pious endeavours to reclaim thee from thy sinful and polluted life. Lick the dust from the very shoes of the saintly Bishop of Moray; in his Christian mercy he may forgive thee, and thou mayest then hope for restoration to our Royal favour; but if thou dost not this, by the word of a King, I will have thee thrown into prison, and there thou shalt liggen until thou shalt have made reparation to God and man for all thine impurities and all thine outrages and sacrileges.”
“Ha!” cried the enraged Earl of Buchan, half drawing his dagger, and then returning it violently into its sheath, and pressing it hard down, as if to make it immovable there were the only security against his using it; whilst, at the same time, he began to pace the apartment in a furious manner; “ha! what! confine the eagle of the mountain to a sparrow’s cage? chain down the Wolfe of Badenoch to some walthsome den? threaten thy son so, and all for an accursed, prating, papelarde priest? [[374]]Old man,” said he, suddenly halting opposite to his father, and putting a daring hand rudely on each shoulder of His Majesty, while his eyes glared on him as if passion had altogether mastered his reason—“old dotard carle that thou art, art thou not now within my grasp? art not thine attendants beyond call? is not the puny spark of life that feebly brens in that wintry frame now within the will of these hands? What doth hinder that I should put thee beyond the power of executing thy weak threats?—what doth hinder me to——”
He stopped ere he had uttered this impious parricidal thought more plainly. The old man blenched or quailed not; nay, even the agitation which he had before exhibited—an agitation which had been the result of anger and vexation, but not of fear—was calmed by the idea of approaching death; and, pitying his son more than himself, he sat immovable like some waxen figure, his mild eyes calmly and steadily fixed upon the red and starting orbs of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The group might have been copied for the subject of the martyrdom of a saint.
“’Tis the hand of God that hindereth thee, son Alexander,” said the aged Monarch, slowly and distinctly.
The ferocious Wolfe could not withstand the saint-like look of his venerable father. The devil that had taken possession of Lord Badenoch’s heart was expelled by the beam of Heaven that shot from the eyes of the good King Robert. Those of his son fell abashed before them, and the succeeding moment saw the hard, stern, and savage Earl on his bended knees, yea, and weeping before the parent of whom his ungovernable rage might have made him the murderer. There was a silence of a minute.
“Forgive me, forgive me, father. I knew not what I did; I was reft of my reason,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, groaning with deep agony and shame.
“Son Alexander,” said the King firmly, yet as if struggling to keep down these emotions of tenderness for his son which his sudden and unexpected contrition had excited; “Son Alexander, albeit the consideration that the outrage was done by the hand of a son against a father doth rather aggravate the coulpe of the subject against the King, yet as it doth regard our own Royal person alone, we may be permitted to allow the indulgent affection of the parent to assuage the otherwise rigorous justice of the Monarch. So far as this may go, then, do we forgive thee.”
The Wolfe remained on the ground, deeply affected, with his head buried within his mantle.
“But as for what the duty of a Sovereign doth demand of [[375]]us,” continued Robert, “in punishing these malfaitours who do flagrantly sin against the laws of our realm, and those, above all, who do sacrilegious outrage against our holy religion and Church, be assured that our hand will be as strong and swift in its vengeance on thee as on any other; nor shall these thy tears make more impression on us than thine ungovernable fury did now appal us. Doubt not but thou shalt feel the full weight of our Royal displeasure, yea, and thou shalt dree such punishment as befits the crimes thou hast committed against God and man, unless thou dost straightway seek the footstool of the injured Bishop of Moray. Nay, start not away, but hear us; for thou shalt suffer for thy crime, unless thou dost straightway seek the injured Bishop’s footstool, and, bowing thy head in the dust before it, submit thee to what penance he in his great mercy and wisdom may hold to be sufficient expiation for thy wickedness.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch started up and again began to pace the room in a frenzy; and as Robert went on he became more and more agitated by passion, gnashing his teeth from time to time, and setting them against each other, as if afraid to permit himself the use of speech, and with his arms rolled up tight into his mantle, as if he dreaded to trust them at liberty.