Though Rory had slept, his mind had been so fully possessed with the action he had prepared himself to expect, that he had dreamt of nothing else. He was no sooner rudely awakened by the shock of his fall than his mind became full of his duty.
“Ha, villains,” cried he, starting to his legs in a moment, and roaring to the full extent of his rough voice, as he flourished his gaud-clip around him in the dark like a flail; “ha, caitiffs, [[390]]have I caught ye? What, would ye dare to lay impure hands on the tender form of a lady of sike high degree? By St. Lowry, but I’ll settle ye, knaves.”
All was now confusion. The knight and his instruments sought for the door with a haste that almost defeated their object. Precedence was by no means attended to; and Sir Andrew Stewart, being jostled aside, received a chance blow from Rory’s gaud-clip that prostrated him senseless on the floor. The squire and the two men rushed down stairs, with Rory hard at their heels, and were making towards the door of the tower when it suddenly opened, and a party of horsemen appeared without.
“Halt!” cried a voice like thunder, that instantly arrested the flight of the fugitives, and sent them, crouching like chidden curs, into the kitchen. The light that was there showed the terror and dismay of their countenance, and it also explained the cause, for he who entered was the Wolfe of Badenoch.
“What rabble and uproar is this in the lone peel-tower of Duncriddel?” demanded he. “Ha, Alister MacCraw, what guests be these thou hast got? Ha, Erick MacCormick and my son Andrew’s people! What a murrain hath brought thee here, Master Esquire? Ha—speak. Where is the worthy knight thy master?”
“My Lord—my master, Sir Andrew—my Lord—” replied MacCormick, hesitating from very fear.
“Ha! and Rory Spears too,” continued the Wolfe; “what dost thou make here, old ottercap? Speak, and expound the cause of this uproar, if thou canst.”
“I will, my Lord,” said Rory, “and that in sike short speech as I well ken thou lovest to have a tale dished up to thee. Sir Andrew Stewart, thy son, did covenant wi’ my leddy the Countess o’ Moray, thy sister, to convoy ane Englisher leddy safe frae Tarnawa to Norham, and sure enew he brought her here, being sae muckle o’ the gate; but having no fear o’ God or the Saunts afore his eyne, he did basely try to betray her, just the noo, afore I cam doon the stairs there.”
“Ha, hypocritical villain! cried the Wolfe. “By Saint Barnabas, but I have long had a thought that his affected purity was but a cloak for his incontinence.”
“’Tis all a fabrication,” cried MacCormick, who had now recovered his presence of mind so far as to endeavour to defend his master, though at the expense of truth; “’tis fearful to hear sike wicked falsehoods against thy son Sir Andrew Stewart.”