“Sore against thee, indeed, pot-companion,” said Roger Riddel, portentously shaking his head.
“Yea, appearances are sore against thee, Master Barton,” reechoed Sang. “Verily, we did behold thee as thou didst come forth from yonder church, where thou didst doubtless possess thyself of much important matter that did there transpire, the which it will be by no means convenient that thou shouldst carry in safety to those who may have sent thee hither. Better that thou hadst chanted thirty trentals of masses in the goodly pile of Durham for the soul of thy grandmother, ay, and that fasting, too, than that thou shouldst have set thy foot for a minute’s space of time within yonder church this day.”
“Let me go, good gentlemen, I do beseech ye,” said Barton. “Squire Riddel, hast thou no compassion for me?”
“Much,” replied Roger. “Natheless, thou must with us, Squire Barton.”
“Nay, in truth thou must with us without more ado,” said Sang; “yet make thyself as easy as may be; for, in consideration of our meeting at Norham, I shall do thee all the kindness I may consistent with duty, both now and when thou shalt be sent to the fatal tree, to the which I do fear thy passage will be short and speedy.”
The English esquire shuddered, but he was compelled to submit; [[412]]and he was accordingly led by his captors to the church, where the council of war was assembled. The news of his capture excited great interest and commotion among the knights; and the Earl of Fife, who presided over their deliberations, had no sooner learned the particulars of his taking than he ordered him into his presence. Barton came, guarded by Mortimer Sang and Roger Riddel. He had put on the best countenance he could, but judging by the working of his features, all his resolution was required to keep it up.
“Bring forward the prisoner,” said the Earl of Fife. “What hast thou to say for thyself, Sir Squire? Thou hast been taken in arms within the Scottish bounds—thou hast been seen of several who did note thine appearance at this our secret meeting—and there be knights here, as well as those worthy esquires who took thee, who can speak to thy name and country. Whence art thou come? and who did send thee hither to espy out our force, and to possess thyself of our schemes?”
“Trusting to the sacred office of my Lord the Bishop of Durham, I came but as a pious traveller to visit certain shrines,” replied Barton. “Being in these parts, I wot it was no marvel in me, the servant of a churchman so dignified, to look into the church, and——”
“Nay, nay—so flimsy a response as this will by no means serve,” interrupted the Earl of Fife, who, though cool, calm, and soft in manner, was in reality much more cruel of heart than his brother the Wolfe of Badenoch himself, albeit devoid of the furious passion so ungovernable in that Earl. “He doth but trifle with our patience. Let a rack be instantly prepared, and let a tree be erected without loss of time, whereon his tortured limbs, whilst their fibres shall yet have hardly ceased to feel, may be hung as tender food for the ravens. His throat shall be squeezed by the hangman’s rope, until all he hath gained by his espial be disgorged or closed up for ever within it.”
Barton shook from head to foot at this terrible sentence, uttered with a mildness and composure that might have suited well with a homily. His face grew deadly pale, despair grappled at his breath, and he gasped as if already under the hands of the executioner. His eyes, restless and protruded, seemed as if anxious to shun the picture of the horrible death that so soon awaited him. His lips moved, but they were dry as ashes, and they gave forth no sound. Sang and Roger Riddel almost regretted that they had been instrumental in bringing the wretch there, though by doing so they had so well served their country. They looked at each other with horror; but in such [[413]]a presence, and at such a time, Sang was condemned to remain as dumb as Squire Riddel. The good Earl of Moray had more liberty of speech, and he failed not to use it.