“Ay, Robert, Master Sang,” replied the old man, “where tarrieth he?”
“At Otterbourne,” replied Sang, deeply affected. “Thy son, thy gallant son, fell gloriously, whilst nobly withstanding the whole force of the English line as they burst into our camp.”
“What sayest thou, Master Sang?” said the infirm old man, who perfectly comprehended the speaker, but was so stunned by his fatal intelligence that his feeble intellect was confused by the blow—“what sayest thou, Master Sang?”
“Thy heroic son was slain,” replied Sang, half choked with his emotions. “This lock of Robert Lindsay’s hair, and these trinkets taken from his person ere we committed his body to the earth, are all that thou canst ever see of him now, old man.”
The esquire sat down, covered his face with his hands, and wept; and then endeavouring to command himself, he looked upward in the face of Gabriel Lindsay, who was standing before him like the decayed trunk of some mighty oak. The time-worn countenance of the old man was unmoved, and his dull eyes were fixed as in vacancy. The wandering so common to wasted age had come over his mind at that moment, sent, as it were, in mercy by Providence to blunt his perception of the dire affliction that had befallen him. Fitful smiles flashed at intervals across his face—his lips moved without sound—and at last he spoke—
“And so thou sayest my boy will be here to-night, Master Sang, and that this is a lock of his bride’s hair? It is golden like his own; my blessing be on him, and that of St. Baldrid. But why feared he to bring her to me attence? Ha, doubtless he thought that the joyful surprise mought hae made my blood dance till it brast my ould heart. But no, Master Sang, joy shall never do for me what sorrow hath failed to work. I lost his mother—lost her in a’ her youth and beauty, and yet I bore it, and humbled myself before Him who giveth and taketh away, and was comforted; and shall I sink beneath the weight of joy? Nay, even had he died in the midst of his glory, I trust I am soldier enow, though I be’s ould, to have borne the news of my son having fallen with honour to Scotland, and to the name of Lindsay; but doth he think that his ould father may not be told, without risk, how he hath fought bravely—how he was noticed by the gallant Douglas—and, aboon a’, how he is coming [[481]]hame in triumph with a bonny gentle bride? And didst thou say they would be here to-night, Sir Squire? Fye, I must gang and tell Sir Patrick—and the brave young knight—and my Lady Isabelle; they will all rejoice in Gabriel’s glad tidings. A bonny bride, thou sayest, Master Sang; and shall I yet have a babe o’ Robin’s on my knee ere I die? But I must away to Sir Patrick.”
He made an effort to go. Sang rose gently to detain him. He stopped—looked around him wildly—fastened his eyes vacantly for some moments on the ceiling—reason and recollection returned to him, and his dream of bliss passed away.
“Oh, merciful God!” he cried, clasping his hands together in agony of woe. “Oh, my boy, my brave, my virtuous boy, and shall I never see thee more?”
Nature with him was already spent; his failure was instantaneous; his limbs yielded beneath him, and he sank down into the arms of the esquire, who hastily laid him on the bed and ran for assistance. Sir Patrick Hepborne, his son, and the Lady Isabelle, as well as many of the domestics, quickly appeared in great consternation; but they came only to weep over the good old Seneschal—He was gone for ever.
The death of this old and faithful domestic threw a gloom over the Castle, so that Assueton felt that he could hardly press on his marriage-day. At last, however, it was fixed. The preparations were such as became the house of Hepborne; and the ceremony was performed in presence of some of the first nobles and knights of Scotland.