“Ha! mercy, saidst thou?” cried the Franciscan, with a contemptuous smile and a glaring eye; “what, mercy to thee—to thee, who hath no mercy!—mercy to thee, who hath incurred God’s highest wrath!—mercy to thee, who hath wrapped all these holy buildings, and these dwellings of God’s peaceful servants and people, in impious flames!—thou, who wert but now revelling in the hellish joy of thy daring sacrilege—mercy to thee!—mercy meanly begged, too, from him whom thou didst but this moment doom to the most cruel death! Ha, ha, ha! But my life or death is not in thy weak power to withhold. My life will be preserved by Him who gave it, that it may yet fulfil the purpose for which He did bestow it. Thy fate doth hang in my grasp, and the gripe which I do now hold of this frail fragment of thyself,” continued he, lifting up the trembling boy in a terrific manner, “is but a symbol of the power which God hath given me over thee to force thee to repentance.”
“Oh, spare, spare, spare!” cried the miserable Lord of Badenoch, bereft of all thought but of his son’s fate. [[547]]
The boy screamed for help, but the ruthless Franciscan laughed savagely, and then sprang backwards with him through the flames.
The wretched Lord of Badenoch remained fixed on his knees, his face still turned upwards, and his eyes fastened on the casement so lately occupied by the figures of the Franciscan and his lost boy. It was now filled by a sheet of brilliant flame. His lips muttered, and “Mercy—oh, mercy!” were still the only words that escaped them. His followers crowded around him in dismay, the whole group being broadly illuminated by the fire, which had now gained complete mastery over the interior of the building.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
The Bishop’s Palace at Spynie—The Wolfe gets a Surprise.
The wretched Wolfe of Badenoch was slowly raised by those who were about him; and he submitted, as if altogether unconscious of what they were doing. His features were immoveable, and his eyes vacant, until they rested on his two sons, Walter and James, who lay wounded in the arms of his servants.
“Where is my son Andrew?” cried he, suddenly recovering the use of speech.
The attendants muttered to one another, but no one answered him.