“Speak, ye knaves,” cried he, grinding his teeth, and at the same time springing on them, and seizing one of them in each hand by the throat; “villains, I will choke ye both with my grasp if ye answer me not.”
“My noble Lord,” cried the men, terrified by his rage and his threats, “we saw him enter the burning building with thee, but none of us saw him issue thence.”
“Villains, villains, tell me not so!” cried the Wolfe, shaking the two men from him, and sending them reeling away with such force that both were prostrated on the earth. “What, hath he too perished?—And it was I who did myself compel him thither!” and, saying so, he struck his breast, and moved about rapidly through the court, giving vent to a frenzy of self accusation.
“Ha!” cried he, halting suddenly, as he heard the clang of horses’ heels approaching; “who comes there?—Alexander—my son—thou art all that is left to me now;” and springing [[548]]forward, he clasped the knees of Sir Alexander Stewart, who at that moment appeared, followed by the whole of his force.
“Why tarriest thou here, father?” demanded his son; “depardieux, but I have sought thee around all the glorious fires we have kindled. Little did I think to find thee here in this by-corner, looking on so paltry a glede as this, when the towers of the Cathedral do shoot out flames that pierce the heavens, and proclaim thy red vengeance on the Bishop of Moray, yea, even to his brother-mitred priest of Ross, even across the broad friths that do sunder them.—Come with me, I pray, and ride triumphant through the flaming streets, that our shouts may ring terribly in the craven corbie’s ears, and reach him even where he doth hide him in his Palace of Spynie.—But what aileth thee, father, that thou seemest so unmanned.”
“Alexander,” cried the afflicted father, embracing his son, who stooped over him, “thy brethren have perished; Walter and James are there dying from their bruises, and Andrew and Duncan—my beloved boy Duncan—have perished in these flames.”
“How, what! how hath this happened?” cried Sir Alexander, leaping from his horse and running to question the attendants who supported his two wounded brothers. From them he gathered a brief account of the events that had occurred, and for some moments gave way to the sorrow that afflicted his father.
“But why grieve we here, my Lord?” cried he suddenly; “of a truth, whatever woe hath befallen us, hath but come by reason of that ill-starred enemy of our house, Bishop Barr, who has driven us to the desperation out of which all these evils have arisen. He and his accursed flock of ill-omened crows have flown to the refuge of his Palace of Spynie. Rouse, my noble father, and let us gallop thither and seek a sweet revenge by pulling the choughs from their nests.”
“Right, son Alexander,” cried the Wolfe, his native temper being so far roused for the moment by this speech that he shook off the torpor that had come upon him, and sprang into his saddle; “by this beard, but thou dost say right. ’Tis indeed that accursed Priest-Bishop who hath embittered the whole stream of my life, and hath now been the cause of hurling all this misery upon me. Alas, my poor boys!—But, by the blood of the Bruce, they shall be avenged.—I shall take thy counsel, my son—My son, said I?—Alas, Alexander, thou wilt soon, I fear, be mine only son.—Dost hear, Sir Squire?” said he, turning fiercely to one of his attendants, “See that thou dost take [[549]]care of my wounded boys. Take people enow with thee, and see that they be promptly and tenderly carried on men’s shoulders to Lochyndorbe—Dost thou mark me?—Thy head shall pay the forfeit of thy neglect of the smallest tittle of thy duty.”
“Ay,” cried Sir Alexander Stewart, “our business, I trow, will soon be sped, and we shall overtake them before they shall have gone many miles of the way.”