The Franciscan threw aside the folds of his habit, with which he had hitherto concealed something, and he held up the smiling boy, Duncan Stewart.
“Mock me not, foul fiend,” cried the frantic father, believing that what he saw was a phantom; “hence, and disturb not my brain.”
“Again I repeat, I am no fiend,” said the Franciscan mildly. “I come to tell thee that repentance may yet ensure thee salvation in the next world; nay, even life in this; yea, and life also to thy sons; and as a gracious earnest of God’s infinite mercy, behold, I here restore thee thy best beloved boy, the Benjamin of thy heart, whose life mine hand did save from that raging fire thyself did so impiously kindle.”
The Wolfe of Badenoch devoured the very words of the Franciscan as he spake. He gazed wildly on him and on his boy alternately, as if he yet doubted the reality of the scene; and it was not until the little Duncan’s joyous laugh rang in his ears, and he felt the boy’s arms fondly entwining his neck, that he became satisfied of the truth of what he heard and saw. He was no longer the iron-framed and stern-souled Wolfe of Badenoch; his body was weak and his mind shaken, and he sank backwards in the bed, giving way to an hysterical laugh.
“Oh, my boy, my boy,” cried he at length, smothering the youth with his caresses; “my beloved Duncan, what can I do for so great a mercy! What—what—but—Oh, mercy, one cup of water, in mercy!—I burn—my tongue cleaveth—Oh, water, water, in mercy!”
The Franciscan hastened to give him water; and the thirsty wretch snatched the cup of life from the hand of him whom his unbridled rage had so wantonly consigned to the cruellest of deaths. [[560]]
“More, more,” cried the impatient Wolfe of Badenoch; “mine entrails do crack with the scorching heat within me.”
“Drink this, then,” said the Franciscan, taking a phial from his bosom, and pouring part of its contents into the cup; “drink this, and thou shalt have water.”
“Ha!” cried the Wolfe, darting a glance of suspicion towards the monk. “Yet why should I hesitate?” continued he, as his eyes fell upon Duncan. “He who hath restored my son, can have little wish to hasten the end of a dying wretch.”
“And he who might have used the dagger against thee,” said the Franciscan calmly, “would never have thought of giving thee a death so tedious as that of poison. Drink; there is health in the cup.”