The boy Duncan Stewart had already paved the way for the Franciscan’s favourable reception with his brothers, who gladly submitted themselves to his directions, and he speedily administered to their respective cases. The domestics now began to be re-assured of the probable recovery of the invalids, and they already quaked for the returning wrath of the Wolfe of Badenoch. The Lady Mariota, sat trembling in her apartment. The Franciscan, who had formerly disappeared so miraculously, and who now re-appeared so strangely among them, was eyed with [[562]]fear by every one within the Castle, and his orders were obeyed as implicitly and as promptly as the Wolfe himself, so that he lacked for nothing that his patient required. Having done all for them that art could effect, he had time to think of the Lady Beatrice, whom he believed to be an inmate of the Castle, seeing he had no doubt that Sir Andrew Stewart must have brought her thither. But he found, on inquiry, that the knight had not appeared. He was vexed at the disappointment, but taking it for granted that her protector had carried her to some other fastness belonging to his father, he felt no uneasiness, trusting that he should soon have tidings of her.
Dismissing all thoughts of the Lady Beatrice, therefore, from his mind, he devoted himself eagerly to the restoration of the sick, being filled with the idea of the signal service he was about to perform to the Church, the extent of which would much depend on the recovery of those who now lay in so precarious a state, that they might appear before the world as living instances of penitence. For two days, then, he was indefatigable in his attentions; and the effect of his care and skill was, that the Wolfe of Badenoch’s cure was rapid. His disease had been chiefly caused by sudden affliction, operating on an impatient temper, and a conscience ill at ease. The Franciscan’s words, therefore, had happily combined with his medicines to produce an almost miraculous effect; and, ere the time promised by the monk was expired, he appeared in the great hall, haggard and disease-worn indeed, but perfectly ready to fill his saddle. The recovery of his sons, though there was now little to be feared for them, promised to be more tedious; and it was well for the peace of the Castle of Lochyndorbe that it was so, for they might have made some objections to the decided step which their father took the moment he again showed himself.
“Ha, villains,” cried he as he came stalking through the opening crowd of domestics that shrunk from him on either hand—“so the Earl of Buchan, the son of a King, mought have died for all ye cared. Ha! whither did ye all hide, knaves, that I was nearly perishing of thirst, and no one to give me a cup of water? But ’tis no marvel that ye should have forgotten your master when—Ha! Bruce—send Bruce, the old esquire, hither. What mighty lowing of cattle, and bleating of sheep, is that I do hear?”
The domestics looked at each other, but no one dared to speak. The impatient Wolfe hurried up a little turret-stair, from the top of which he had a view over the outer walls of the Castle, and the narrow strait that divided that from the mainland. [[563]]There he beheld the whole of the flocks and herds which the Lady Mariota had so prudently collected together, and which her trepidation had made her forget to order to be driven again to their native hills and forests. He wanted no further information, for the truth flashed on him at once. His eye reddened, his cheek grew paler than even the disease had left it, his lip quivered, and he rushed precipitately down to the hall.
“Where, in the fiend’s name, is Bruce?” cried he. “Ha! thou art there, old man. Get thee quickly together some dozen or twain of mounted spears, with palfreys for the Lady Mariota and her women, and sumpter-horses needful for the carriage of their raiment; and let her know that it is my will she do forthwith depart hence with thee for my Castle of Cocklecraig, the which is to be her future place of sojournance.”
The esquire bowed obediently, and hastened to execute the command of his impatient Lord. In a little time a page appeared, with an humble message from the Lady Mariota, to know whether the Earl was to accompany her into Buchan.
“Tell her no,” replied the Wolfe, turning round on the frightened page, and speaking with a voice that shook the Gothic hall, which he was rapidly measuring backwards and forward with his paces.
Again a woman came to him from the Lady Mariota, most submissively entreating for an interview.
“Nay, the red fiend catch me then!” cried the furious Wolfe, his eyes flashing fire; “I do already know too much of her baseness, ever to trust myself with a sight of her again. ’Twere better, for her sake, that she urge me not to see her. Ha! tell her I have sworn by my knighthood that the threads that hath bound my heart to her worthlessness shall be for ever snapped. Let not the poisonous toad cross my path, lest I crush her in mine ire, and give to my conscience another sin to be repented of.—Away!”
The Wolfe again paced the hall, very much moved. The neighing of horses and the noise of preparation were heard in the court-yard; the warder’s call for the boats sounded across the lake; and a wailing of women’s voices soon afterwards succeeded. The Wolfe paced the hall with a yet more rapid step; he became much moved, and hid his face from the Franciscan, who was the only witness of his agitation. But at last it became too strong to be concealed, and he rushed up the turret-stair, whence he had before looked out towards the land-sconce. He remained absent for a considerable time; and when he returned, [[564]]his face was deeply marked with the traces of the strong contending emotions he had undergone.