“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the King, with a high and distant air, “we are here to listen to thine accusation against the holy Franciscan Friar John, whom, we do understand, thou hast dared to malign.”
“My liege,” said Hepborne, “the thirsty steed panteth not more for the refreshing fountain than I do for audience of your Most Gracious Majesty, from whom I would claim that justice the which thou dost never deny to the meanest of thy subjects.”
“And we shall not refuse it to thee, the son of our ancient and faithful servant,” replied the King; “to one who hath himself done us and our kingdom of Scotland much good service. Yet do we bid thee bear in mind, that the best services may be wiped away by the disgraceful finger of polluted iniquity. Speak, Sir Patrick, what hast thou to say?”
“Nay, my liege, I would stay me until mine adversary doth appear to meet my charge,” said Sir Patrick. [[596]]
“’Tis so far considerate of thee,” replied the King; “but thou mayest say on, for he will be here anon.”
“I come here, then, to impeach this Friar John of having feloniously carried off a damsel from the Tower of London, where she did then abide,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne, violently agitated; “a damsel whom he did once before attempt to murder, and whom he doth even now secrete, if he hath not already cruelly slain her.”
“Friar John is here to meet thy charge, Sir Knight,” cried the Franciscan, who had entered the hall in time to hear what had fallen from Hepborne, and who now came sternly forward, attended by the Wolfe of Badenoch, the Lord of Dirleton, and some others; “Friar John shall not shrink from whatever tales thine inventive recrimination may produce against him; he too shall have his charge against thee; but let thine be disposed of first, whereby the incredible boldness of thy wickedness may be made the more apparent to all.”
“What sayest thou?” demanded Hepborne, with considerable confusion.
“I do say,” replied the friar, “that conscious guilt doth already stagger thee in the very outset of this thine infamous attempt against an innocent man, whom thou wouldst fain sacrifice to hide thy foul deeds. Guilt doth often prove its own snare, and so shall ye see it here, I ween.”
“Villain, wretch, fiend?” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne, who forgot in his resentment the presence in which he stood; “mine emotions, the which thou wouldst have others so misjudge, have been those only of horror and astonishment at thine unparalleled effrontery. My liege, this fiend—this wicked sorcerer—for so do I believe him to be—this assassin——”