“Friar, thou hast lied, grossly and villanously lied,” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne in a fury, “but now let me, in my turn, demand of thee what hast thou to urge that mought have given thee right so to control the Lady Beatrice?”
“All have right to prevent the commission of wickedness,” said the Franciscan. “But I do claim the right of parentage to control the Lady Beatrice. I am her uncle. Hath not so near a parent some right to control the erring daughter of his brother? Speak then; tell me where thou hast hid her, Sir Knight?”
“Can this be true?” exclaimed Sir Patrick Hepborne, petrified with astonishment at what he heard; “canst thou in very deed be the uncle of the Lady Beatrice? But what shall we say of that tender uncle who doth enter the apartment of his niece at midnight with a dagger in his hand? Villain, I observe thee blench as I do speak it. Thou art a villain still, let thy kindred to her be what it may. Thou hast murdered my love, and thou wouldst shift off suspicion from thyself, by an endeavour to throw guilt upon me. Wretched hypocrite! foul stain to the holy habit thou dost wear—say where, where hast thou bestowed the Lady Beatrice? Is she dead or alive?”
“Nay, foul shame to knighthood that thou art, ’tis thou who hast secreted the Lady Beatrice—thou who hast poisoned her mind—thou who hast disgraced her—thou who dost hide her from the light of day, that she may minister to thine abandoned love. Tell, tell me where thou hast hid her, or, friar as I am, I do here appeal thee to single duel.”
“Ha!” said Sir Patrick. “And right willingly, I trow, shall I do instant battle in support of mine unsullied honour—in support of the honour of her who hath been so foully calumniated; but with a friar like thee!”
“Nay, let that be no hindrance, Sir Knight,” cried the Franciscan, whilst his eyes darted lightnings; “now indeed I am a friar, but, trust me, I was not always so. In me thou shalt have no weak or untaught arm to deal withal; and if I may but have dispensation——”
“Talk not so, Friar John,” said the King; “thou shalt never [[599]]be suffered to peril thy life. Thou must seek thee out some cham——”
“Nay, seek nowhere but here,” cried the Wolfe of Badenoch, slapping his right hand furiously on his cuirass. “If the good Friar John doth bestir himself to save my soul, ’tis but reason, meseems, that I should rouse me to save his body. I am in some sort a witness to the truth of part of what he hath asserted. So, by the blood of the Bruce, Sir Patrick——”
“Nay, nay, my Lord Earl,” cried the old Lord of Dirleton, now starting up with an agitation that shook every fibre, and with a countenance in which grief and resentment were powerfully blended; “verily I am old; but old as I am, I have still some strength; and my heart, at least, hath not waxed feeble. It shall never be said that a De Vaux did suffer a son of the Royal house of Scotland to risk the spilling of his noble blood, to save that which hath already been so often shed in its defence, and the which shall be ever ready to flow for it, whilst a drop of it may remain within these shrivelled veins. Here am I ready to encounter the caitiff knight, on whose smiles, when an infant, I looked with delight as the future husband of my very daughter Beatrice, and who did so gain upon me lately by the plausible semblance of virtue. Base son of thy noble sire, full hard, I ween, hath it been for me, an injured father, to sit silent thus so long listening to thy false denials, and thy vile recriminations against my brother John. But now do I give thee the lie to them all, and dare thee to mortal combat.”
“My Lord, my Lord,” cried Sir John Halyburton, going up to the Lord of Dirleton in great astonishment, “calm thy rage, I beseech thee. What is this I do hear? Of whom dost thou speak? For whom dost thou thus hurl mortal defiance against my dearest friend Sir Patrick Hepborne? Daughter, saidst thou?”