Although Lady Maxwell entertained no extravagant dread with regard to the safety of her husband and son, or even with regard to the result of a conflict for which such ample preparations had been made, she could not suppress a feeling of impatience, when the afternoon of the second day after the departure of the expedition arrived without bringing any intelligence of the result. She endeavoured, however, to check the melancholy course of her thoughts, by supposing that the pursuit of the enemy had occasioned the delay; but then she deemed it strange that her husband had sent no messenger with the tidings of his success; and again she pleased herself with the reflection, that he had reserved for himself the agreeable duty of announcing the happy issue of the conflict.
The shades of evening were descending, when Lady Maxwell, with her little daughters and younger son, proceeded to the battlements of the Thrieve. This ancient stronghold—which was a royal castle, though the keeping of it was intrusted to the family of Maxwell—was situated on a small island formed by the river Dee, in the centre of a muirish tract of country. Its gloomy appearance was, and still is, in harmony with the surrounding desolation; but it is now no longer the abode of man, and is left, a monument of departed greatness, to moulder away. Lady Maxwell had not continued long to gaze over the wilderness which stretched around, when she observed a band of mosstroopers approaching from the east; and the light was still strong enough to show that these warriors had not the appearance of a host returning victorious from battle. On the contrary, their steeds were jaded; they seemed themselves to be exhausted with toil; and, instead of the shouts of laughter which usually burst from the merry bands of Borderers, silence seemed to prevail in their ranks. "Pray God nothing evil hath happened!" exclaimed the lady, in alarm. And scarcely had she descended to the hall of the castle, when her eldest son, a youth of twenty years, stood in her presence—but he stood alone. The loss which she had sustained flashed across her mind in an instant. "Your father! where is my husband?" ejaculated Lady Maxwell, wildly. "But I need not ask—I know it all—he will return no more. Is it not so?"
The silence of her son showed her that she had guessed aright. But, although her heart grew sick, and her limbs waxed weak, she suppressed her emotion, and hastened to her chamber, there to give vent to her grief in solitude. Meanwhile, preparations for the evening meal were made; the exhausted soldiers ranged themselves beside the table which extended through the baronial hall; and their young master occupied the seat of his father—though, at the moment, he could have wished that some less trying proof of his self-command had been exacted. But it would have been deemed a want of hospitality, had he not remained beside his guests, of whom some were barons inferior only to himself in consequence.
When the hunger of the half-famished troopers was somewhat appeased, the events of the morning began to form the topic of conversation—which, however, was carried on only in whispers. Lord Maxwell, it seems, had encountered his opponents at the Dryffe Sands, not far from Lockerby, in Annandale, and had been defeated, partly in consequence of the cowardice of his confederates, whose alliance with him had been the sole cause of the renewed hostility. He was struck from his horse in his flight; and although he sued for quarter, the miscreant by whom he was assailed struck off his hand, which had been stretched forth as the sign of entreaty, and mercilessly slaughtered the unfortunate baron. Many of his followers perished in the fight, and most of them were cruelly wounded, especially by slashes in the face.[3] The young Lord Maxwell and his friends (having left a sufficient body of men to repel any immediate invasion) proceeded to the castle of the Thrieve, situated in the recesses of his family possessions, and a very considerable distance from the scene of the conflict, for the purpose of concerting measures with regard to the further prosecution of hostilities.
After the deliberations of the evening were concluded, and the wearied soldiers had gone to rest, Lady Maxwell summoned her son to her presence, and asked what course it was intended to adopt.
"Orchardstone talks of a bond," replied young Maxwell.
"A bond of alliance! And did you listen to him?" said the lady, looking keenly at her son; "did you let him repeat the word? An eye that shrinks from the gaze of another tells no good tale; a cheek in which the blood ebbs and flows within a moment, betrays no stout heart. It must not be. Peace! who would talk of peace to one who has just suffered bereavement? Talk not to me of peace—talk not to me of bonds. Talk of revenge. Remember that the blood of him who has been treacherously slain flows in your veins. You had no craven heart from him—you have none from me. Why then do you stand mute and wavering?"
"Madam, you have forestalled me," said the youth. "I will have revenge. The king——"
"What! would you play the spaniel to James?—a craven sovereign, worthy of a craven suitor. Boy, will you break my heart outright? Will you doom me to disgrace, as the mother of a coward?—make me curse the day in which I was wedded, and the hour in which you were born? This comes of the monkish tricks taught you by that old man whom your father brought to his house, not to make a coward of his son, but to shelter a trembling priest from persecution."
"Madam, let me speak, if it please you. I am no coward—no craven," exclaimed the young lord, proudly. "I am not a child that needs to be chidden with the rod or with harsh speeches; and my father's blood boils as fiercely in my veins as the blood of the Douglas in yours. Our deliberations are not at an end, and by daybreak to-morrow they will be resumed."