“He had wronged him whom I served,” answered Bonthron, “and I meditated the deed by his command.”
“By whose command?” asked the prior.
Bonthron was silent for an instant, then growled out: “He is too mighty for me to name.”
“Hearken, my son,” said the churchman; “tarry but a brief hour, and the mighty and the mean of this earth shall to thee alike be empty sounds. The sledge is even now preparing to drag thee to the place of execution. Therefore, son, once more I charge thee to consult thy soul’s weal by glorifying Heaven, and speaking the truth. Was it thy master, Sir John Ramorny, that stirred thee to so foul a deed?”
“No,” answered the prostrate villain, “it was a greater than he.” And at the same time he pointed with his finger to the Prince.
“Wretch!” said the astonished Duke of Rothsay; “do you dare to hint that I was your instigator?”
“You yourself, my lord,” answered the unblushing ruffian.
“Die in thy falsehood, accursed slave!” said the Prince; and, drawing his sword, he would have pierced his calumniator, had not the Lord High Constable interposed with word and action.
“Your Grace must forgive my discharging mine office: this caitiff must be delivered into the hands of the executioner. He is unfit to be dealt with by any other, much less by your Highness.”
“What! noble earl,” said Albany aloud, and with much real or affected emotion, “would you let the dog pass alive from hence, to poison the people’s ears with false accusations against the Prince of Scotland? I say, cut him to mammocks upon the spot!”