The Fair Maid of Perth; Or, St. Valentine's Day by Walter Scott (electronic reader .TXT) 📕

of the eye the direction in which a blow was meditated. They halted opposite to, and within reach of, each other, and in turn made more than one feint to strike, in order to ascertain the activity and vigilance of the opponent. At length, whether weary of these manoeuvres, or fearing lest in a contest so conducted his unwieldy strength would be foiled by the activity of the smith, Bonthron heaved up his axe for a downright blow, adding the whole strength of his sturdy arms to the weight of the weapon in its descent. The smith, however, avoided the stroke by stepping aside; for it was too forcible to be controlled by any guard which he could have interposed. Ere Bonthron recovered guard, Henry struck him a sidelong blow on the steel headpiece, which prostrated him on the ground.

“Confess, or die,” said the victor, placing his foot on the body of the vanquished, and holding to his throat the point of the axe, which terminated in a spike or poniard.

“I will confess,” said the villain, glaring wildly upwards on the sky. “Let me rise.”

“Not till you have yielded,” said Harry Smith.

“I do yield,” again murmured Bonthron, and Henry proclaimed aloud that his antagonist was defeated.

The Dukes of Rothsay and Albany, the High Constable, and the Dominican prior now entered the lists, and, addressing Bonthron, demanded if he acknowledged himself vanquished.

“I do,” answered the miscreant.

“And guilty of the murder of Oliver Proudfute?”

“I am; but I mistook him for another.”

“And whom didst thou intend to slay?” said the prior. “Confess, my son, and merit thy pardon in another world for with this thou hast little more to do.”

“I took the slain man,” answered the discomfited combatant, “for him whose hand has struck me down, whose foot now presses me.”

“Blessed be the saints!” said the prior; “now all those who doubt the virtue of the holy ordeal may have their eyes opened to their error. Lo, he is trapped in the snare which he laid for the guiltless.”

“I scarce ever saw the man,” said the smith. “I never did wrong to him or his. Ask him, an it please your reverence, why he should have thought of slaying me treacherously.”

“It is a fitting question,” answered the prior. “Give glory where it is due, my son, even though it is manifested by thy shame. For what reason wouldst thou have waylaid this armourer, who says he never wronged thee?”

“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!”

“Your Highness will pardon me,” said the Earl of Errol; “I must protect him till his doom is executed.”

“Then let him be gagged instantly,” said Albany. “And you, my royal nephew, why stand you there fixed in astonishment? Call your resolution up—speak to the prisoner—swear—protest by all that is sacred that you knew not of this felon deed. See how the people look on each other and whisper apart! My life on’t that this lie spreads faster than any Gospel truth. Speak to them, royal kinsman, no matter what you say, so you be constant in denial.”

“What, sir,” said Rothsay, starting from his pause of surprise and mortification, and turning haughtily towards his uncle; “would you have me gage my royal word against that of an abject recreant? Let those who can believe the son of their sovereign, the descendant of Bruce, capable of laying ambush for the life of a poor mechanic, enjoy the pleasure of thinking the villain’s tale true.”

“That will not I for one,” said the smith, bluntly. “I never did aught but what was in honour towards his royal Grace the Duke of Rothsay, and never received unkindness from him in word, look, or deed; and I cannot think he would have given aim to such base practice.”

“Was it in honour that you threw his Highness from the ladder in Curfew Street upon Fastern’s [St. Valentine’s] Even?” said Bonthron; “or think you the favour was received kindly or unkindly?”

This was so boldly said, and seemed so plausible, that it shook the smith’s opinion of the Prince’s innocence.

“Alas, my lord,” said he, looking sorrowfully towards Rothsay, “could your Highness seek an innocent fellow’s life for doing his duty by a helpless maiden? I would rather have died in these lists than live to hear it said of the Bruce’s heir!”

“Thou art a good fellow, Smith,” said the Prince; “but I cannot expect thee to judge more wisely than others. Away with that convict to the gallows, and gibbet him alive an you will, that he may speak falsehood and spread scandal on us to the last prolonged moment of his existence!”

So saying, the Prince turned away from the lists, disdaining to notice the gloomy looks cast towards him, as the crowd made slow and reluctant way for him to pass, and expressing neither surprise nor displeasure at a deep, hollow murmur, or groan, which accompanied his retreat. Only a few of his own immediate followers attended him from the field, though various persons of distinction had come there in his train. Even the lower class of citizens ceased to follow the unhappy Prince, whose former indifferent reputation had exposed him to so many charges of impropriety and levity, and around whom there seemed now darkening suspicions of the most atrocious nature.

He took his slow and thoughtful way to the church of the