but, seizing the oaken-seat upon which he had rested, Morton threatened to dash out the brains of the first who should approach him.
“I could manage you in a moment, my youngster,” said Bothwell, “but I had rather you would strike sail quietly.”
Here indeed he spoke the truth, not from either fear or reluctance to adopt force, but because he dreaded the consequences of a noisy scuffle, through which it might probably be discovered that he had, contrary to express orders, suffered his prisoner to pass the night without being properly secured.
“You had better be prudent,” he continued, in a tone which he meant to be conciliatory, “and don’t spoil your own sport. They say here in the castle that Lady Margaret’s niece is immediately to marry our young Captain, Lord Evandale. I saw them close together in the hall yonder, and I heard her ask him to intercede for your pardon. She looked so devilish handsome and kind upon him, that on my soul — But what the devil’s the matter with you?— You are as pale as a sheet — Will you have some brandy?”
“Miss Bellenden ask my life of Lord Evandale?” said the prisoner, faintly.
“Ay, ay; there’s no friend like the women — their interest carries all in court and camp.— Come, you are reasonable now — Ay, I thought you would come round.”
Here he employed himself in putting on the fetters, against which, Morton, thunderstruck by this intelligence, no longer offered the least resistance.
“My life begged of him, and by her!— ay — ay — put on the irons — my limbs shall not refuse to bear what has entered into my very soul — My life begged by Edith, and begged of Evandale!”
“Ay, and he has power to grant it too,” said Bothwell —“He can do more with the Colonel than any man in the regiment.”
And as he spoke, he and his party led their prisoner towards the hall. In passing behind the seat of Edith, the unfortunate prisoner heard enough, as he conceived, of the broken expressions which passed between Edith and Lord Evandale, to confirm all that the soldier had told him. That moment made a singular and instantaneous revolution in his character. The depth of despair to which his love and fortunes were reduced, the peril in which his life appeared to stand, the transference of Edith’s affections, her intercession in his favour, which rendered her fickleness yet more galling, seemed to destroy every feeling for which he had hitherto lived, but, at the same time, awakened those which had hitherto been smothered by passions more gentle though more selfish. Desperate himself, he determined to support the rights of his country, insulted in his person. His character was for the moment as effectually changed as the appearance of a villa, which, from being the abode of domestic quiet and happiness, is, by the sudden intrusion of an armed force, converted into a formidable post of defence.
We have already said that he cast upon Edith one glance in which reproach was mingled with sorrow, as if to bid her farewell for ever; his next motion was to walk firmly to the table at which Colonel Grahame was seated.
“By what right is it, sir,” said he firmly, and without waiting till he was questioned,—“By what right is it that these soldiers have dragged me from my family, and put fetters on the limbs of a free man?”
“By my commands,” answered Claverhouse; “and I now lay my commands on you to be silent and hear my questions.”
“I will not,” replied Morton, in a determined tone, while his boldness seemed to electrify all around him. “I will know whether I am in lawful custody, and before a civil magistrate, ere the charter of my country shall be forfeited in my person.”
“A pretty springald this, upon my honour!” said Claverhouse.
“Are you mad?” said Major Bellenden to his young friend. “For God’s sake, Henry Morton,” he continued, in a tone between rebuke and entreaty, “remember you are speaking to one of his majesty’s officers high in the service.”
“It is for that very reason, sir,” returned Henry, firmly, “that I desire to know what right he has to detain me without a legal warrant. Were he a civil officer of the law I should know my duty was submission.”
“Your friend, here,” said Claverhouse to the veteran, coolly, “is one of those scrupulous gentlemen, who, like the madman in the play, will not tie his cravat without the warrant of Mr Justice Overdo; but I will let him see, before we part, that my shoulder-knot is as legal a badge of authority as the mace of the Justiciary. So, waving this discussion, you will be pleased, young man, to tell me directly when you saw Balfour of Burley.”
“As I know no right you have to ask such a question,” replied Morton, “I decline replying to it.”
“You confessed to my sergeant,” said Claverhouse, “that you saw and entertained him, knowing him to be an intercommuned traitor; why are you not so frank with me?”
“Because,” replied the prisoner, “I presume you are, from education, taught to understand the rights upon which you seem disposed to trample; and I am willing you should be aware there are yet Scotsmen who can assert the liberties of Scotland.”
“And these supposed rights you would vindicate with your sword, I presume?” said Colonel Grahame.
“Were I armed as you are, and we were alone upon a hill-side, you should not ask me the question twice.”
“It is quite enough,” answered Claverhouse, calmly; “your language corresponds with all I have heard of you;— but you are the son of a soldier, though a rebellious one, and you shall not die the death of a dog; I will save you that indignity.”
“Die in what manner I may,” replied Morton, “I will die like the son of a brave man; and the ignominy you mention shall remain with those who shed innocent blood.”
“Make your peace, then, with Heaven, in five minutes’ space.— Bothwell, lead him down to the court-yard, and draw up your party.”
The appalling nature of this conversation, and of its result, struck the silence of horror into all but the speakers. But now those who stood round broke forth into clamour and expostulation. Old Lady Margaret, who, with all the prejudices of rank and party, had not laid aside the feelings of her sex, was loud in her intercession.
“O, Colonel Grahame,” she exclaimed, “spare his young blood! Leave him to the law — do not repay my hospitality by shedding men’s blood on the threshold of my doors!”
“Colonel Grahame,” said Major Bellenden, “you must answer this violence. Don’t think, though I am old and feckless, that my friend’s son shall be murdered before my eyes with impunity. I can find friends that shall make you answer it.”
“Be satisfied, Major Bellenden, I will answer it,” replied Claverhouse, totally unmoved; “and you, madam, might spare me the pain the resisting this passionate intercession for a traitor, when you consider the noble blood your own house has lost by such as he is.”
“Colonel Grahame,” answered the lady, her aged frame trembling with anxiety, “I leave vengeance to God, who calls it his own. The shedding of this young man’s blood will not call back the lives that were dear to me; and how can it comfort me to think that there has maybe been another widowed mother made childless, like mysell, by a deed done at my very door-stane!”
“This is stark madness,” said Claverhouse; “I must do my duty to church and state. Here are a thousand villains hard by in open
