A struggle ensued, in which the young man,
chafed at Dryfesdale's boldness, and unable, with the ease he
expected, to extricate himself from the old man's determined grasp,
drew his dagger, and with the speed of light, dealt him three wounds
in the breast and body, the least of which was mortal. The old man
sunk on the ground with a deep groan, and the host set up a piteous
exclamation of surprise.
"Peace, ye brawling hound!" said the wounded steward; "are
dagger-stabs and dying men such rarities in Scotland, that you should
cry as if the house were falling?--Youth, I do not forgive thee, for
there is nought betwixt us to forgive. Thou hast done what I have done
to more than one--And I suffer what I have seen them suffer--it was
all ordained to be thus and not otherwise. But if thou wouldst do me
right, thou wilt send this packet safely to the hands of Sir William
Douglas; and see that my memory suffer not, as if I would have
loitered on mine errand for fear of my life."
The youth, whose passion had subsided the instant he had done the
deed, listened with sympathy and attention, when another person,
muffled in his cloak, entered the apartment, and exclaimed--"Good God!
Dryfesdale, and expiring!"
"Ay, and Dryfesdale would that he had been dead," answered the wounded
man, "rather than that his ears had heard the words of the only
Douglas that ever was false--but yet it is better as it is. Good my
murderer, and the rest of you, stand back a little, and let me speak
with this unhappy apostate.
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