{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_28424/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_28424","id":"gutenberg_28424","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28424","summary":null,"tags":["Ballads, Scots -- Adaptations","Ballads, Scots -- Juvenile literature","Category: Adventure","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore"],"text":"Produced by Stephane Charland, Juliet Sutherland and the\nOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBlack's Boys' and Girls' Library\n\nTALES FROM SCOTTISH BALLADS\n\n\n\n\nIN THE SAME SERIES\n\n\n  TALES OF KING ARTHUR            by DOROTHY SENIOR\n  MIKE (A Public School Story)    by P. G. WODEHOUSE\n  THE CAVEMEN, A TALE OF\n  THE TIME OF                     by STANLEY WATERLOO\n  WONDER TALES OF THE\n  ANCIENT WORLD                   by JAMES BAIKIE, D.D., F.R.A.S.\n  THE STORY OF ROBIN HOOD         by JOHN FINNEMORE\n  ROBINSON CRUSOE                 by DANIEL DEFOE\n  SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON           Edited by G. E. MITTON\n  MOTHER GOOSE'S NURSERY RHYMES   Edited by L. E. WALTER, M.B.E., B.Sc.\n  TOM BROWN'S SCHOOLDAYS          by THOMAS HUGHES\n  IN THE YEAR OF WATERLOO       }\n  FACE TO FACE WITH NAPOLEON    } by O. V. CAINE\n  WITCH'S HOLLOW                  by A. W. BROOK\n  MUCKLE JOHN                     by FREDERICK WATSON\n  ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES\n  AESOP'S FABLES\n  THE ARABIAN NIGHTS\n  GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES\n  GRANNY'S WONDERFUL CHAIR        by FRANCES BROWNE\n  BRITISH FAIRY AND FOLK TALES    by W. J. GLOVER\n  THE ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE   by MIGUEL DE CERVANTES\n  COOK'S VOYAGES OF DISCOVERY\n  MR. MIDSHIPMAN EASY\n  TALES FROM HAKLUYT              Selected by FRANK ELIAS\n  GREEK WONDER TALES            }\n  OTTOMAN WONDER TALES          } by LUCY M. GARNETT\n  GULLIVER'S TRAVELS\n  THE HEROES                    }\n  THE WATER BABIES              } by CHARLES KINGSLEY\n  BOOK OF CELTIC STORIES          by ELIZ. W. GRIERSON\n\n  _FOR GIRLS_\n\n  A GIRL'S ADVENTURES IN KOREA   by AGNES HERBERT\n\n  _SIMILAR TO THE ABOVE_\n\n  CRANFORD.                     By Mrs. ELIZABETH GASKELL.\n  With 8 Illustrations in Colour\n\n\n  A. & C. BLACK, LTD., 4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W. 1\n\n\n\n\nAGENTS\n\n\n_New York_ THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n\n_Melbourne_ THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS\n\n_Toronto_ THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA\n\n_Bombay Calcutta Madras_ MACMILLAN AND COMPANY, LTD.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: \"THIS VERY NIGHT WE WILL RIDE OVER INTO ETTRICK, AND LIFT\nA WHEEN O' THEM.\" (P. 106)]\n\n\n\n\nTALES FROM\nSCOTTISH BALLADS\n\nBY\n\nELIZABETH W. GRIERSON\n\nAUTHOR OF \"THE BOOK OF CELTIC STORIES\"\n\"THE BOOK OF EDINBURGH\" ETC.\n\nWITH FOUR FULL-PAGE\nILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR FROM DRAWINGS BY\nALLAN STEWART\n\nA. & C. BLACK, LTD.\n\n4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W. 1\n\n\n\n\n_Printed in Great Britain_\n\n_First Edition (\"Children's Tales from Scottish Ballads\")\npublished in 1906._\n\n_New Edition published in 1916._\n\n_Reprinted and included in Boys' and Girls' Library in 1925._\n\n_Reprinted in 1930._\n\n\n\n\nTo\n\nMY TWO FIRESIDE CRITICS\n\nA. S. G. AND J. B. G.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nTHE LOCHMABEN HARPER              1\n\nTHE LAIRD O' LOGIE               11\n\nKINMONT WILLIE                   32\n\nTHE GUDE WALLACE                 63\n\nTHE WARLOCK O' OAKWOOD           81\n\nMUCKLE-MOU'ED MEG               101\n\nDICK O' THE COW                 125\n\nTHE HEIR OF LINNE               143\n\nBLACK AGNACE OF DUNBAR          161\n\nTHOMAS THE RHYMER               195\n\nLORD SOULIS                     214\n\nTHE BROWNIE OF BLEDNOCK         234\n\nSIR PATRICK SPENS               244\n\nYOUNG BEKIE                     259\n\nTHE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER      274\n\nHYNDE HORN                      291\n\nTHE GAY GOS-HAWK                310\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\nIN COLOUR\n\nFROM DRAWINGS BY ALLAN STEWART\n\n  \"This very night we will ride over into\n  Ettrick, and lift a wheen o' them\"           _Frontispiece_\n\n                                                  FACING PAGE\n\n  \"My father eyed them keenly, his face\n  growing grave as he did so\"                              36\n\n  \"''Tis a God's-penny,' cried the guests in amazement\"   158\n\n  \"When she approached he pulled off his\n  bonnet and louted low\"                                  198\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOCHMABEN HARPER\n\n    \"Oh, heard ye of a silly harper,\n      Wha lang lived in Lochmaben town,\n    How he did gang to fair England,\n      To steal King Henry's wanton brown?\"\n\n\nOnce upon a time, there was an old man in Lochmaben, who made his\nlivelihood by going round the country playing on his harp. He was very\nold, and very blind, and there was such a simple air about him, that\npeople were inclined to think that he had not all his wits, and they\nalways called him \"The silly Lochmaben Harper.\"\n\nNow Lochmaben is in Dumfriesshire, not very far from the English border,\nand the old man sometimes took his harp and made long journeys into\nEngland, playing at all the houses that he passed on the road.\n\nOnce when he returned from one of these journeys, he told everyone how\nhe had seen the English King, King Henry, who happened to be living at\nthat time at a castle in the north of England, and although he thought\nthe King a very fine-looking man indeed, he thought far more of a frisky\nbrown horse which his Majesty had been riding, and he had made up his\nmind that some day it should be his.\n\nAll the people laughed loudly when they heard this, and looked at one\nanother and tapped their foreheads, and said, \"Poor old man, his brain\nis a little touched; he grows sillier, and sillier;\" but the Harper only\nsmiled to himself, and went home to his cottage, where his wife was busy\nmaking porridge for his supper.\n\n\"Wife,\" he said, setting down his harp in the corner of the room, \"I am\ngoing to steal the King of England's brown horse.\"\n\n\"Are you?\" said his wife, and then she went on stirring the porridge.\nShe knew her husband better than the neighbours did, and she knew that\nwhen he said a thing, he generally managed to do it.\n\nThe old man sat looking into the fire for a long time, and at last he\nsaid, \"I will need a horse with a foal, to help me: if I can find that,\nI can do it.\"\n\n\"Tush!\" said his wife, as she lifted the pan from the fire and poured\nthe boiling porridge carefully into two bowls; \"if that is all that thou\nneedest, the brown horse is thine. Hast forgotten the old gray mare thou\nleft at home in the stable? Whilst thou wert gone, she bore a fine gray\nfoal.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said the old Harper, his eyes kindling. \"Is she fond of her foal?\"\n\n\"Fond of it, say you? I warrant bolts and bars would not keep her from\nit. Ride thou away on the old mare, and I will keep the foal at home;\nand I promise thee she will bring home the brown horse as straight as a\ndie, without thy aid, if thou desire it.\"\n\n\"Thou art a clever woman, Janet: thou thinkest of everything,\" said her\nhusband proudly, as she handed him his bowlful of porridge, and then sat\ndown to sup her own at the other side of the fire, chuckling to herself,\npartly at her husband's words of praise, and partly at the simplicity of\nthe neighbours, who called him a silly old harper.\n\nNext morning the old man went into the stable, and, taking a halter from\nthe wall, he hid it in his stocking; then he led out his old gray mare,\nwho neighed and whinnied in distress at having to leave her little foal\nbehind her. Indeed he had some difficulty in getting her to start, for\nwhen he had mounted her, and turned her head along the Carlisle road,\nshe backed, and reared, and sidled, and made such a fuss, that quite a\ncrowd collected round her, crying, \"Come and see the silly Harper of\nLochmaben start to bring home the King of England's brown horse.\"\n\nAt last the Harper got the mare to start, and he rode, and he rode,\nplaying on his harp all the time, until he came to the castle where the\nKing of England was. And, as luck would have it, who should come to the\ngate, just as he arrived, but King Henry himself. Now his Majesty loved\nmusic, and the old man really played very well, so he asked him to come\ninto the great hall of the castle, and let all the company hear him\nplay.\n\nAt this invitation the Harper jumped joyously down from his horse, as if\nto make haste to go in, and then he hesitated.\n\n\"Nay, but if it please your Majesty,\" he said humbly, \"my old nag is\nfootsore and weary: mayhap there is a stall in your Majesty's stable\nwhere she might rest the night.\"\n\nNow the King loved all animals, and it pleased him that the old man\nshould be so mindful of his beast; and seeing one of the stablemen in\nthe distance, he turned his head and cried carelessly, \"Here, sirrah!\nTake this old man's nag, and put it in a stall in the stable where my\nown brown horse stands, and see to it that it has a good supper of oats\nand a comfortable litter of hay.\"\n\nThen he led the Harper into the hall where all his nobles were, and I\nneed not tell you that the old man played his very best. He struck up\nsuch a merry tune that before long everybody began to dance, and the\nvery servants came creeping to the door to listen. The cooks left their\npans, and the chambermaids their dusters, the butlers their pantries;\nand, best of all, the stablemen came from the stables without\nremembering to lock the doors.\n\nAfter a time, when they had all grown weary of dancing, the clever old\nman began to play such soft, soothing, quiet music, that everyone began\nto nod, and at last fell fast asleep.\n\nHe played on for a time, till he was certain that no one was left awake,\nthen he laid down his harp, and slipped off his shoes, and stole\nsilently down the broad staircase, smiling to himself as he did so.\n\nWith noiseless footsteps he crept to the stable door, which, as he\nexpected, he found unlocked, and entered, and for one moment he stood\nlooking about him in wonder, for it was the most splendid stable he had\never seen, with thirty horses standing side by side, in one long row.\nThey were all beautiful horses, but the finest of all, was King Henry's\nfavourite brown horse, which he always rode himself.\n\nThe old Harper knew it at once, and, quick as thought, he loosed it,\nand, drawing the halter which he had brought with him out of his\nstocking, he slipped it over its head.\n\nThen he loosed his own old gray mare, and tied the end of the halter to\nher tail, so that, wherever she went, the brown horse was bound to\nfollow. He chuckled to himself as he led the two animals out of the\nstable and across the courtyard, to the great wrought-iron gate, and\nwhen he had opened this, he let the gray mare go, giving her a good\nsmack on the ribs as he did so. And the old gray mare, remembering her\nlittle foal shut up in the stable at home, took off at the gallop,\nstraight across country, over hedges, and ditches, and walls, and\nfences, pulling the King's brown horse after her at such a rate that he\nhad never even a chance to bite her tail, as he had thought of doing at\nfirst, when he was angry at being tied to it.\n\nAlthough the mare was old, she was very fleet of foot, and before the\nday broke she was standing with her companion before her master's\ncottage at Lochmaben. Her stable door was locked, so she began to neigh\nwith all her might, and at last the noise awoke the Harper's wife.\n\nNow the old couple had a little servant girl who slept in the attic, and\nthe old woman called to her sharply, \"Get up at once, thou lazy wench!\ndost thou not hear thy master and his mare at the door?\"\n\nThe girl did as she was bid, and, dressing herself hastily, went to the\ndoor and looked through the keyhole to see if it were really her master.\nShe saw no one there save the gray mare and a strange brown horse.\n\n\"Oh mistress, mistress, get up,\" she cried in astonishment, running into\nthe kitchen. \"What do you think has happened? The gray mare has gotten a\nbrown foal.\"\n\n\"Hold thy clavers!\" retorted the old woman; \"methinks thou art blinded\nby the moonlight, if thou knowest not the difference between a\nfull-grown horse and a two-months'-old foal. Go and look out again and\nbring me word if 'tis not a brown horse which the mare has brought with\nher.\"\n\nThe girl ran to the door, and presently came back to say that she had\nbeen mistaken, and that it was a brown horse, and that all the\nneighbours were peeping out of their windows to see what the noise was\nabout.\n\nThe old woman laughed as she rose and dressed herself, and went out with\nthe girl to help her to tie up the two horses.\n\n\"'Tis the silly old Harper of Lochmaben they call him,\" she said to\nherself, \"but I wonder how many of them would have had the wit to gain a\nnew horse so easily?\"\n\nMeanwhile at the English castle the Harper had stolen silently back to\nthe hall after he had let the horses loose, and, taking up his harp\nagain, he harped softly until the morning broke, and the sleeping men\nround him began to awake.\n\nThe King and his nobles called loudly for breakfast, and the servants\ncrept hastily away, afraid lest it might come to be known that they had\nleft their work the evening before to listen to the stranger's music.\n\nThe cooks went back to their pans, and the chambermaids to their\ndusters, and the stablemen and grooms trooped out of doors to look after\nthe horses; but presently they all came rushing back again,\nhelter-skelter, with pale faces, for the stable door had been left open,\nand the King's favourite brown horse had been stolen, as well as the\nHarper's old gray mare. For a long time no one dare tell the King, but\nat last the head stableman ventured upstairs and broke the news to the\nMaster-of-the-Horse, and the Master-of-the-Horse told the Lord\nChamberlain, and the Lord Chamberlain told the King.\n\nAt first his Majesty was very angry, and threatened to dismiss all the\ngrooms, but his attention was soon diverted by the cunning old Harper,\nwho threw down his harp, and pretended to be in great distress.\n\n\"I am ruined, I am ruined!\" he exclaimed, \"for I lost the gray mare's\nfoal just before I left Scotland, and I looked to the price of it for\nthe rent, and now the old gray mare herself is gone, and how am I to\ntravel about and earn my daily bread without her?\"\n\nNow the King was very kind-hearted, and he was sorry for the poor old\nman, for he believed every word of his story, so he clapped him on the\nback, and bade him play some more of his wonderful music, and promised\nto make up to him for his losses.\n\nThen the wicked old Harper rejoiced, for he knew that his trick had\nsucceeded, and he picked up his harp again, and played so beautifully\nthat the King forgot all about the loss of his favourite horse.\n\nAll that day the Harper played to him, and on the morrow, when he would\nset out for home, in spite of all his entreaties that he would stay\nlonger, he made his treasurer give him three times the value of his old\ngray mare, in solid gold, because he said that, if his servants had\nlocked the stable door, the mare would not have been stolen, and,\nbesides that, he gave him the price of the foal, which the wicked old\nman had said that he had lost. \"For,\" said the King, \"'tis a pity that\nsuch a marvellous harper should lack the money to pay his rent.\"\n\nThen the cunning old Harper went home in triumph to Lochmaben, and the\ngood King never knew till the end of his life how terribly he had been\ncheated.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAIRD O' LOGIE\n\n    \"I will sing if ye will hearken,\n      If ye will hearken unto me;\n    The king has ta'en a poor prisoner,\n      The wanton laird o' young Logie.\"\n\n\nIt was Twelfth-night, and in the royal Palace of Holyrood a great masked\nball was being held, for the King, James VI., and his young wife, Anne\nof Denmark, had been keeping Christmas there, and the old walls rang\nwith gaiety such as had not been since the ill-fated days of Mary\nStuart.\n\nIt was a merry scene; everyone was in fancy dress, and wore a mask, so\nthat even their dearest friends could not know them, and great was the\nmerriment caused by the efforts which some of the dancers made to guess\nthe names of their partners.\n\nOne couple in the throng, however, appeared to know and recognise each\nother, for, as a tall slim maiden dressed as a nun, who had been dancing\nwith a stout old monk, passed a young man in the splendid dress of a\nFrench noble, she dropped her handkerchief, and, as the young Frenchman\npicked it up and gave it to her, she managed to exchange a whisper with\nhim, unnoticed by her elderly partner.\n\nTen minutes later she might have been seen, stealing cautiously down a\ndark, narrow flight of stairs, that led to a little postern, which she\nopened with a key which she drew from her girdle, and, closing it behind\nher, stepped out on the stretch of short green turf, which ran along one\nside of the quaint chapel. It was bright moonlight, but she stole behind\none of the buttresses that cast heavy shadows on the grass, and waited.\n\nNearly a quarter of an hour passed before another figure issued from the\nsame little postern and joined her. This time it was the young French\nnoble, his finery hidden by a guard's long cloak.\n\n\"Pardon me, sweetheart,\" he said, throwing aside his disguise and\nputting his hand caressingly on her shoulder, \"but 'tis not my fault\nthat thou art here before me. I had to dance a minuet with her Majesty\nthe Queen; she was anxious to show the court dames how 'tis done in\nDenmark, and, as thou knowest, I have learned the Danish steps passably\nwell dancing it so often with thee. So I was called on, and Arthur\nSeaton, and a mention was made of thee, but Gertrud Van Hollbell\nvolunteered to fill thy place.\"\n\n\"Gertrud is a good-natured wench, and I will tell her so; but did her\nMajesty not notice my absence?\"\n\n\"Nay, verily, she was so busy talking with me, and I gave her no time to\nmiss thee,\" said the young man, laughing, but his companion's face was\ntroubled. They had taken off their masks, and a stranger looking at them\nwould have taken them for what they seemed to be, a dark-haired,\nblack-eyed Frenchman, and a fair English nun. But Hugh Weymes of Logie\nwas a simple Scottish gentleman, in spite of his dress, and looks; and\nthe maiden, Mistress Margaret Twynlace, was a Dane, who had come over,\nalong with one or two others, as maid-in-waiting to the young Queen, who\nhad insisted on having some of her own countrywomen about her.\n\nMistress Margaret's fair hair, and fairer skin, so different from that\nof the young Scotch ladies, had quite captivated young Weymes, and the\ntwo had been openly betrothed.\n\nThey had plenty of chances of speaking to each other in the palace,\nwhere Weymes was stationed in his capacity of gentleman of the King's\nhousehold, and the young man was somewhat at a loss to understand why\nMargaret should have arranged a secret meeting which might bring them\nboth into trouble were it known, for Queen Anne was very strict, and\nwould have no lightsome maids about her, and were it to reach her ears\nthat Margaret had met a man in the dark, even although it was the man\nshe intended to marry, she would think nothing of packing her off to\nDenmark at a day's notice.\n\nNow, as this was the very last thing that Hugh wanted to happen, his\nvoice had a touch of reproach in it, as he began to point out the\ntrouble that might ensue if any prying servant should chance to see\nthem, or if Margaret's absence were noticed by the Queen.\n\nBut the girl hardly listened to him.\n\n\"What doth it matter whether I am sent home or not?\" she said\npassionately. \"Thou canst join me there and Denmark is as fair as\nScotland; but it boots not to joke and laugh, for I have heavy news to\ntell thee. Thou must fly for thy life. 'Tis known that thou hast had\ndealings with my Lord of Bothwell, that traitor to the King, and thy\nlife is in danger.\"\n\nThe young man looked at her in surprise. \"Nay, sweet Meg,\" he said, \"but\nmethinks the Christmas junketing hath turned thy brain, for no man can\nbring a word against me, and I stand high in his Majesty's favour.\nSomeone hath been filling thy ears with old wives' tales.\"\n\n\"But I know thou art in danger,\" she persisted, wringing her hands in\ndespair when she saw how lightly he took the news. \"I do not understand\nall the court quarrels, for this land is not my land, but I know that my\nLord Bothwell hates the King, and that the King distrusts my Lord\nBothwell, and, knowing this, can I not see that there is danger in thy\nhaving been seen talking to the Earl in a house in the Cowgate? and,\nmoreover, it is said that he gave thee a packet which thou art supposed\nto have carried hither. Would that I could persuade thee to fly, to take\nship at Leith, and cross over to Denmark; my parents would harbour thee\ntill the storm blew past.\"\n\nMargaret was in deadly earnest, but her lover only laughed again, and\nassured her that she had been listening to idle tales. To him it seemed\nincredible that he could get into any trouble because he had lately held\nsome intercourse with his father's old friend, the Earl of Bothwell, and\nhad, at his request, carried back a sealed packet to give to one of the\nofficials at the palace, on his return from a trip to France. It was\ntrue that Lord Bothwell was in disfavour with the King, who suspected\nhim of plotting against his person, but Hugh believed that his royal\nmaster was mistaken, and, as he had only been about the court a couple\nof months or so, he had not yet learned how dangerous it was to hold\nintercourse with men who were counted the King's enemies.\n\nSo he soothed Margaret's fears with playful words, promising to be more\ndiscreet in the future, and keep aloof from the Earl, and in a short\ntime they were back in the ballroom, and he, at least, was dancing as\nmerrily as if there was no such word as treason.\n\nFor two or three weeks after the Twelfth-night ball, life at Holyrood\nwent on so quietly that Margaret Twynlace was inclined to think that her\nlover had been right, and that she had put more meaning into the rumours\nwhich she had heard than they were intended to convey, and, as she saw\nhim going quietly about his duties, apparently in as high favour as\nbefore with the King, she shook off her load of anxiety, and tried to\nforget that she had ever heard the Earl of Bothwell's name.\n\nBut without warning the blow fell. One morning, as she was seated in the\nQueen's ante-chamber, busily engaged, along with the other maids, in\nsewing a piece of tapestry which was to be hung, when finished, in the\nQueen's bedroom, Lady Hamilton entered the room in haste, bearing dire\ntidings.\n\nIt had become known at the palace the evening before, that a plot had\nbeen discovered, planned by the Earl of Bothwell, to seize the King and\nkeep him a prisoner, while the Earl was declared regent. As it was known\nthat young Hugh Weymes, one of the King's gentlemen, had been seen in\nconversation with him some weeks before, he had been seized and his\nboxes searched, and in them had been found a sealed packet, containing\nletters to one of the King's councillors, who was now in France, asking\nhis assistance, and signed by Bothwell himself.\n\nThe gentleman had not returned--probably word had been sent to him of\nhis danger--but young Weymes had been promptly arrested, although he\ndisclaimed all knowledge of the contents of the packet, and had been\nplaced under the care of Sir John Carmichael, keeper of the King's\nguard, until he could be tried.\n\n\"And there will only be one sentence for him,\" said the old lady grimly;\n\"it's beheaded he will be. 'Tis a pity, for he was a well-favoured\nyouth; but what else could he expect, meddling with such matters?\" and\nthen she left the room, eager to find some fresh listeners to whom she\ncould tell her tale.\n\nAs the door closed behind her a sudden stillness fell over the little\nroom. No one spoke, although some of the girls glanced pityingly at\nMargaret, who sat, as if turned to stone, with a still, white face, and\nstaring eyes. Gertrud Van Hollbell, her countrywoman and bosom friend,\nrose at last, and went and put her arms round her.\n\n\"He is a favourite with the Queen, Margaret, and so art thou,\" she\nwhispered, \"and after all it was not he who wrote the letter. If I were\nin thy place, I would beg her Majesty, and she will beg the King, and he\nwill be pardoned.\"\n\nBut Margaret shook her head with a wan smile. She knew too well the\nterrible danger in which her lover stood, and she rightly guessed that\nthe Queen would have no power to avert it.\n\nAt that moment the door opened, and the Queen herself entered, and all\nthe maidens stood up to receive her. She looked grave and sad, and her\neyes filled with tears as they fell on Margaret, who had been her\nplaymate when they were both children in far-away Denmark, and who was\nher favourite maid-of-honour.\n\nSeeing this, kind-hearted Gertrud gave her friend a little push. \"See,\"\nshe whispered, \"she is sorry for thee; if thou go now and beg of her she\nwill grant thy request.\"\n\nSlowly, as if in a dream, the girl stepped forward, and knelt at her\nroyal Mistress's feet, but the Queen laid her hand gently on her\nshoulder.\n\n\"'Tis useless asking me, Margaret,\" she said. \"God knows I would have\ngranted his pardon willingly. I do not believe that he meant treason to\nhis Grace, only he should not have carried the packet; but I have\nbesought the King already on his behalf and he will not hear me. Or his\nlords will not,\" she added in an undertone.\n\nThen the girl found her voice. \"Oh Madam, I will go to the King myself,\"\nshe cried, \"if you think there is any chance. Perhaps if I found him\nalone he might hear me. I shall tell him what I know is true, that Hugh\nnever dreamt that there was treason in the packet which he carried.\"\n\n\"Thou canst try it, my child,\" said the Queen, \"though I fear me 'twill\nbe but little use. At the same time, the King is fond of thee, and thy\nbetrothal to young Weymes pleased him well.\"\n\nSo, with a faint hope rising in her heart, Margaret withdrew to her\nlittle turret chamber, and there, with the help of the kind-hearted\nGertrud, she dressed herself as carefully as she could.\n\nShe remembered how the King had praised a dull green dress which she had\nonce worn, saying that in it she looked like a lily, so she put it on,\nand Gertrud curled her long yellow hair, and fastened it in two thick\nplaits behind, and sent her away on her errand with strong encouraging\nwords; then she sat down and waited, wondering what the outcome of it\nall would be.\n\nAlas! in little more than a quarter of an hour she heard steps coming\nheavily up the stairs, and when Margaret entered, it needed no look at\nher quivering face to know that she had failed.\n\n\"It is no use, Gertrud,\" she moaned, \"no use, I tell thee. His Majesty\nmight have let him off--I saw by his face that he was sorry--but who\nshould come into the hall but my Lords Hamilton and Lennox, and then I\nknew all hope was gone. They are cruel, cruel men, and they would not\nhear of a pardon.\"\n\nGertrud did not speak; she knew that words of comfort would fall on deaf\nears, even if she could find any words of comfort to say, so she only\nheld out her arms, and gathered the poor heart-broken maiden into them,\nand in silence they sat, until the light faded, and the stars came out\nover Arthur's Seat. At last came a sound which made them both start. It\nwas the grating noise of a key being turned in a lock, and the clang of\nbolts and bars, and then came the sound of marching feet, which passed\nright under their little window. Gertrud rose and looked out, but\nMargaret only shuddered. \"They are taking him before the King,\" she\nsaid. \"They will question him, and he will speak the truth, and he will\nlose his head for it.\"\n\nShe was right. The prisoner was being conducted to the presence of the\nKing and the Lords of Council, to be questioned, and, as he openly\nacknowledged having spoken to the Earl of Bothwell, and did not deny\nhaving carried the packet, although he swore that he had no idea of its\ncontents, his guilt was considered proved, and he was taken back to\nprison, there to await sentence, which everyone knew would be death.\n\nFrom the little window Gertrud watched the soldiers of the King's guard\nlock and bar the great door, and give the key to Sir John Carmichael,\ntheir captain, who crossed the square swinging it on his finger.\n\n\"Would that I had that key for half an hour,\" she muttered to herself.\n\"I would let the bird out of his cage, and old Karl Sevgen would do the\nrest.\"\n\nMargaret started up from the floor where she had been crouching in her\nmisery. \"Old Karl Sevgen,\" she cried; \"is he here?\"\n\nThe old man was the captain of a little schooner which plied between\nDenmark and Leith, who often carried messages backwards and forwards\nbetween the Queen's maids and their friends.\n\n\"Ay,\" said Gertrud, glad to have succeeded in rousing her friend, and\nfeeling somehow that there was hope in the sound of the old man's\nfamiliar name. \"He sent up a message this evening--'twas when thou wert\nwith the King--and if we have anything to send with him it must be at\nLeith by the darkening to-morrow. I could get leave to go, if thou hadst\nany message,\" she added doubtfully, for she saw by Margaret's face that\nan idea had suddenly come to her, for she sat up and gazed into the\ntwilight with bright eyes and flushed cheeks.\n\n\"Gertrud,\" she said at last, \"I see a way, a dangerous one, 'tis true,\nbut still it is a way. I dare not tell it thee. If it fails, the blame\nmust fall on me, and me alone; but if thou canst get leave to go down to\nLeith and speak with old Karl alone, couldst thou tell him to look out\nfor two passengers in the small hours of Wednesday morning? And say that\nwhen they are aboard the sooner he sails the better; and, Gertrud, tell\nhim from me, for the love of Heaven, to be silent on the matter.\"\n\nGertrud nodded. \"I'll do as thou sayest, dear heart,\" she said, \"and\npray God that whatever plan thou hast in thy wise little head may be\nsuccessful; but now must thou go to the Queen. It is thy turn to-night\nto sleep in the ante-room.\"\n\n\"I know it,\" answered the girl, with a strange smile, and without saying\nany more she kissed her friend, and, bidding her good-night, left the\nroom.\n\nOutside the Queen's bed-chamber was a little ante-chamber, opening into\na tiny passage, on the other side of which was a room occupied by the\nmembers of the King's bodyguard, who happened to be on duty for the\nweek.\n\nIt was the Queen's custom to have one of her maids sleeping in the\nante-room in case she needed her attendance through the night, and this\nweek the duty fell to Margaret.\n\nAfter her royal mistress had retired, the girl lay tossing on her narrow\nbed, thinking how best she could rescue the man she loved, and by the\nmorning her plans were made.\n\n\"Gertrud,\" she said next day, when the two were bending over their\nneedlework, somewhat apart from the other maids, \"dost think that Karl\ncould get thee a length of rope? It must be strong, but not too thick,\nso that I could conceal it about my person when I go to the Queen's\ncloset to-night. Thou couldst carry it home in a parcel, and the serving\nman who goes with thee will think that it is something from Denmark.\"\n\n\"That can I,\" said Gertrud emphatically; \"and if I have not a chance to\nsee thee, I will leave it in the coffer in thy chamber.\"\n\n\"Leave what?\" asked the inquisitive old dowager who was supposed to\nsuperintend the maids and their embroidery, who at that moment crossed\nthe room for another bundle of tapestry thread, and overheard the last\nremark.\n\n\"A packet for Mistress Margaret, which she expects by the Danish boat,\"\nanswered Gertrud promptly. \"I have permission from her Majesty to go\nthis evening on my palfrey to Leith, to deliver some mails to Captain\nKarl Sevgen, and to receive our packets in return.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said the old dame kindly, \"'tis a treat for thee doubtless to see\none of thine own countrymen, even although he is but a common sailor,\"\nand she shuffled back placidly to her seat.\n\nMargaret went on with her work in silence, blessing her friend in her\nheart for her ready wit, but she dare not look her thanks, in case some\ncurious eye might note it.\n\nGertrud was as good as her word. When Margaret went up to her little\nroom late in the evening, to get one or two things which she wanted\nbefore repairing to the Queen's private apartments, she found a packet,\nwhich would have disarmed all suspicions, lying on her coffer. For it\nlooked exactly like the bundles which found their way every month or two\nto the Danish maids at Holyrood. It was sewn up in sailcloth, and was\naddressed to herself in rude Danish characters; but she knew what was in\nit, and in case the Queen might ask questions and laughingly desire to\nsee her latest present from home, she slit off the sailcloth, which she\nhid in the coffer, and, unfolding the coil of rope, she wound it round\nand round her body, under her satin petticoat. Luckily she was tall, and\nvery slender, and no one, unless they examined her very closely, would\nnotice the difference in her figure. Then, taking up a great duffle\ncloak which she used when riding out in dirty weather, she made her way\nto her post.\n\nIt seemed long that night before Queen Anne dismissed her. The King\nlingered in the supper chamber, and the gentle Queen, full of sympathy\nfor her favourite, sat in the little ante-room and talked to her of\nDenmark, and the happy days they had spent there. At last she departed,\njust as the clock on the tower of St Giles struck twelve, and Margaret\nwas at liberty to unwind the coil of rope, and hide it among the\nbedclothes, and then, wrapping the warm cloak round her, she lay down\nand tried to wait quietly until it was safe to do what she intended to\ndo.\n\nThere were voices for awhile in the next room--the King and Queen were\ntalking--then they ceased entirely; but still she waited, until one\no'clock rang out, and she heard the guards pass on their rounds.\n\nThen she rose, and, taking off her shoes, crept gently across the tiny\nroom and stealthily opened the door of the Queen's bedroom, and\nlistened. All was quiet except for the regular breathing of the\nsleepers. A little coloured lamp which hung from the ceiling was burning\nsoftly, and by its light she could see the different objects in the\nroom. Stealing to the dressing-table, she looked about for any trinkets\nthat would answer her purpose. The King's comb lay there, carefully cut\nfrom black ivory, with gold stars let in along the rim; and there, among\nother dainty trifles, was the mother-of-pearl and silver knife, set with\nemeralds, which his Majesty had given the Queen as a keepsake, about the\ntime of their marriage. Margaret picked up both of these, and then,\nretracing her steps, she closed the door behind her, and flung herself\non her bed to listen in breathless silence in case anyone had heard her\nmovements, and should come to ask what was wrong.\n\nBut all was quiet; not a soul had heard.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"The prisoner to be taken to the King now! Surely, fellow, thou art\ndreaming.\" Sir John Carmichael, captain of the King's guard, sat up in\nbed, and stared in astonishment at the soldier who had brought the\norder.\n\n\"Nay,\" said the man stolidly. \"But 'twas one of the Queen's wenches who\ncame to the guard-room, and told us, and as a token that it is true, and\nno joke, she brought these from his Majesty,\" and he held out the gilded\ncomb and the little jewelled knife.\n\nSir John took them and turned them over in silence. He knew them well\nenough, and, moreover, it was no uncommon thing for the King, when he\nsent a messenger, as he often did, at an unaccustomed hour, to send also\nsome trinket which lay beside him at the moment, as a token; therefore\nthe honest gentleman suspected nothing, although he was loth to get out\nof bed.\n\nThere was no help for it, however; the message had come from the King,\nand King's messages must be obeyed, even though they seemed ill-timed\nand ridiculous.\n\n\"What in the world has ta'en his Majesty now?\" he grumbled, as he got up\nreluctantly and began to hustle on his clothes. \"Even though he wants to\nquestion the lad alone, could he not have waited till the morning? 'Tis\nthe Queen's work, I warrant; she has a soft heart, and she will want his\nMajesty to hear the young man's defence when none of the Lords of the\nCouncil are by.\"\n\nSo saying, he took down the great key which hung on a nail at the head\nof his bed, and went off with the soldiers to arouse young Weymes, who\nseemed quite as surprised as Sir John at the sudden summons.\n\nAt the door of the Queen's ante-chamber they were met by the same\nmaid-of-honour who had taken the tokens to the guard, and she, modestly\nshielding her face with a fold of her cloak, asked Sir John if he would\nremain in the guard-room with the soldiers until she called for him\nagain, as the King wanted to question the prisoner alone in his chamber.\n\nAt the sound of her voice Hugh Logie started, although Sir John did not\nseem to recognise it, else his suspicions might have been aroused. He\nonly waited until his prisoner followed the girl into the little room,\nthen he locked the door behind them as a precaution, and withdrew with\nthe soldiers into the guard-room, where he knew a bright fire and a\ntankard of ale were always to be found.\n\nOnce in the ante-room, the young man spoke. \"What means this,\nSweetheart?\" he said. \"What can the King want with me at this hour of\nnight?\"\n\n\"Hush!\" answered the girl, laying a trembling finger on her lips, while\nher eyes danced in spite of the danger. \"'Tis I who would speak with\nthee, but on board Karl Sevgen's boat at Leith, and not here. See,\" and\nshe drew the rope from its hiding-place, \"tie this round thy waist, and\nI will let thee down from the window; by God's mercy it looks out on a\ndeserted part of the garden, where the guards but rarely come, and thou\ncanst steal over the ditch, and down the garden, and round the Calton\nHill, and so down to the sea at Leith. Karl's boat is there; he will be\nwatching for thee. Thou wilt know her by her long black hull, and by a\nred light he will burn in the stern. Nay, Hugh,\" for he would have taken\nher in his arms. \"The danger is not over yet, and we will have time to\ntalk when we are at sea, for I am coming too; I dare not stay here to\nface the King alone. Only I can steal out by that little door in the\ntapestry\"--luckily Sir John did not know that there was another way\nout--\"and meet thee in the garden.\"\n\nThe window was not very high, and the night was dark, and no one chanced\nto pass that way as a figure slung itself down, and dropped lightly into\nthe ditch; and, when a guard did come round, Hugh lay flat among the mud\nand nettles until he had passed, and by that time Margaret had stolen\nout by the little postern, and was waiting for him at the foot of the\ngarden, and hand in hand they made their way over the rough uneven\nfields which lay between them and Leith.\n\nMeanwhile, Sir John Carmichael drank ale, and talked with the guards,\nand waited;--and waited, and talked with the guards, and drank ale,\nuntil his patience was well-nigh gone. At last, just when the day was\nbreaking, he went to the door of the ante-room to listen, and hearing\nnothing, he knocked, and receiving no answer, he unlocked the door and\npeeped in, not wishing to disturb the maid-of-honour, but merely to\nsatisfy himself that all was right. The moment he saw the open window\nand the rope, he shouted to the guards, and rushed across the floor, and\nthundered at the door of the King's apartment, hoping against hope that\nthe prisoner was still there.\n\nBut the King had been sleeping peacefully, and when he heard the story,\nhe was very angry at first, and talked of arresting Sir John, and sent\noff horsemen, who rode furiously to Leith, in the hope of catching the\nDanish boat. But they came back with the news that she had sailed with\nthe tide at three o'clock in the morning, after having taken two\npassengers on board; and, after all, he could say little to Carmichael,\nfor had he not received the comb and the knife as tokens?\n\n\"Thou shouldst not have lingered so long at supper,\" said the Queen\nslyly, only too pleased at the turn events had taken. \"Then hadst thou\nslept lighter, and would have awaked when the wench stole in to take the\nthings.\"\n\nKing James burst into a great laugh. \"By my troth, thou art right,\" he\nsaid, slapping his thigh. \"The wench has been too clever for all of us,\nfor the Lords of the Council, and Carmichael, and me, and she deserves\nher success. They must stay where they are for a time, for appearances'\nsake, but, heark 'ee, Anne, when thou art writing to Denmark, thou canst\nsay that thou thinkest that my wrath will not last for ever.\"\n\nNor did it, and before many months had passed Hugh Weymes of Logie came\nhome in triumph, bringing with him his young wife, who had dared so much\nand acted so boldly for his sake.\n\n\n\n\nKINMONT WILLIE\n\n    \"Oh, have ye na heard of the fause Sakelde?\n      Oh, have ye na heard of the keen Lord Scroope?\n    How they ha'e ta'en bauld Kinmont Willie,\n      On Haribee to hang him up?\"\n\n\nI well remember the dull April morning, in the year 1596, when my\nfather, William Armstrong of Kinmont, \"Kinmont Willie,\" as he was called\nby all the countryside, set out with me for a ride into Cumberland.\n\nAs a rule, when he set his face that way, he rode armed, and with all\nhis men behind him, for these were the old reiving days, when we folk\nwho dwelt on the Scottish side of the Border thought we had a right to\ngo and steal what we could, sheep, or oxen, or even hay, from the\nEnglish loons, who, in their turn, would come slipping over from their\nside to take like liberties with us, and mayhap burn down a house or two\nin the by-going.\n\nMy father was aye in the thick and throng of these raids, for he was\nsuch a big powerful man that he was more than a match for three\nEnglishmen, did he chance to meet them. Men called him an outlaw, but we\nthought little of that; most of the brave men on our side had been\noutlawed at one time or another, and it did them little ill: indeed, it\nwas aye thought to be rather a feather in their cap.\n\nWell, as I say, my father was not riding on business, as it were, this\nmorning, for just then there was a truce for a day or two between the\ncountries, the two Wardens of the Marches, Sir Walter Scott of\nBuccleuch, and My Lord Scroope, having sent their deputies to meet and\nsettle some affairs at the Dayholme of Kershope, where a burn divides\nEngland from Scotland. My father and I had attended the Truce Muster,\nand were riding homeward with but a handful of men, when I took a sudden\nnotion into my head, that I would like to cross the Border, and ride a\nfew miles on English ground.\n\nMy birthday had fallen the week before (I was just eleven years old),\nand my father, aye kind to his motherless bairns, had given me a new\npony, a little shaggy beast from Galloway, and, as I was keen to see how\nit would run beside a big man's horse, I had pled hard for permission to\naccompany him on it to the Muster.\n\nAs a rule I never rode with him. \"I was too young for the work,\" he\nwould say; but that day he gave his consent, only making the bargain\nthat there should be no crying out or grumbling if I were tired or\nhungry long ere we got home again. I had laughed at the idea as I\nsaddled my shaggy little nag, and, to make matters sure, I had gone to\nJanet, the kitchen wench, and begged her for a satchel of oatcakes and\ncheese, which I fastened to my saddle strap, little dreaming what need I\nwould have of them before the day was out.\n\nThe Truce Muster had broken up sooner than he expected, so my father saw\nno reason why he should not grant my request, and let me have a canter\non English soil, for on a day of truce we could cross the Border if we\nchose without the risk of being taken prisoners by Lord Scroope's men,\nand marched off to Carlisle Castle, while the English had a like\nprivilege, and could ride down Liddesdale in open daylight, if they were\nso minded.\n\nScarce had we crossed the little burn, however, which runs between\nlow-growing hazel bushes, and separates us from England, when two of the\nmen rode right into a bog, and when, after some half-hour's work, we got\nthe horses out again, we found that both of them wanted a shoe, and my\nfather said at once that we must go straight home, in case they went\nlame.\n\nAt this I drew a long face. I had never been into England, and it was a\nsore disappointment to be turned back just when we had reached it.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said my father, laughing, ever soft-hearted where I was\nconcerned, \"I suppose I must e'en take thee a ride into Bewcastle, lad,\nsince we have got this length. The men can go back with the horses; 'tis\nsafe enough to go alone to-day.\"\n\nSo the men turned back, nothing loth, for Bewcastle Waste was no unknown\nland to them, and my father and I rode on for eight miles or so, over\nthat most desolate country. Its bareness and loneliness disappointed me.\nSomehow I had expected that England would be quite different from\nScotland, even although they were all one piece of land, with only a\nburn running between.\n\n\"Hast had enough?\" said my father at last, noticing my downcast face,\nand drawing rein. \"Didst expect all the trees to be made of silver, and\nall the houses to be built of gold? Never mind, lad, every place looks\nmuch the same in the month of April, I trow, especially when it has been\na backward season; but if summer were once and here, I'll let thee ride\nwith the troop, and mayhap thou wilt get a glimpse of 'Merrie Carlisle,'\nas they call it. It lies over there, twelve miles or more from where we\nstand.\"\n\nAs he pointed out the direction with his whip, we both became aware of a\nlarge body of men, riding rapidly over the moor as if to meet us. My\nfather eyed them keenly, his face growing grave as he did so.\n\n\"Who are they, father?\" I asked with a sinking heart. I had lived long\nenough at Kinmont to know that men did not generally ride together in\nsuch numbers unless they were bent on mischief.\n\n\"It's Sakelde, the English Warden's deputy, and no friend o' mine,\" he\nanswered with a frown, \"and on any other day I would not have met him\nalone like this for a hundred merks; but the truce holds for three days\nyet, so we are quite safe; all the same, lad, we had better turn our\nhorses round, and slip in behind that little hill; they may not have\nnoticed us, and in that case 'tis no use rousing their curiosity.\"\n\nAlas! we had no sooner set our horses to the trot, than it became\napparent that not only were we observed, but that for some reason or\nother the leader of the band of horsemen was desirous of barring our\nway.\n\nHe gave an order,--we could see him pointing with his hand,--and at once\nhis men spurred on their horses and began to spread out so as to\nsurround us. Then my father swore a big oath, and plunged his spurs into\nhis horse's sides. \"Come on, Jock,\" he shouted, \"sit tight and be a man;\nif we can only get over the hill edge at Kershope, they'll pay for this\nyet.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"MY FATHER EYED THEM KEENLY, HIS FACE GROWING GRAVE AS HE\nDID SO.\"]\n\nI will remember that race to my dying day. It appeared to last for\nhours, but it could not have lasted many minutes, ten at the most,\nduring which time all the blood in my body seemed to be pounding and\nsurging in my head, and the green grass and the sky to be flying past\nme, all mixed up together, and behind, and on all sides, came the\npit-pat of horses' feet, and then someone seized my pony's rein, and\nbrought him up with a jerk, and my father and I were sitting in the\nmidst of two hundred armed riders, whose leader, a tall man, with a thin\ncunning face, regarded us with a triumphant smile.\n\n\"Neatly caught, thou thieving rogue,\" he said; \"by my troth, neatly\ncaught. Who would have thought that Kinmont Willie would have been such\na fool as to venture so far from home without an escort? But I can\nsupply the want, and thou shalt ride to Carlisle right well attended,\nand shall never now lack a guard till thou partest with thy life at\nHaribee.\"\n\nAs the last word fell on my ear, I had much ado to keep my seat, for I\nturned sick and faint, and all the crowd of men and horses seemed to\nwhirl round and round. Haribee! Right well I knew that fateful name, for\nit was the place at Carlisle where they hanged prisoners. They could not\nhang my father--they dare not--for although he had been declared an\noutlaw, and might perhaps merit little love from the English, was not\nthis a day of truce, when all men could ride where they would in safety?\n\n\"'Tis a day of truce,\" I gasped with dry lips; but the men around me\nonly laughed, and I could hear that my father's fierce remonstrance met\nwith no better answer.\n\n\"Thou art well named, thou false Sakelde,\" I heard him say, and his\nvoice shook with fury, \"for no man of honour would break the King's\ntruce in this way.\"\n\nBut Sakelde only gave orders to his men to bind their prisoner, saying,\nas he did so, \"I warrant Lord Scroope will be too glad to see thee to\nthink much about the truce, and if thou art so scrupulous, thou needest\nnot be hanged for a couple of days; the walls of Carlisle Castle are\nthick enough to guard thee till then. Be quick, my lads,\" he went on,\nturning to his men; \"we have a good fourteen miles to ride yet, and I\nhave no mind to be benighted ere we reach firmer ground.\"\n\nSo they tied my father's feet together under his horse, and his hands\nbehind his back, and fastened his bridle rein to that of a trooper, and\nthe word was given for the men to form up, and they began to move\nforward as sharply as the boggy nature of the ground would allow.\n\nI followed in the rear with a heavy heart. I could easily have escaped\nhad I wanted to do so, for no one paid any attention to me; but I felt\nthat, as long as I could, I must stay near my father, whose massive head\nand proud set face I could see towering above the surrounding soldiers,\nfor he was many inches taller than any of them.\n\nThe spring evening was fast drawing to a close as we came to the banks\nof the Liddle, and splashed down a stony track to a place where there\nwas a ford. As we paused for a moment or two to give the horses a drink,\nmy father's voice rang out above the careless jesting of the troopers.\n\n\"Let me say good-bye to my eldest son, Sakelde, and send him home; or do\nthe English war with bairns?\"\n\nI saw the blood rise to the English leader's thin sallow face at the\ntaunt, but he answered quietly enough, \"Let the boy speak to him and\nthen go back,\" and a way was opened up for me to where my father sat, a\nbound and helpless prisoner, on his huge white horse.\n\nOne trooper, kinder than the rest, took my pony's rein as I slid off its\nback and ran to him. Many a time when I was little, had I had a ride on\nWhite Charlie, and I needed no help to scramble up to my old place on\nthe big horse's neck.\n\nMy father could not move, but he looked down at me with all the anger\nand defiance gone out of his face, and a look on it which I had only\nseen there once before, and that was when he lifted me up on his knee\nafter my mother died and told me that I must do my best to help him, and\ntry to look after the little ones.\n\nThat look upset me altogether, and, forgetting the many eyes that\nwatched us, and the fact that I was eleven years old, and almost a man,\nI threw my arms round his neck and kissed him again and again, sobbing\nand greeting as any bairn might have done, all the time.\n\n\"Ride home, laddie, and God be with ye. Remember if I fall that thou art\nthe head of the house, and see that thou do honour to the name,\" he said\naloud. Then he signed to me to go, and, just as I was clambering down,\nresting a toe in his stirrup, he made a tremendous effort and bent down\nover me. \"If thou could'st but get word to the Lord of Buccleuch,\nladdie, 'tis my only chance. They dare not touch me for two days yet.\nTell him I was ta'en by treachery at the time o' truce.\"\n\nThe whisper was so low I could hardly hear it, and yet in a moment I\nunderstood all it was meant to convey, and my heart beat until I thought\nthat the whole of Sakelde's troopers must read my secret in my face as I\npassed through them to where my pony stood.\n\nWith a word of thanks I took the rein from the kindly man who had held\nit, and then stood watching the body of riders as they splashed through\nthe ford, and disappeared in the twilight, leaving me alone.\n\nBut I felt there was work for me to do, and a ray of hope stole into my\nheart. True, it was more than twenty miles, as the crow flies, to\nBranksome Tower in Teviotdale, where my Lord of Buccleuch lived, and I\ndid not know the road, which lay over some of the wildest hills of the\nBorder country, but I knew that he was a great man, holding King James'\ncommission as Warden of the Scottish Marches, and at his bidding the\nwhole countryside would rise to a man. 'Twas well known that he bore no\nlove to the English, and when he knew that my father had been taken in\ntime of truce...! The fierce anger rose in my heart at the thought,\nand, burying my face in my pony's rough coat, I vowed a vow, boy as I\nwas, to be at Branksome by the morning, or die in the attempt. I knew\nthat it was no use going home to Kinmont for a man to ride with me, for\nit was out of my way, and would only be a waste of time.\n\nIt was almost dark now, but I knew that the moon would rise in three or\nfour hours, and then there would be light enough for me to try to thread\nmy way over the hills that lay between the valleys of the Teviot and\nLiddle. In the meantime, there was no special need to hurry, so I\nloosened my pony's rein, and let him nibble away at the short sweet\ngrass which was just beginning to spring, while I unbuckled the bag of\ncakes which I had put up so gaily in the morning, and, taking one out,\nalong with a bit of cheese, did my best to make a hearty meal. But I was\nnot very successful, for when the heart is heavy, food goes down but\nslowly, and Janet's oatcake and the good ewe cheese, which at other\ntimes I found so toothsome, seemed fairly to stick in my throat, so at\nlast I gave it up, and, taking the pony by the head, I began to lead him\nup the valley.\n\nAlthough I had been down the Liddle as far as the ford once or twice\nbefore, it had always been in daylight, and my father had been with me;\nbut I knew that as long as I kept close to the river I was all right for\nthe first few miles, until the valley narrowed in, and then I must\nstrike off among the high hills on my left.\n\nIt was slow work, for it was too dark to ride, and I dare not leave the\nwater in case I lost my way, and by the time we had gone mayhap four or\nfive miles, I had almost lost heart, for I was both tired and cold, and\nit seemed to me that half the night at least must be gone, and at this\nrate we would never reach Branksome at all.\n\nAt last, just when the tears were getting very near my eyes--for I was\nbut a little chap to be set on such a desperate errand--I struck on a\nnarrow road which led up a brae to my left, and going along it for a\nhundred yards or so, I saw a light which seemed to come from a cottage\nwindow. I stopped and looked at it, wondering if I dare go boldly up and\nknock.\n\nIn those lawless days one had to be cautious about going up to strange\nhouses, for one never knew whether one would find a friend or an enemy\nwithin, so I determined to tie my pony to a tree, and steal noiselessly\nup to the building, and see what sort of place it was.\n\nI did so, and found that the light came from a tiny thatched cottage\nstanding by itself, sheltered by some fir trees. There appeared to be no\ndogs about, so I crept quite close to the little window, and peered in\nthrough a hole in the shutter. I could see the inside of the room quite\nplainly; it was poorly furnished, but beautifully clean. In a corner\nopposite the window stood a rough settle, while on a three-legged stool\nby the peat fire sat an old woman knitting busily, a collie dog at her\nfeet.\n\nThere could be nothing to fear from her, so I knocked boldly at the\ndoor. The collie flew to the back of it barking furiously, but I heard\nthe old woman calling him back, and presently she peeped out, asking who\nwas there.\n\n\"'Tis I, Jock Armstrong of Kinmont,\" I said, \"and I fain would be guided\nas to the quickest road to Branksome Tower.\"\n\nThe old woman peered over my head into the darkness, evidently expecting\nto see someone standing behind me.\n\n\"I ken Willie o' Kinmont; but he's a grown man,\" she said suspiciously,\nmaking as though she would shut the door.\n\n\"He's my father,\" I cried, vainly endeavouring to keep my voice steady,\n\"and--and--I have a message to carry from him to the Lord of Buccleuch\nat Branksome.\" I would fain have told the whole story, but I knew it was\nbetter to be cautious. I was still no distance from the English Border,\nand it would take away the last chance of saving my father's life, were\nSakelde to get to know that word of his doings were like to reach the\nScottish Warden's ears.\n\n\"Loshsake, laddie!\" exclaimed the old dame in astonishment, setting the\ndoor wide open so that the light might fall full on me, \"'tis full\ntwenty miles tae Branksome, an' it's a bad road ower the hills.\"\n\n\"But I have a pony,\" I said. \"'Tis tied up down the roadway there, and\nthe moon will rise.\"\n\n\"That it will in an hour or two, but all the same I misdoubt me that\nyou'll lose your road. What's the matter wi' Kinmont Willie, that he has\ntae send a bairn like you his messages? Ye needna' be feared to speak\nout,\" she added as I hesitated; \"Kinmont Willie is a friend of mine--at\nleast, he did my goodman and me a good turn once--and I would like to\npay it back again if I could.\"\n\nI needed no second bidding; it was such a relief to have someone to\nshare the burden, and I felt better as soon as I had told her, even\nalthough the telling brought the tears to my eyes.\n\nThe old woman listened attentively, and then shook her fist in the\ndirection which the English had taken.\n\n\"He's a fause loon that Sakelde,\" she said, \"and I'd walk to Carlisle\nany day to see him hanged. 'Twas he who stole our sheep, two years past\nat Martinmas, and 'twas your father brought them back again. But keep up\nyour heart, my man; if you can get to the Bold Buccleuch he'll put\nthings right, I'll warrant, and I'll do all I can for you. Go inbye, and\nsit down by the fire, and I'll go down the road and fetch the nag.\nYou'll both be the better for a rest, and a bite o' something to eat,\nand when the moon is risen I'll take you up the hill, and show you the\ntrack. My goodman is away at Hawick market, or he would ha'e ridden a\nbit of the road wi' ye.\"\n\nWhen I was a little fellow, before my mother died, she used to read me\nlessons out of her great Bible with the silver clasps, and of all the\nstories she read to me, I liked the lesson of the Good Samaritan best,\nand, looking back, now that I am a grown man, it seems to me that I met\nthe Good Samaritan that night, only he was a woman.\n\nAfter Allison Elliot, for that was her name, had brought my pony into\nher cow-house, and seen that he was supplied with both hay and water,\nshe returned to the cottage, and with her own hands took off my coarse\nwoollen hose and heavy shoon, and spread them on the hearth to dry, then\nshe made me lie down on the settle, and, covering me up with a plaid,\nshe bade me go to sleep, promising to wake me the moment the moon rose.\n\nIt was nearly eleven o'clock when she shook me gently, bidding me get up\nand put on my shoon, as it was time to be going, and, sitting up, I\nfound a supper of wheaten bread and hot milk on the table, which she\ntold me to eat, while she wrapped herself in a plaid and went out for\nthe nag.\n\nWhat with the sleep, and the dry clothes, and the warm food, I promise\nyou I felt twice the man I had done a few hours earlier, and I chattered\nquite gaily to her as she led my pony up a steep hillside behind the\ncottage, for the moon was only beginning to rise, and there was still\nbut little light. After we had gone some two miles, we struck a bridle\ntrack, well trodden by horses' hoofs, which wound upwards between two\nhigh hills.\n\nHere Allison paused and looked keenly at the ground.\n\n\"This is the path,\" she said; \"you can hardly lose it, for there have\nbeen riders over it yesterday or the day before. Scott o' Haining and\nhis men, most likely, going home from their meeting at the Kershope\nBurn. This will lead you over by Priesthaugh Swire, and down the Allan\ninto Teviotdale. Beware of a bog which you will pass some two miles on\nthis side of Priesthaugh. 'Tis the mire Queen Mary stuck in when she\nrode to visit her lover when he lay sick at Hermitage. May the Lord be\ngood to you, laddie, and grant you a safe convoy, for ye carry a brave\nheart in that little body o' yours!\"\n\nI thanked her with all my might, promising to go back and see her if my\nerrand were successful; then I turned my pony's head to the hills, and\nspurred him into a brisk canter. He was a willing little beast, and\nmightily refreshed by Allison Elliot's hay, and, as the moon was now\nshining clearly, we made steady progress; but it was a long lonely ride\nfor a boy of my age, and once or twice my courage nearly failed me: once\nwhen my pony put his foot into a sheep drain, and stumbled, throwing me\nclean over his head, and again when I missed the track, and rode\nstraight into the bog Allison had warned me about, and in which the\nlittle beast was near sticking altogether, and I lost a good hour\ngetting him to firm land and finding the track again.\n\nThe bright morning sun was showing above the Eastern horizon before I\nleft the weary hills behind me, but it was easy work to ride down the\nsloping banks of the Allan, and soon I came to the wooded valley of the\nTeviot.\n\nUrging on my tired pony, I cantered down the level haughs which lay by\nthe river side, and it was not long before Branksome came in sight, a\nhigh square house, with many rows of windows, flanked by a massive\nsquare tower at each corner.\n\nI rode up to the great doorway through an avenue of beeches and knocked\ntimidly on the wrought-iron knocker, for I had never been to such a big\nhouse in my life before, and I felt that I made but a sorry figure,\nsplashed as I was with mud from head to foot.\n\nThe old seneschal who came to the door seemed to think so too, for he\nlooked me up and down with a broad grin on his face before he asked who\nI was, and on what business I had come.\n\n\"To see my Lord of Buccleuch, and carry a message to him from William\nArmstrong of Kinmont,\" I replied, with as much dignity as I could\nmuster, for the fellow's smile angered me, and I feared that he might\nnot think it worth his while to tell the Warden of my arrival.\n\n\"Then thou shalt see Sir Walter at once, young sir, if thou wilt walk\nthis way,\" said the man, mimicking my voice good-naturedly, and,\nhitching my pony's bridle to an iron ring in the door-post, he led me\nalong a stone passage, straight into a great vaulted hall, in the centre\nof which stood a long wooden table, with a smaller one standing\ncrossways on a dais at its head.\n\nA crowd of squires and men-at-arms stood round the lower table, laughing\nand jesting as they helped themselves with their hunting knives to\nslices from the huge joints, or quaffed great tankards of ale, while up\nat the top sat my Lord of Buccleuch himself, surrounded by his knights,\nand waited on by smart pages in livery, boys about my own age.\n\nAs the old seneschal appeared in the doorway there was a sudden silence,\nwhile he announced in a loud voice that a messenger had arrived from\nWilliam Armstrong of Kinmont; but when he stepped aside, and everyone\nsaw that the messenger was only a little eleven-years-old lad, a loud\nlaugh went round the hall, and the smart pages whispered together and\npointed to my muddy clothes.\n\nWhen the old seneschal saw this, he gave me a kindly nudge.\n\n\"Yonder is my Lord of Buccleuch at the top of the table,\" he whispered;\n\"go right up to him, and speak out thy message boldly.\"\n\nI did as I was bid, though I felt my cheeks burn as I walked up the\ngreat hall, among staring men and whispering pages, and when I reached\nthe dais where the Warden sat, I knelt at his feet, cap in hand, as my\nfather had taught me to do before my betters.\n\nSir Walter Scott, Lord of Buccleuch, of whom I had heard so much, was a\nyoung, stern-looking man, with curly brown hair and keen blue eyes. His\nword was law on the Borders, and people said that even the King, in\nfar-off Edinburgh, stood in awe of him; but he leant forward and spoke\nkindly enough to me.\n\n\"So thou comest from Armstrong of Kinmont, boy; and had Kinmont Willie\nno better messenger at hand, that he had to fall back on a smatchet like\nthee?\"\n\n\"There were plenty of men at Kinmont, an' it please your lordship,\" I\nanswered, \"had I had time to seek them; but a man called Sakelde hath\nta'en my father prisoner, and carried him to Carlisle, and I have ridden\nall night to tell thee of it, for he is like to be hanged the day after\nto-morrow, if thou canst not save him.\"\n\nHere my voice gave way, and I could only cling to the great man's knee,\nfor my quivering lips refused to say any more.\n\nBuccleuch put his arm round me, and spoke slowly, as one would speak to\na bairn.\n\n\"And who is thy father, little man?\"\n\n\"Kinmont Willie,\" I gasped, \"and he was ta'en last night, in truce\ntime.\"\n\nI felt the arm that was round me stiffen, and there was silence for a\nmoment, then my lord swore a great oath, and let his clenched fist fall\nso heavily on the table, that the red French wine which stood before him\nsplashed right out of the beaker, a foot or two in the air.\n\n\"My Lord of Scroope shall answer for this,\" he cried. \"Hath he forgotten\nthat men name me the Bold Buccleuch, and that I am Keeper o' the\nScottish Marches, to see that justice is done to high and low, gentle\nand simple?\"\n\nThen he gave some quick, sharp orders, and ten or twelve men left the\nroom, and a minute later I saw them, through a casement, throw\nthemselves astride their horses, and gallop out of the courtyard. At the\nsight my heart lightened, for I knew that whatever could be done for my\nfather would be done, for these men had gone to \"warn the waters,\" or,\nin other words, to carry the tidings far and wide, and bid all the men\nof the Western Border be ready to meet their chief at some given\ntrysting-place, and ride with him to the rescue.\n\nMeanwhile the Warden lifted me on his knee, and began asking me\nquestions, while the pages gathered round, no longer jeering, but with\nwide-open eyes.\n\n\"Thou art a brave lad,\" he said at last, after I had told him the whole\nstory, \"and, with thy father's permission, I would fain have thee for\none of my pages. We must tell him how well thou hast carried the\nmessage, and ask him if he can spare thee for a year or two.\"\n\nAt any other time my heart would have leapt at this unheard-of good\nfortune, for to be a page in the Warden's household was the ambition of\nevery well-born lad on the Border; but at that moment I felt as if\nBuccleuch hardly realised my father's danger.\n\n\"But he is lodged in Carlisle Castle, and men say the walls are thick,\"\nI said anxiously, \"and it is garrisoned by my Lord Scroope's soldiers.\"\n\nThe Warden laughed.\n\n\"We will teach my Lord Scroope that there is no bird's nest that the\nBold Buccleuch dare not harry,\" he said, and, seeing the look on his\nface, I was content.\n\nThen, noticing how weary I was, he called one of the older pages, and\nbade him see that I had food and rest, and the boy, who had been one of\nthe first to laugh before, but who now treated me with great respect,\ntook me away to a little turret room which he shared with some of his\nfellows, and brought me a piece of venison pie, and then left me to go\nto sleep on his low pallet, promising to wake me when there were signs\nof the Warden and his men setting out.\n\nI must have slept the whole day, for the little room was almost dark\nagain, and the rain was beating wildly on the casement, when the boy\ncame back. \"My lord hath given orders for the horses to be saddled,\" he\nsaid, \"and the trysting-place is Woodhouselee. I heard one squire tell\nanother in the hall, for as a rule we pages know nothing, and are only\nexpected to do as we are bid. I know not if my lord means thee to ride\nwith him, but I was sent up to fetch thee.\"\n\nIt did not take me long to spring up and fasten my doublet, and follow\nmy guide down to the great hall. Here all was bustle and confusion; men\nwere standing about ready armed, making a hasty meal at the long table,\nwhich never seemed to be empty of its load of food, while outside in the\ncourtyard some fifty or sixty horses were standing, ready saddled, with\nbags of fodder thrown over their necks.\n\nEvery few minutes a handful of men would ride up in the dusk, and,\nleaving their rough mountain ponies outside, would stride into the hall,\nand begin to eat as hard as they could, exchanging greetings between the\nmouthfuls. These were men from the neighbourhood, my friend informed me,\nmostly kinsmen of Buccleuch, and lairds in their own right, who had\nridden to Branksome with their men to start with their chief.\n\nThere was Scott of Harden, and Scott of Goldilands, Scott of Commonside,\nand Scott of Allanhaugh, and many more whom I do not now remember, and\nthey drank their ale, and laughed and joked, as if they were riding to a\nwedding, instead of on an errand which might cost them their lives.\n\nBuccleuch himself was in the midst of them, booted and spurred, and\npresently his eye fell on me.\n\n\"Ha! my young cocksparrow,\" he cried. \"Wilt ride with us to greet thy\nfather, or are thy bones too weary? Small shame 'twould be to thee if\nthey were.\"\n\n\"Oh, if it please thee, sire, let me ride,\" I said; \"I am not too weary,\nif my pony is not,\" at which reply everyone laughed.\n\n\"I hear thy pony can scarce hirple on three legs,\" answered my lord,\nclapping me on my shoulder, \"but I like a lad of spirit, and go thou\nshalt. Here, Red Rowan, take him up in front of thee, and see that a\nhorse be led for Kinmont to ride home on.\"\n\nI was about to protest that I was not a bairn to ride in front of any\nman, but Buccleuch turned away as if the matter were settled, and the\nbig trooper who came up and took me in charge persuaded me to do as I\nwas bid. \"'Tis a dark night, laddie, and we ride fast,\" he said, \"and my\nlord would be angered didst thou lose thy way, or fall behind,\" and\nalthough my pride was nettled at first, I was soon fain to confess that\nhe was right, for the horses swung out into the wind and rain, and took\nto the hills at a steady trot, keeping together in the darkness in a way\nthat astonished me. Red Rowan had a plaid on his shoulders which he\ntwisted round me, and which sheltered me a little from the driving rain,\nand I think I must have dozed at intervals, for it seemed no time until\nwe were over the hills, and down at Woodhouselee in Canonbie, where a\ngreat band of men were waiting for us, who had gathered from Liddesdale\nand Hermitage Water.\n\nWith scarcely a word they joined our ranks, and we rode silently and\nswiftly on, across the Esk, and the Graeme's country, until we reached\nthe banks of the Eden.\n\nHere we came to a standstill, for the river was so swollen with the\nrecent rains that it seemed madness for any man to venture into the\nrushing torrent; but men who had ridden so far, and on such an errand,\nwere not to be easily daunted.\n\n\"This way, lads, and keep your horses' heads to the stream,\" shouted a\nvoice, and with a scramble we were down the bank, and the nags were\nswimming for dear life. I confess now, that at that moment I thought my\nlast hour had come, for the swirling water was within an inch of my\ntoes, and I clung to Red Rowan's coat with all the strength I had, and\nshut my eyes, and tried to think of my prayers. But it was soon over,\nand on the other side we waited a minute to see if any man were missing.\nEveryone was safe, however, and on we went till we were close on\nCarlisle, and could see the lights of the Castle rising up above the\ncity wall.\n\nThen Buccleuch called a halt, and everyone dismounted, and some forty\nmen, throwing their bridle reins to their comrades, stepped to the\nfront. Red Rowan was one of them, and I kept close to his side.\n\nEverything must have been arranged beforehand, for not a word was\nspoken, but by the light of a single torch the little band arranged\nthemselves in order, while I watched with wide-open eyes. They were not\nall armed, but they all had their hands full.\n\nIn the very front were ten men carrying hunting-horns and bugles; then\ncame ten carrying three or four long ladders, which must have been\nbrought with us on ponies' backs. Then came other ten, armed with great\niron bars and forehammers; and only the last ten, among whom was the\nWarden himself and Red Rowan, were prepared as if for fighting.\n\nAt the word of command they set out, with long steady strides, and as no\none noticed me, I went too, running all the time in order to keep up\nwith them.\n\nThe Castle stood to the north side of the little city, close to the city\nwall, and the courtyard lay just below it. We stole up like cats in the\ndarkness, fearful lest someone might hear us and give the alarm.\nEveryone seemed to be asleep, however, or else the roaring of the wind\ndeadened the noise of our footsteps. In any case we reached the wall in\nsafety, and as we stood at the bottom of it waiting till the men tied\nthe ladders together, we could hear the sentries in the courtyard\nchallenge as they went their rounds.\n\nAt last the ladders were ready, and Buccleuch gave his whispered orders\nbefore they were raised.\n\nNo man was to be killed, he said, if it could possibly be helped, as the\ntwo countries were at peace with each other, and he had no mind to stir\nup strife. All he wanted was the rescue of my father.\n\nThen the ladders were raised, and bitter was the disappointment when it\nwas found that they were too short. For a moment it seemed as if we had\ncome all the weary way for nothing.\n\n\"It matters not, lads,\" said the Warden cheerily; \"there be more ways of\nrobbing a corbie's nest than one. Bide you here by the little postern,\nand Wat Scott and Red Rowan and I will prowl round, and see what we can\nsee.\"\n\nAlong with these two stalwart men he vanished, while we crouched at the\nfoot of the wall and waited; nor had we long to wait.\n\nIn ten minutes we could hear the bolts and bars being withdrawn, and the\nlittle door was opened by Buccleuch himself, who wore a triumphant\nsmile. He had found a loophole at the back of the Castle left entirely\nunguarded, and without much difficulty he and his two companions had\nforced out a stone or two, until the hole was large enough for them to\nsqueeze through, and had caught and bound the unsuspecting sentries as\nthey came round, stuffing their mouths full of old clouts to hinder them\nfrom crying out and giving the alarm.\n\nOnce we were inside the courtyard he ordered the men with the iron bars\nand forehammers to be ready to beat open the doors, and then he gave the\nword to the men with the bugles and hunting horns.\n\nThen began such a din as I had never heard before, and have never heard\nsince. The bugles screeched, and the iron bars rang, and above all\nsounded the wild Border slogan, \"Wha dare meddle wi' me?\" which the men\nshouted with all their might. One would have thought that the whole men\nin Scotland were about the walls, instead of but forty.\n\nAnd in good faith the people of the Castle, cowards that they were, and\neven my Lord Scroope himself, thought that they were beset by a whole\narmy, and after one or two frightened peeps from out of windows, and\nbehind doors, they shut themselves up as best they might in their own\nquarters, and left us to work our will, and beat down door after door\nuntil we came to the very innermost prison itself, where my father was\nchained hand and foot to the wall like any dog.\n\nJust as the door was being burst open, my lord caught sight of me as I\nsqueezed along the passage, anxious to see all that could be seen. He\nlaid his hand on the men's shoulders and held them back.\n\n\"Let the bairn go first,\" he said; \"it is his right, for he has saved\nhim.\"\n\nThen I darted across the cell, and stood at my father's side. What he\nsaid to me I never knew, only I saw that strange look once more on his\nface, and his eyes were very bright. Had he been a bairn or a woman I\nshould have said he was like to weep. It was past in a moment, for there\nwas little time to lose. At any instant the garrison might find out how\nfew in numbers we were, and sally out to cut us off, so no time was\nwasted in trying to strike his chains off him.\n\nWith an iron bar Red Rowan wrenched the ring to which he was fastened,\nout of the wall, and, raising him on his back, carried him bodily down\nthe narrow staircase, and out through the courtyard.\n\nAs we passed under my Lord Scroope's casement, my father, putting all\nhis strength into his voice, called out a lusty \"good night\" to his\nlordship, which was echoed by the men with peals of laughter.\n\nThen we hurried on to where the main body of troopers were waiting with\nthe horses, and I warrant the shout that they raised when they saw us\ncoming with my father in the midst of us, riding on Red Rowan's\nshoulder, might almost have been heard at Branksome itself.\n\nWhen it died away we heard another sound which warned us that the\nlaggards at the Castle had gathered their feeble courage, and were\ncalling on the burghers of Carlisle to come to their aid, for every bell\nin the city was ringing, and we could see the flash of torches here and\nthere.\n\nScarcely had the smiths struck the last fetter from my father's limbs\nthan we heard the thunder of horses' hoofs behind us.\n\n\"To horse, lads,\" cried Buccleuch, and in another moment we were\ngalloping towards the Eden, I in front of Red Rowan as before, and close\nto my father's side.\n\nThe English knew the lie of the land better than we did, for they were\nat the river before us, well-nigh a thousand of them, with Lord Scroope\nhimself at their head. Apparently they never dreamed that we would\nattempt to swim the torrent, and thought we would have to show fight,\nfor they were drawn up as if for a battle; but we dashed past them with\na yell of defiance, and plunged into the flooded river, and once more we\ncame safe to the other side. Once there we faced round, but the English\nmade no attempt to follow; they sat on their horses, glowering at us in\nthe dim light of the breaking day, but they said never a word.\n\nThen my Lord of Buccleuch raised himself in his stirrups, and, plucking\noff his right glove, he flung it with all his might across the river,\nand, the wind catching it, it was blown right into their leader's face.\n\"Take that, my Lord of Scroope,\" he cried; \"mayhap 'twill cure thee of\nthy treachery, for if Sakelde took him, 'twas thou who harboured him,\nand if thou likest not my mode of visiting at thy Castle of Carlisle,\nthou canst call and lodge thy complaint at Branksome at thy leisure.\"\n\nThen, with a laugh, he turned his horse's head and led us homewards, as\nthe sun was rising and the world was waking up to another day.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GUDE WALLACE\n\n    \"Would ye hear of William Wallace,\n      An' sek him as he goes,\n    Into the lan' of Lanark,\n      Amang his mortal foes?\n\n    There were fyfteen English sojers,\n      Unto his ladye came,\n    Said, 'Gie us William Wallace,\n      That we may have him slain.'\"\n\n\nI will tell you a tale of the Good Wallace, that brave and noble patriot\nwho rose to deliver his country from the yoke of the English, and who\nspent his strength, and at last laid down his life, for that one end.\n\nAs all the world knows, the English King, Edward I., had defeated John\nBaliol at Dunbar, and he had laid claim to the kingdom of Scotland, and\nhad poured his soldiers into that land.\n\nSome of these soldiers, hearing of the strength, and wisdom, and prowess\nof the young champion who had arisen, like Gideon of old, for the\nsuccour of his people, determined to try to take him by stealth, before\nventuring to meet him in the open field.\n\n'Twas known that Wallace was in the habit of visiting a lady, a friend\nof his, in the town of Lanark, so a band of these soldiers went to her\nhouse, and surrounded it, while the captain knocked at the door. When\nthe lady opened it, and saw him, and saw also that her house was\nsurrounded by his men, she was very much alarmed, which perhaps was not\nto be wondered at, for everyone was afraid of the English at that time.\n\nThe officer spoke to her in quite a friendly manner, however, and began\nto tell her about his own country, and how much richer and finer\neverything was there than in Scotland, and at last, when she was\nthoroughly interested, he hinted that it was in her power to marry an\nEnglish lord if she cared to do so, and go and live in England\naltogether.\n\nNow I am afraid that the lady was both silly and discontented, and it\nseemed to her that it would be a very fine thing indeed to be an English\nnobleman's wife, so she blushed and bridled, and looked up and down, and\nat last she asked how the thing could be managed.\n\n\"Well,\" said the officer cautiously, \"there is only one condition, and\nthat doth not seem to me to be a very hard one. It hath been told me\nthat there is a rough and turbulent fellow who visits this house. His\nname is William Wallace, and because he is likely to stir up riots among\nthe common people, it seems good to His Majesty, King Edward, that he\nshould be taken prisoner. Would it be possible,\" and here his voice\nbecame very soft and persuasive, \"for thee to let us know what night he\nintends to visit thee?\"\n\nAt first the lady started back, and was very indignant with him for\ndaring to suggest that she should do such a dishonourable thing.\n\n\"I am no traitor,\" she said proudly, \"nor am I like Jael of old, who\nmurdered the man who took shelter in her tent.\"\n\nBut the captain's voice was low and sweet, and the lady's nature was\nvain and fickle, and the prospect of marrying an English lord was very\nenticing, and so it came about that at last she yielded, and she told\nhim how she was expecting young Wallace that very night at seven\no'clock, and she promised to put a light in the window when he arrived.\n\nThen the false woman went into her house and shut the door, and the\nsoldiers set themselves to watch for the coming of their enemy.\n\nHow it happened I know not, but Wallace came, and walked boldly into the\nhouse without one of them seeing him, and he ran upstairs and knocked at\nthe door of his friend's room.\n\nWhen she opened it, he stood still, and stared at her in astonishment,\nfor her face was pale and wild, and she looked at him with terror in her\neyes. I warrant she had been wrestling with her conscience ever since\nshe had spoken with the soldiers, and she had seen what an awful thing\nit is to be guilty of the blood of an innocent man.\n\n\"What ails thee?\" cried Wallace, in his bluff, hearty way. \"Thou lookest\nall distraught, as if thou hadst seen a ghost.\"\n\nThen he held out his hand as if to greet her, but she stretched forth\nhers and pushed him away.\n\n\"Touch me not. I am like Judas,--Judas,\" she moaned, \"who betrayed the\ninnocent blood, and whose fate is written in the Holy Book for a warning\nto all poor recreants like to me.\"\n\nSir William Wallace thought that she had gone mad. \"Vex not thyself,\" he\nsaid kindly. \"Methinks thou hast been reading, and thinking, till thou\nhast fevered thy poor brain. Thou art no Judas, but mine own true\nfriend, in whose house I find safe shelter when I need to visit Lanark.\"\n\n\"Safe shelter!\" she cried, with a bitter laugh, and she dragged him to\nthe window, and pointed out in the dusk the figures of four soldiers who\nwere leaning against the garden gate. \"Safe shelter, say ye, when I have\nbetrayed thee to the English; for this house is watched by fifteen\nsoldiers; and I have but to put a lamp in the window, as a signal that\nthou art within, and they will come and slay thee.\"\n\n\"And what is thy reward for this deed of treachery?\" asked Wallace, a\nlook of contempt coming over his open face. \"What pay did the English\nloons promise thee?\"\n\n\"They promised me an English lord for a husband,\" sobbed the wretched\nwoman, who now would have done anything in her power to undo the wrong\nthat she had done. \"But oh, sir, I fear me I have wrought sore dule to\nthee this day, and sore dule to Scotland. If thou canst get free from\nthis house, which I fear me thou wilt never do, thou canst denounce me\nas a traitor. I care not if I die the death.\"\n\n\"Now Heaven forfend!\" said Wallace, whose kindly heart was touched by\nher distress, although he despised her for her false deed; \"it shall\nnever be said that William Wallace avenged himself on a woman, no matter\nwhat her crime might be. I trusted thee, and thou hast proved false, and\nso from henceforth we must go our different ways; but if thou art truly\nsorry, thou mayest yet help me, and, as for me, if once I get clear away\nfrom these Southron knaves outside. I will think no more of the matter.\"\n\n\"But canst thou get clear away?\" questioned the lady anxiously. \"I fear\nme, now that it is past seven o'clock, they will keep stricter watch\nthan they did when thou camest in. 'Twill be impossible for thee to pass\nout in safety, and if thou remainest here, they will search the house\nwhen they tire of waiting for my signal.\"\n\nWallace laughed.\n\n\"Impossible is not a word that I am well acquaint with, madam,\" he said,\n\"and if, for the sake of the friendship that was between us in the days\nthat are gone, thou wilt lend me some of thine attire, a gown and kirtle\nmaybe, and a decent petticoat of homespun, and a cap such as wenches\nwear to shield their faces from the sun, I hope I may make good my\nescape under the very noses of these fellows.\"\n\nWondering to herself, the lady did as he asked her. She brought him a\ndark-coloured gown and kirtle, and a stout winsey petticoat, such as\nserving-maids wear, and after long search she found at the bottom of a\ndrawer a milk-maid's cap.\n\nWallace proceeded to dress himself in these, and, when he had put them\nall on, and had clasped a leather belt round his waist, and wound an\napron about his head, as lassies do to protect themselves from the rain\nor sun, and put the milk-maid's bonnet on top of all, I warrant even his\nown mother would not have known him.\n\n\"Now fetch me a milk-can,\" he said, \"for I am no longer a soldier, but a\nmodest maiden going to the well to draw water.\"\n\nWhen she had brought it he bent low over her hand and gave it one kiss\nfor the sake of old times; then he said farewell to her for ever, and\nopened the door, and walked boldly down the garden.\n\nThe four soldiers at the gate looked at one another in surprise when a\ntall damsel with a milk-can stood still at the foot of the garden path,\nand waited for them to open it. They had not known that the lady had a\nserving-maid.\n\n\"If it please thee, good sirs, to let me bye,\" broke in the maiden's\nvoice in the gloom. \"My mistress hath a sharp temper, and this water\nought to have been fetched an hour ago.\"\n\nShe spoke with a lisp, and her accent was so outlandish that the men\nscarce understood what she said; but this they saw, that she wanted to\ngo and draw water from the well, and they opened the gate to let her\npass.\n\n\"If I dare leave my post, I would fain come and draw for thee,\" said\none; \"shame is it that such a pretty wench be left to go to the well\nalone.\"\n\nThe maiden paid no heed to the fellow's words, but tossed her head, and\nwent quickly down the path to the well, taking such gigantic strides\nthat the men gazed after her in wonder.\n\n\"Marry, but she covers the ground,\" said one.\n\n\"Certs, but I would rather walk one mile with her than two,\" said\nanother.\n\n\"Methinks that we had better go after her and bring her back,\" cried a\nthird. \"I have heard say that this William Wallace, whom we are in\nsearch of, hath mighty long legs.\"\n\nHorrified at the thought that they might have let the very man they were\nlooking for escape, they hurried down the path after the serving-maid,\nand when they overtook her they found out in good sooth that she was\nWilliam Wallace, for she drew a sword from under her kirtle, and killed\nall four of them, before they could lay hands on her.\n\nWhen the four men lay dead before him, Wallace wasted no time over their\nburial, but drawing their bodies under a bush, where they were somewhat\nhidden from the passers-by, he hung the milk-can on a branch of a tree,\nand walked quietly away in the gathering darkness. No one who met a\nsimple country girl walking out into the country ever dreamt of asking\nher who she was, or where she was going, and ere morning came, I promise\nyou, her garments had been cast, and buried in a hole in the ground, and\nWallace was making his way northward as fast as ever he could.\n\nHe had to be very careful which way he travelled, for there were\nsoldiers quartered in many of the towns, who knew that there was a price\nset on his head, and who were only too anxious to catch him.\n\nSo he dare not venture into the towns, or into the districts where there\nwere many houses, and it came to pass that, as he was nearing Perth, he\nwas like to famish for want of food.\n\nHe had eaten almost nothing for three days, nor had he money wherewith\nto buy it.\n\nNow, near to Perth there is a beautiful haugh or common, called the\nNorth Inch, which stretches along the river Tay, and as he was crossing\nthat, he saw a pretty, rosy country girl washing clothes under a tree,\nand spreading them out to bleach in the sun. She looked so kind and so\ngood-tempered that he thought he would speak to her, and mayhap, if he\nfound that she lived near, he would ask her to give him something to\neat.\n\nSo he went up to her, and greeted her pleasantly, and asked her what\nnews there was in that part of the world.\n\n\"News,\" said she, looking up at him with a roguish smile, for it was not\noften that she had the opportunity of talking with such a gallant\nknight. \"Nay, by my troth, I have no news, for I am but a poor working\nmaiden, who toils hard for her living; but one thing I can tell thee,\nan' if thou be a true Scot at heart, thou wilt do all in thy power to\nshield him.\"\n\n\"To shield whom?\" asked Wallace in surprise. \"I know not of whom thou\nspeakest.\"\n\n\"Why! Sir William Wallace,\" answered the girl, \"that gallant man who\nwill deliver this poor country of ours. 'Tis known that he is in these\nparts; he hath been traced from Lanark, and 'tis thought that he is\nmaking for the hills, where his followers are; and this very day a body\nof these cursed English have marched into the town, in order to search\nthe country and take him. Look, seest thou that little hostelry yonder?\nThere hath a band of them gone in there not half an hour ago. Certs, had\nI been a man, I would e'en have gone myself, and measured my strength\nagainst theirs. I tell thee this, because thou seemest a gallant fellow,\nand perchance thou canst do something to save the knight.\"\n\nWallace smiled. \"Had I but a penny in my pocket,\" he said, \"I would\nbetake me to that little inn, just to see these English loons.\"\n\nThe maiden hesitated. She was poor, as she had said, and had to work\nhard for her living, but it chanced that that day she had half a crown\nin her pocket, which she had intended to spend in the town on her way\nhome. But her kind heart was stirred with pity at the thought of such a\ngoodly young man having no money in his pocket, and at last she took out\nthe half-crown and gave it to him.\n\n\"Take this,\" she said, \"and go and buy meat and drink with it, and if\nthou knowest where Wallace is, for the love of Heaven, betray him not to\nthese English knaves.\"\n\n\"I will serve Wallace e'en as I serve myself,\" he said, \"and more can no\nman promise,\" and, thanking her heartily for the piece of silver, he\nstrode off in the direction of the little hostler-house, leaving her\nwondering what he meant by his strange answer.\n\nWallace had not gone very far on his way before he met a beggar man,\ncoming limping along, clad in an old patched cloak. This was the very\nthing the knight wanted.\n\n\"Hullo, old man,\" he said; \"how goes the world with thee, and what news\nis there abroad in Perth?\"\n\n\"News, master?\" said the beggar. \"No news that I know of, save that 'tis\nsaid that Sir William Wallace is somewhere hereabouts, and a party of\nEnglish soldiers have come to hunt for him. As I craved a bite of bread\nat the door of that hostler-house down yonder, I saw fifteen of them\nwithin, eating and drinking.\"\n\n\"Say ye so, old man?\" said Wallace. \"That is right good news to me, for\nI have long had a desire to see an English soldier close at hand. See,\"\nand he drew the bright silver half-crown, which he had just received\nfrom the maiden, from his pocket, \"here is a piece of white money for\nthee, if thou wilt sell me that old cloak of thine, and thy wallet.\nFaith, there be as many holes as patches in the cloak; it can scarce\nserve thee for a covering, and 'twill answer my purpose right well.\"\n\nJoyfully the beggar agreed to the bargain, and Wallace was left with the\ncloak, which he threw over his shoulders, and which covered him from\nhead to foot. Pulling his cap well over his eyes, and choosing a trusty\nthorn cudgel from a neighbouring thicket, he went limping up to the door\nof the little inn, and knocked.\n\nThe captain who was with the English soldiers opened it. He looked the\nlame beggar up and down.\n\n\"What dost thou want, thou cruikit carle?\" he asked haughtily.\n\n\"An alms, master,\" answered the beggar humbly. \"I am a poor lame man,\nand unable to work, and I travel the country from end to end, begging my\ndaily bread.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" thought the captain to himself, \"this man must hear all the\ncountry gossip. Likely enough he knows where Wallace is, or the\ndirection in which 'tis thought he will travel.\"\n\nHe took a handful of gold from his pouch, and held it before the\nbeggar's eyes.\n\n\"Did you ever hear of a man called William Wallace?\" he asked slowly;\n\"the country folk hereabouts talk a great deal of him. They call him\n'hero,' and such-like names. But he is a traitor to our rightful King,\nKing Edward, and I am here to take him, alive or dead. Hast ever heard\nof the fellow?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said the beggar, \"I have both heard of him and seen him.\nMoreover,\" and he looked at the gold, \"I know where he is to be found.\"\n\nAn eager look came into the English knight's face. \"I will pay thee\nfifty pounds down,\" he said, \"fifty pounds of good red money, if thou\nwilt lead me to Sir William Wallace.\"\n\n\"Tell down the money on this bench,\" cried the beggar, \"for it is in my\npower to grant thy request, and verily, I will never have a better\noffer, no, not if I wait till King Edward comes himself.\"\n\nThe English captain counted down the money on the old worm-eaten wooden\nbench that stood beside the door of the inn, and the beggar counted it\nafter him, and picked it up, and put it carefully away in his wallet.\nThen he faced the Englishman with a strange gleam in his eyes.\n\n\"Thou wouldst fain see William Wallace,\" he said. \"Then see him thou\nshalt, and feel the might of his arm too, which is more, belike, than\nthou bargainedst for,\" and, before the astonished captain could grasp\nhis sword, he had let the beggar's cloak fall to the ground, and,\nlifting his stout cudgel, he had given him such a clout over the head,\nthat his skull cracked like a nut, and he fell dead at his feet.\n\nWithout waiting to take breath, Wallace drew his sword, and, running\nlightly upstairs, he burst into the room where the soldiers were just\nfinishing their meal, and before they could rise from the table and\ngrasp their weapons, he had stabbed every one of them to the heart.\n\nThe innkeeper's wife, who had just come from the kitchen, and was\nserving the men rather unwillingly, for she had no love for the English,\nstood still and stared in amazement.\n\n\"God save us!\" she said at last, as Wallace stopped and wiped his sword.\n\"But are ye a man, or do you come from the Evil One himself?\"\n\n\"I am William Wallace,\" said the stranger, \"and I wish that all English\nsoldiers who are in Scotland were even as these men are.\"\n\n\"Amen to that,\" said the old woman heartily, and then she dropped down\non her knees before the embarrassed knight. \"Hech, sirs,\" she said\nfervently, \"to think that my eyes are looking on the Gude Wallace!\"\n\n\"The Hungry Wallace, ye mean,\" said the knight with a laugh. \"If ye love\nme, woman, get up from thy knees, and set on meat and drink, for I have\nscarce tasted food these three days, and my strength is well-nigh gone.\"\n\n\"That will I, right speedily,\" she cried, and, jumping up, she ran to\nher husband and told him who the stranger was.\n\nWith great goodwill they began to prepare a meal, but hardly had it been\ndished up, and placed upon the table, before another band of soldiers\nmarched up and surrounded the house. The beggar man had gone into Perth,\nand told people about the mysterious knight who had bought his old cloak\nin order that he might go and see the English soldiers, and when the\nrest of the soldiers in the town got to hear of it, they had suspected\nat once who he really was, and had come to the help of their companions.\n\nTheir suspicions proved true when they caught sight of Wallace through\none of the windows.\n\n\"Come out, come out, thou false knight,\" they cried exultingly, \"and\nthink not that thou canst escape out of our hands. The tod[1] is taken\nin his hole this time, and right speedily shall he die.\"\n\n  [Footnote 1: Fox.]\n\nWith that they entered the house, and rushed upstairs, thinking that it\nwould be an easy matter to capture the Scottish leader, for they knew\nthat he had no follower with him. But the weak things of this world are\nable sometimes to confound the mighty, and they had not reckoned that\nthe two old people to whom the inn belonged were prepared to shed the\nlast drop of their blood, rather than that Wallace should come to harm\nin their house.\n\nSo the old man had taken down his broad claymore from the wall, and the\nold woman had seized a lance, and they stood one on each side of their\nguest, grasping their weapons with fevered zeal.\n\nThen began a fierce and deadly onslaught in that little room, and many a\ntime it seemed as if the three brave defenders must go down; but\nWallace's arm had the strength of ten, and the old man laid on right\nbravely, and the old woman gave many a deadly thrust with her lance from\nbehind, where she saw it was needed, and so it came to pass that at last\nevery Englishman was slain, and Wallace and his bold helpers were left\ntriumphant.\n\n\"Now, surely, I can eat in peace,\" said he, sitting down to his sorely\nneeded meal, \"and then must I begone. For, with thy help, I have done a\nwork here this day that will raise all the English 'twixt Perth and\nEdinburgh. Mayhap, goodman, thou canst get help to throw these bodies\ninto the river. 'Twill be better for thee that the English find them not\nin thy house, for I must up and away.\"\n\n\"That can I,\" said the old man, \"for the good folk of Perth think much\nof thee, and very little of the English, therefore will they give me a\nhand.\"[2]\n\n  [Footnote 2: Help me.]\n\nSo once more Wallace took the road to the North, and as he retraced his\nsteps across the North Inch, he passed the rosy-cheeked maiden again,\nbusy at her work. She was laying the clothes out to bleach now, and she\ngave him a friendly nod as he approached.\n\n\"I hope, fair sir, that thou hast seen the English,\" she said, \"and that\nthou hast come by food at the same time?\"\n\n\"That have I,\" said Wallace; \"thanks to thy gentle charity, I have eaten\nand drunk to my heart's content. I have seen the English soldiers too,\nand, by my troth, the English soldiers have also seen me. The day that I\nvisited that little hostler-house is not likely to be forgotten by the\nEnglish army.\"\n\nThen he put his hand in his pocket, and drew out twenty pounds in good\nred gold.\n\n\"Take that,\" he said to the astonished damsel, pressing the money into\nher hand as he spoke. \"Thy half-crown brought me luck, and this is but\nthy rightful share of it.\"\n\nSo saying, he took his way quickly towards the hills, leaving the girl\nso bewildered, that, had it not been for the money in her hand, she\nwould have been inclined to think that it was all a dream.\n\nAs it was, she never quite believed that it was a human being who had\ntaken away her silver half-crown, and brought her back twenty gold\npieces, but talked of ghosts, and visions; and some people, when they\nheard of the thirty English soldiers who lay dead in the little\nhostler-house, were inclined to be of her opinion.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WARLOCK O' OAKWOOD\n\n    \"Ae gloamin' as the sinking sun\n      Gaed owre the wastlin' braes,\n    And shed on Oakwood's haunted towers\n      His bright but fading rays,\n\n    Auld Michael sat his leafu' lane\n      Down by the streamlet's side,\n    Beneath a spreading hazel bush,\n      And watched the passing tide.\"\n\n\nThe bright rays of the setting sun were shining over the valley of\nEttrick, and lighting up the stone turrets on the old tower of Oakwood.\n\nFor many a long year the old tower had stood empty, while its owner, Sir\nMichael Scott, one of the most learned men who ever lived, wandered in\ndistant lands, far across the sea.\n\nHe had been a mere boy when he left it, to study at Durham and Oxford:\nthen the love of learning had carried him first of all to Paris, where\nhe had been famed for his skill in mathematics; then to Italy, and\nfinally to Spain, where he had studied alchemy under the Moors, and had\nlearned from them, so 'twas said, much of the magic of the East, so that\nhe had power over spirits, and could command them to come and go at his\nbidding, and could read the stars, and cure the sick, and do many other\nwonderful things, which made all men regard him as a wizard.\n\nAnd now that he had come back to his old home once more, the country\nfolk avoided him, and gazed with awe at the great square tower where,\nthey said, he spent most of his time, practising his magic art, and\nholding converse with the powers of darkness.\n\nThe King, on the other hand, thought much of this most learned knight,\nand would fain have seen more of him at his court in Edinburgh, but Sir\nMichael loved the country best, and spent most of his time there,\nwriting, or reading, or making experiments.\n\nThis evening, however, he was not in his tower, but was sitting by the\nside of the Ettrick, studying with deepest interest all the sights and\nsounds of nature which were going on around him. For he loved nature,\nthis studious, quiet, middle-aged man, and the sight of the little\nminnows darting about in the water, and the trouts hiding under the\nstones, and the partridges coming whirring across the cornfields, gave\nhim as much pleasure as all the wonderful sights which he had seen in\nfar-off lands.\n\nSuddenly he raised his head and listened. Far away in the distance he\nseemed to hear the sound of trumpets, and the \"thud,\" \"thud\" of horses'\nhoofs, as if a body of men were riding quickly towards him.\n\n\"Some strangers are approaching,\" he said to himself, \"and if I am not\nmistaken they are soldiers. I will hasten home and learn their errand.\nMayhap it is a message from his Majesty the King.\"\n\nHe rose to his feet slowly, for his limbs were somewhat cramped with\nsitting, and walked with stately dignity to the tower.\n\nThe riders had just arrived, and, as he expected, they bore a message\nfrom the King. As he approached, a knight clad in full armour rode\nforward, preceded by a man-at-arms, and, bending low over his horse's\nneck, presented to him a parchment packet, sealed with the Royal Seal.\n\n\"The King of Scotland, whom God preserve, sends greetings to his loyal\ncousin Sir Michael Scott,\" he said, \"and whereas various French sailors\nhave committed acts of piracy on the high seas, and have attacked and\nrobbed divers Scottish vessels, he lays on him his Royal commands that\nhe will betake himself to France with all speed, and deliver this packet\ninto the hands of the French King. And, further, that he will demand\nthat an answer to the writing contained therein be given him at once,\nand that he hasten back with all dispatch, and draw not rein, nor tarry,\ntill he deliver the answer to the King in Edinburgh.\"\n\nSir Michael took the packet from the messenger's hand and bowed gravely.\nHe was accustomed to receive such orders, and everyone wondered at the\nmarvellously quick way in which he obeyed them.\n\n\"Carry my humblest greetings to his Majesty,\" he answered, \"and assure\nhim that I will lose no time, but will at once set about making my\npreparations. By dawn of day I will be gone, mounted on the swiftest\nsteed that ever the eye of mortal man gazed upon.\"\n\n\"Is it swifter than the horse which his Majesty keeps for his own use at\nDunfermline?\" asked the soldier curiously. \"For if it is, it must indeed\nbe a noble animal, and 'twould fetch a good price among the barons of\nthe court. Ever since his Majesty has turned his mind so much to horses,\nhis courtiers have vied with each other to see which of them could\nbecome the possessor of the swiftest animal.\"\n\n\"My horse is not for sale,\" said Sir Michael shortly, \"not though men\noffered me his weight in gold.\"\n\nThe young officer bowed again. There was something in Sir Michael's tone\nwhich forbade him asking to see the horse, much as he should have liked\nto do so; so, giving a signal to his men, he turned his horse's head in\nthe direction of Edinburgh, and rode off, leaving Sir Michael standing\non the doorstep gazing after them, a strange smile on his face.\n\n\"A good price,\" he repeated; \"by my troth, 'twould need to be a very\ngood price which would buy my good Diabolus from me. But I must go and\nsummon him.\"\n\nMuttering strangely to himself, he turned and entered the tower.\n\nHe went up the narrow, winding, stone stairs until he reached a little\niron-studded door. This door was locked, but he opened it with a key\nwhich hung from his girdle, and, entering the low-roofed attic-room to\nwhich it led, he locked it again carefully behind him. The attic was at\nthe top of the tower, and through the narrow windows which pierced three\nof its walls, a glorious view was to be had over the surrounding\ncountry.\n\nBut Sir Michael had not come up there to admire the view; he had other\nwork to do--work which seemed to need mysterious preparations.\n\nFirst of all, he proceeded to dress himself in a curiously shaped black\ncloak, and a hunting cap made of hair, which he took down from a nail in\nthe wall. The cloak was very long, and completely enveloped his figure,\nand, when he had pulled the hairy cap well down over his eyes, no one\nwould have taken him, I warrant, for the quiet, middle-aged, master of\nOakwood.\n\nWhen he was dressed he took down a leaden platter from a shelf by the\ndoor, and, opening a cupboard, he took out a little glass bottle full of\na clear amber-coloured liquid, which glowed like melted fire. Setting\ndown the platter on a little round table in the middle of the room, he\ndropped one or two drops of this liquid on it, and in an instant they\nbroke into tongues of flame which curled up high above his head.\n\nIt was a strange and weird fire, enough to frighten any man, but the\nstill, dark-robed figure standing beside it never moved, not even when a\nnumber of tiny little imps appeared, clad in scarlet, and green, and\nblue, and purple, and danced round and round it on the table, tossing\ntheir tiny arms, and twisting their queer little faces, as if they had\ngone mad.\n\nHe waited patiently until the little creatures had finished their dance\nand disappeared, then he seized the platter, and, going to one of the\nnarrow windows, he flung it open, and, pushing the platter through it,\nhe threw it, with its burning load, far out into the gathering twilight.\n\nHe watched the fire as it fell, in glowing fragments, among the oak\ntrees which surrounded the tower, then he opened a small, black,\nleathern-bound book, which lay chained to a monk's desk which stood in a\ncorner. Opening it he read a few words in an unknown tongue, then he\nturned to the window again and waved a little silver wand over his head\nthree times.\n\n\"Come, Diabolus. Come, Diabolus,\" he muttered, and then he knelt on the\nfloor and waited eagerly, his eyes fixed on the Western horizon.\n\nThe sun had sunk, but the sky was clear, and one or two stars had\nappeared, and were shining out peacefully, like little candles set in a\ngolden haze.\n\nPresently, however, big black clouds began to appear, and pile up, one\nagainst another, till the little stars were blotted out, and the whole\nsky became as black as night.\n\nIn a little time the dull muttering of thunder could be heard far away\nover the woods. It came nearer and nearer--crash upon crash, and roar\nupon roar--while the lightning flashed, and a perfect tempest of wind\narose and lashed the branches of the tall trees into fury. Truly it was\nan awful storm.\n\nThe wizard felt the solid masonry of the tower rock beneath him, but he\nwas as calm as if only a little gust of wind had been passing on a\nsummer's day.\n\nStill he knelt on, peering eagerly into the darkness. At last his eyes\ngrew bright and keen, for he saw a shadowy form come floating through\nthe air, driven by the wind. He knew now that his charm had worked, and\nthat this was his familiar spirit--the spirit over whom he had most\ncontrol--who had come in the form of a great black horse, with flaming\neyes, and flowing mane, to carry him over the sea to France.\n\nWith one bound he flew through the window, and alighted on its back.\n\n\"Now woe betide thee, Diabolus,\" he said, \"if thou fliest not swiftly.\nFor I must be in Paris by daylight to-morrow.\"\n\nThe huge black horse shook its mane, and snorted fiercely, as if it\nunderstood, and without more ado it flew on its way, its uncanny\nblack-cloaked rider seated on its back.\n\nAs soon as they had disappeared, the storm died away, and the moon rose,\nand the little stars shone out over Oakwood Tower as clearly and quietly\nas if there had never been a cloud in the sky. Meanwhile Sir Michael\nScott and his huge black charger were flying over hills, and valleys,\nand rivers, in the darkness. They even flew over the sea itself, and\nnever halted until the day broke, and there, far below, lay the city of\nParis, dimly seen in the gray morning light.\n\nIn the King's Palace the lackeys were hardly awake. They gazed at one\nanother in astonishment when the heavy iron knocker on the great gate\nfell with a knock that echoed through the courtyard.\n\n\"Who dares to knock so loudly at this early hour?\" asked the fat old\nporter in great indignation. \"Whoever it be, I trow he may e'en wait\noutside till I have broken my fast.\"\n\nBut before he had done speaking the knocker fell once more, and there\nwas something so commanding in the sound that the little man hurried\noff, grumbling to himself, to get the key.\n\n\"Beshrew me if it doth not sound like a messenger from some great king,\"\nsaid a man-at-arms who was standing by, and the porter's heart misgave\nhim at the thought that perhaps by his tardiness he had got himself into\ntrouble.\n\nBut when he opened the great door, instead of the company of armed men\nwhom he dreaded to see, there was only a solitary rider, muffled in a\ngreat black cloak, and wearing a hairy cap drawn down over his face,\nseated on an enormous black horse. The stranger's dress was so\noutlandish, and his horse so big, that the porter crossed himself.\n\n\"Surely 'tis the Evil One himself,\" he muttered; and when the lackeys\nheard his words, they crowded round the doorway. They, too, were puzzled\nat Sir Michael's appearance, and began to laugh and jeer at him.\n\n\"He is like a hooded crow,\" cried one.\n\n\"Nay, 'tis an old wife in her husband's clothes,\" shouted another.\n\n\"Surely the cloak belonged to Noah,\" cried a third.\n\nBut they started back in dismay when the muffled figure pushed up his\ncap, and demanded an audience of the King.\n\n\"I come from the King of Scotland,\" he said haughtily, \"and his business\nbrooks no delay.\"\n\nA shout of laughter greeted his demand.\n\n\"Thou a messenger from the King of Scotland!\" they cried. \"A likely\nstory, forsooth! The King of Scotland sends not beggars, in old rusty\nsuits, as his ambassadors. No, no, my good fellow, thou askest us to\nbelieve too much. Whatever thou art, thou art not a king's messenger.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Sir Michael. \"Ye refuse to do my bidding! and all because\nI am not decked out in crimson and gold, and ridest alone without a\nretinue. Well, ye shall see that it is not always wise to judge of a man\nby his outward appearance. Make way there.\" And without wasting any more\nwords, he leaped from his horse, and, throwing its bridle over a pillar,\nhe strode right through the middle of them, and made his way to the\nKing's private apartment, without even waiting to be announced.\n\nNow the King of France was accustomed to be treated with great ceremony,\nand when this dark-robed man strode into his bed-chamber, and held out\nthe parchment packet to him, demanding an instant answer, he was very\nindignant, and refused to open it.\n\n\"Thou sayest that thou comest from the King of Scots,\" he said. \"Well, I\nbelieve thee not. If thou wert Sir Michael Scott, as thou sayest thou\nart, thou wouldst have come with an armed escort, as befitted thy rank\nand station. Therefore begone, Sirrah, and count thyself happy that I\nhave not had thee thrown into one of the palace dungeons, as a\npunishment for thy insolence.\"\n\n\"By my troth,\" cried Sir Michael angrily, \"if this is the way thou\nwouldst answer my master's demands, I trow I can soon bring thee to a\nbetter frame of mind.\"\n\nWithout waiting for an answer, he flung down the parchment packet on the\nfloor, and strode out of the room in the same way that he had entered,\nleaving the angry King gazing after him in astonishment.\n\n\"The fellow is mad,\" he cried to the nobles who stood round. \"See to it\nthat he is shut up until he comes to his senses.\"\n\nBut Sir Michael had already reached the courtyard, and passed through\nthe great door to where his horse was waiting outside. He lowered his\nvoice and spoke gently to the mighty beast.\n\n\"Stamp, my steed, and show the varlets that we are better than we seem\nto be,\" he said. And at his bidding the gigantic creature lifted one of\nits forefeet, and brought it down with all its might on the pavement.\n\nIn an instant it was as though an earthquake were passing over the city.\nThe great towers of the Palace which frowned overhead rocked and swayed,\nand all the bells on a hundred church steeples chimed and jangled, until\nthe air was thick with the sound of them.\n\nThe King and his courtiers were very much alarmed at these strange\nevents, but they did not like to own that it was the mysterious stranger\nwho was the cause of them. All the same, the King called a hurried\ncouncil, and when the nobles were assembled, and seated in their places\nin the great hall, he opened the parchment packet, and took out the\npapers which it contained. When he had read them his face flushed with\nanger. The King of Scotland's demands were very urgent, and moreover\nthey were stated in no uncertain language, and as he considered that he\nwas a much more powerful monarch than King Alexander, he did not like to\nbe dictated to.\n\n\"Ah,\" he said, \"so my Lord of Scotland lays down his own terms with a\nhigh hand. Methinks he must learn that this is not the way to obtain\nfavours from France.\"\n\n\"Ay, so in good sooth he must learn,\" repeated the nobles in one breath.\n\"And in order that the lesson be made plain, we advise that his\nmessenger be cast into prison, and that no notice be taken of his\nrequests.\"\n\n\"Your advice pleases me well,\" said the King. \"Command that the officers\nseize the fellow at once. Certs, he may think himself lucky that We\npermit his head to remain on his shoulders.\"\n\nThe command was given, but Sir Michael had been growing more and more\nimpatient that no more notice seemed to be taken of his errand, and when\nthe officers of the guard appeared, and, instead of handing him the\nFrench King's answer, as he had expected, laid their hands on him to\ndrag him off to prison, his anger knew no bounds.\n\n\"What,\" he cried, \"doth the King still refuse to listen? By my troth, he\nshall rue the delay,\" and once more he whispered in the black horse's\near, and once more the mighty creature lifted its great forefoot and\nbrought it down with a crash on the pavement.\n\nThe effect was even more terrible than it had been before.\n\nIn an instant great thunder clouds rolled up from the horizon, and a\nfearful storm broke over the city. The thunder rolled and the lightning\nflashed, and strange and weird figures were seen floating in the air.\nThe great bells which hung in the steeple of the great Cathedral of\nNotre Dame gave one awful crash, and then burst in two, while the towers\nand pinnacles of the splendid church came tumbling down in the darkness.\nThe very foundations of the Palace were shaken, and rocked to and fro,\ntill everyone within it was thrown to the ground. The King himself was\nhurled from his throne of state, and was so badly hurt that he cried\naloud with pain and fear.\n\nAs for the courtiers, they lay about the floor in all directions,\nparalysed with terror, crossing themselves, and calling on the Saints to\nhelp them. They were so terrified that not one of them thought of going\nto their Royal Master's aid.\n\nThe King was the first to recover himself. \"Alack! alack!\" he groaned,\nrising to his feet. \"Woe betide the day that brought this fellow to our\nland! Warlock or wizard, I know not which, but one of them he must be,\nfor no mere mortal man could have had the power to work this harm to our\ncity.\"\n\nWhile he was speaking a loud trampling of feet was heard outside the\ngreat hall, and all the lackeys came tumbling in, pell-mell, without\nwaiting to do their reverence, just as if the King had been any common\nman.\n\n\"O Sire,\" they cried, \"grant the fellow anything and everything he asks,\nand let him be gone. He threatens that he will cause this awful beast to\nstamp yet once again, and, if he does, the whole land of France will be\nruined. If your Majesty but knew what harm hath been wrought in the city\nalready!\"\n\n\"Yes, let him begone,\" wailed the courtiers, slowly beginning to pick\nthemselves up from the floor, and feeling their bones to see if any of\nthem were broken.\n\nAnd, indeed, the King was nothing loth to grant their request, for he\nfelt that if the mysterious stranger were allowed to stand at the door\nmuch longer his whole kingdom would be tumbling to pieces about his\nears. Better far that the King of Scotland should be satisfied, even\nalthough it was sorely against his inclinations.\n\nWith trembling fingers he picked up the papers and once more read them.\nThen he wrote an answer promising to fulfil all the Scotch King's\ndemands and he sealed up the packet, and flung it to the nearest lackey.\n\n\"Give it to him and bid him begone,\" he cried, and a sigh of relief went\nround the hall, as a minute later the man returned with the tidings that\nthe great black horse and its outlandish rider had vanished.\n\n\"Heaven grant that when next my Cousin of Scotland sends an ambassador,\nhe choose another man,\" said the King, and there was not a soul in all\nthe palace who did not breathe a fervent \"Amen.\"\n\nMeanwhile, Sir Michael and his wonderful steed were speeding along on\ntheir homeward way. They had crossed the north of France, and were\nflying over the Straits of Dover, when the creature began to think that\nit might work a little mischief on its own account.\n\nIt had taken a sudden fancy to remain in France for a while, and it\nthought how nice it would be if it could pitch its master, whom it\nrather feared than loved, over its head into the water, and so be rid of\nhim for ever.\n\nIt knew that as long as it was under his spell, it had to do his\nbidding, but it knew also that there were certain words which could\nbreak the spell even of a wizard, and it began to wonder if it would be\npossible to make Sir Michael pronounce one of these.\n\n\"Master,\" it said at last slyly, for when it wanted it had the power of\nspeech, \"I know little about Scottish ways, but I have oft-times been\ntold that the old wives and children there mutter some words to\nthemselves ere they go to bed. 'Tis some spell, I warrant, and I would\nfain know it. Canst tell me the words?\"\n\nNow the wily animal knew perfectly well what words the children of\nScotland were taught to repeat as they knelt at night at their mother's\nknee, but it hoped that its master would answer without thinking.\n\nBut Sir Michael had not studied magic for long years for nothing, and he\nknew that if he answered that the women and children in Scotland bowed\ntheir knees and said their Pater Noster ere they went to bed, the holy\nwords would break the spell, and he would be at the mercy of the fiend,\nwho, when he needed him, was obliged to take the form of a horse, or\nserve him in any other way which he required.\n\nSo he shook the creature's bridle and answered sharply, \"What is that to\nthee, Diabolus? Attend to the business thou hast in hand, and vex not\nthy soul with silly questions. If thou truly desirest to know what the\nbairns are taught to say at bed-time, then I would advise thee, when\nthou art in Scotland, and hast time to spare from thy wicked devices, to\ngo and stand by a cottage window, and learn for thyself. Mayhap the\nknowledge will do thee good. In the meantime think no more of the\nmatter, unless thou wouldst feel the weight of my wand on thy flanks.\"\n\nNow, if there was one thing which the great horse feared, it was the\nwizard's magic wand, so he put his mind to his work, and flew with all\nthe swiftness he possessed northwards over England, and across the\nCheviots, until at last they came in sight of Edinburgh, and the Royal\nPalace of Holyrood.\n\nHere Sir Michael slid from his back, and dismissed him with a little\nwave of his wand. \"Avaunt, Diabolus,\" he said, and at the words the\nmagic horse vanished into thin air, and, strange to say, the black cloak\nand hairy cap which the wizard had worn on the journey seemed to fall\nfrom him and vanish also, and he was left standing, a middle-aged,\ndignified gentleman, clad in a suit of sober brown.\n\nHe hurried down to the Palace, and sought an instant audience of the\nKing. The lackeys bowed low, and the doors flew open before him, as he\nwas led into his Majesty's presence, for at the Court of Holyrood Sir\nMichael Scott was a very great person indeed.\n\nBut for once a frown gathered on King Alexander's face when he saw him.\nKings expect to be obeyed, and he was not prepared to see the man appear\nwhom he had ordered off to France with all speed the day before.\n\n\"What ho! Sir Michael,\" he said coldly. \"Is this the way that thou\ncarriest out our royal orders. In good sooth I wish I had chosen a more\nzealous messenger.\"\n\nSir Michael smiled gravely. \"Wilt please my Sovereign Lord to receive\nthis packet from the hand of the King of France?\" he said with a stately\nbow. \"Methinks that he will find that in it all his demands are granted,\nand that I have obeyed his behests to the best of my power.\"\n\nThe King was utterly taken aback. He wondered if Sir Michael were\nplaying some trick on him, for it was absolutely impossible that he\ncould have gone and come from France in twenty-four hours.\n\nWhen he opened the packet, however, he saw that it was no trick. In\nutter amazement he called for his courtiers, and they crowded round him\nto examine the papers. They were all in order, and all the requests had\nbeen granted without more ado. Reparation was to be made for the damage\nthat had been done to the Scottish ships, and in future all acts of\npiracy would be severely punished. It was evident that the papers had\nbeen taken to Paris, for there was the French King's own seal, and there\nwas his name signed in his own handwriting, though how they had been\ncarried thither so quickly, nobody ventured to say.\n\n\"'Tis safer not to ask, your Majesty,\" whispered one old knight, making\nthe sign of the Cross as he spoke, \"for there are strange tales afloat,\nwhich say that the Lord of Oakwood keeps a familiar spirit in that\nancient tower of his, who is ready to do his bidding at all times; and,\nby my soul, this goes far to prove it.\"\n\nThe King looked round uneasily, in case Sir Michael had heard this last\nsentence. He felt that if this were true, and he were a wizard, as men\nhinted, it was best not to incur his displeasure; but he need not have\nbeen afraid. The Lord of Oakwood loved not courts, and now that he had\ndone his errand, and the papers were safe in the King's hand, he had\ntaken advantage of the astonishment of the courtiers to slip unobserved\nthrough the crowd, and, having borrowed a horse from the royal stables,\nhe was now riding leisurely out of the city, on his way home to his old\ntower on the banks of the Ettrick.\n\n\n\n\nMUCKLE-MOU'ED MEG\n\n    \"O wha hasna heard o' the bauld Juden Murray,\n      The Lord o' the Elibank Castle sae high?\n    An' wha hasna heard o' that notable foray,\n      Whan Willie o' Harden was catched wi' the kye?\"\n\n\nOf all the towers and castles which belonged to the old Border reivers,\nthere was none which was better suited to its purpose than the ancient\nhouse of Harden. It stood, as the house which succeeded it stands to\nthis day, at the head of a deep and narrow glen, looking down on the\nBorthwick Water, not far from where it joins the Teviot.\n\nIt belonged to Walter Scott, \"Wat o' Harden,\" as he was called, a near\nkinsman and faithful ally of the \"Bold Buccleuch,\" who lived just over\nthe hill, at Branksome.\n\nWat was a noted freebooter. Never was raid or foray but he was well to\nthe front, and when, as generally happened, the raid or foray resulted\nin a drove of English cattle finding their way over the Liddesdale\nhills, and down into Teviotdale, the Master of Harden had no difficulty\nin guarding his share of the spoil. The entrance to his glen was so\nnarrow, and its sides so steep and rocky, that he had only to drive the\ntired beasts into it, and set a strong guard at the lower end, and then\nhe and his retainers could take things easily for a time, and live in\nplenty, till some fine day the beef would be done, and his wife, Dame\nMary, whom folk named the \"Flower of Yarrow\" in her youth, would serve\nhim up a pair of spurs underneath the great silver cover, as a hint that\nthe larder was empty, and that it was full time that he should mount and\nride for more.\n\n'Twas little wonder that his five sons grew up to love this free roving\nlife, to which they had always been accustomed, and that they took ill\nwith the change when, in 1603, at the Union of the Crowns, Scotland and\nEngland became one country, and King James determined to put down\nraiding and reiving with a high hand.\n\nIt was difficult at first, but gradually a change came about. Courts of\njustice were established in the Border towns, where law-breakers were\ntried, and promptly punished, and the heads of the most powerful clans\nbanded themselves together to put down bloodshed and robbery, and a time\nof quietness bade fair to settle down on the distressed district.\n\nTo the old folk, tired of incessant fighting, this change was welcome;\nbut the younger men found their occupation gone, while as yet they had\nno thought of turning to some more peaceable pursuit. The young Scotts\nof Harden were no exceptions to this rule, and William, the eldest,\nfound matters, after a time, quite unbearable. Moreover, his father's\nretainers were growing discontented with their quiet life, and scanty\nfare, for beef was not so plentiful at Harden now that Border law\nforbade its being stolen from England; so, without telling either his\nfather or his brothers of his intention, he took a band of chosen men,\nand rode over, in the gray light of an early spring morning, to the\nhouse of William Hogg of Fauldshope, one of the chief retainers of the\nfamily.\n\nWilliam was a man of great bravery, and so fierce and strong that he had\nearned for himself the name of the \"Wild Boar of Fauldshope.\"\n\nHe was still in bed when the party from Harden arrived, but rose hastily\nwhen they knocked. Great was his astonishment when he saw his young\nmaster with a band of armed men behind him.\n\n\"What cheer, Master?\" he said, \"and what doest thou out at this time of\nday? Faith, it minds me of the good old times, when some rider would\ncome in haste to my door, to tell me that Auld Buccleuch had given\norders to warn the water.\"[3]\n\n  [Footnote 3: To call the countrymen to arms.]\n\n\"Heaven send that those times come back again,\" said young Harden\npiously, \"else shall we soon be turned into a pack of old wives. The\nchanges that have come to Harden be more than I can stand, Willie. Not\nso many years past we were aye as busy as a swarm of bees. When we had a\nmind, and had nought else to do, we leaped on our horses and headed\ntowards Cumberland. There were ever some kine to be driven, or a house\nor two to be burned, or some poor widow to be avenged, or some prisoner\nto be released. So things went right merrily, and the larder was always\nfull. But now that this cursed peace hath come, and King Jamie reigns in\nLondon--plague on the man for leaving this bonnie land!--the place is as\nquiet as the grave, and the horses grow fat, and our men grow lean, and\nthey quarrel and fight among themselves all day, an' all because they\nhave nought else to do. Moreover, the pastures round Harden grow rough\nfor want of eating. We need a drove of cattle to keep them down. So I\nhave e'en come over to take counsel with thee, Will, for thou art a man\nafter mine own heart, and I have brought a few of the knaves at my back.\nWhat think ye, man, is there no one we could rob? Fain would I ride over\nthe Border to harry the men of Cumberland, but thou knowest how it is.\nMy kinsman of Buccleuch is Warden of the Marches, and responsible for\nkeeping the peace, and sore dule and woe would come to my father's house\nwere I to stir up strife now that we are supposed to be all one land.\"\n\n\"Ay, by my troth,\" said Will of Fauldshope, \"the fat would be in the\nfire if we were to ride into Cumberland nowadays; but, Master, the\nWarden hath no right to interfere with lawful quarrels. There is the\nLaird o' Elibank, for instance, old Sir Juden. Deil take me if anyone\ncould blame us if we paid him a visit. For all the world knows how often\nsome cows, or a calf or two, have vanished on a dark night from the\nhillsides at Harden, and though a Murray hath never yet been ta'en\nred-handed, it is easy to know where the larders o' Elibank get their\nplenishing. Turn about is fair play, say I, and now that the pastures at\nHarden are empty, 'tis time that we thought of taking our revenge. Sir\nJuden was a wily man in his youth, and sly as a pole-cat, but men say\nthat nowadays he hath grown doited,[4] and does nought but sit with his\nwife and his three ugly daughters from morning till night. All the same,\nhe hath managed to feather his nest right well. 'Twas told me at\nCandlemas that he hath no less than three hundred fat cattle grazing in\nthe meadows that lie around Elibank.\"\n\n  [Footnote 4: In his dotage.]\n\nWillie o' Harden slapped his thigh.\n\n\"That settles the matter,\" he cried, with a ring in his voice at the\nthought of the adventure that lay before him. \"Three hundred kye are far\ntoo many for one old man to herd. Let him turn his mind to his three\nill-faured[5] daughters, whom no man will wed because of their looks.\nThis very night we will ride over into Ettrick, and lift a wheen[6] o'\nthem. My father's Tower of Oakwood lies not far from Elibank, and when\nonce we have driven the beasts into the Oakwood byres, 'twill take old\nSir Juden all his time to prove that they ever belonged to him.\"\n\n  [Footnote 5: Plain-looking.]\n\n  [Footnote 6: Few.]\n\nLate that afternoon Sir Juden Murray was having a daunder[7] in the\nlow-lying haughs which lay along the banks of the Tweed, close to his\nold tower. His hands were clasped behind his back, under his coat tails,\nand his head was sunk low on his breast. He appeared to be deep in\nmeditation, and so indeed he was. There was a matter which had been\npressing heavily on his mind for some time, and it troubled him more\nevery day.\n\n  [Footnote 7: Gentle walk.]\n\nThe fact was, that it was a sore anxiety to him how he was going to\nprovide for his three daughters, for Providence had endowed them with\nsuch very plain features that it seemed extremely unlikely that any gay\nwooer would ever stop before the door of Elibank. Meg, the eldest, was\nespecially plain-looking. She was pale and thin, with colourless eyes,\nand a long pointed nose, and, to make matters worse, she had such a very\nwide mouth that she was known throughout the length and breadth of four\ncounties as \"Muckle-Mou'ed Meg o' Elibank.\"\n\nNo wonder her father sighed as he thought of her, for, in spite of his\ngreed and his slyness, Sir Juden was an affectionate father, as fathers\nwent in those days, and the lot of unmarried ladies of the upper class,\nat that time, was a hard one.\n\nHe was roused from his thoughts by someone shouting to him from the top\nof the neighbouring hill. It was one of his men-at-arms, and the old man\nstood for a moment with his hand at his ear, to listen to the fellow's\nwords. They came faintly down the wind.\n\n\"I fear evil betakes us, Sir Juden, for far in the distance I hear\nbugles sounding at Oakwood Tower. I would have said that the Scotts of\nHarden were riding, were it not for Buccleuch and his new laws.\"\n\nSir Juden shook his grizzled head. \"Little cares Auld Wat o' Harden, or\nany o' his kind, either for Warden or laws, notwithstanding that the\nWarden is his own kith and kin. As like as not they have heard tell o'\nmy bonnie drove of cattle, and would fain have some of them. Run,\nsirrah, and warn our friends; no one can find fault with us if we fight\nin self-defence.\"\n\nNo sooner had the first man disappeared to do his master's bidding, than\nanother approached, running down the hillside as fast as he could. He\nwas quite out of breath when he came up to the Laird, and no wonder, for\nhe had run all the way from Philip-Cairn, one of the highest hills in\nthe neighbourhood.\n\n\"Oh, Sir Juden,\" he gasped, \"lose no time, but arm well, and warn well,\nif thou wouldst keep thine own. From the top of the hill I saw armed men\nin the distance, and it was not long ere I knew the knaves. 'Tis a band\nof reivers led by the young Knight of Harden, and, besides his own men,\nhe hath with him the Wild Boar of Fauldshope, and all the Hoggs and the\nBrydons.\"\n\n\"By my troth, but thou bringest serious tidings,\" said Sir Juden,\nthoroughly alarmed, for he knew what deadly fighters Willie o' Harden\nand the Boar of Fauldshope were, and, without wasting words, he hurried\naway to his tower to make the best preparations he could for the coming\nfray.\n\nHe knew that even with all the friends who would muster round him, the\nmen of Plora, and Traquair, and Ashiestiel, and Hollowlee, Harden's\nforce would far outnumber his, and his only hope lay in outwitting the\nenemy, who were better known for their bravery than for their guile.\n\nSo when all his friends were assembled, instead of stationing them near\nthe castle, he led them out to a steep hill-side, some miles away, where\nhe knew the Scotts must pass with the cattle, on their way to Oakwood.\nAs the night was dark, he bade each of them fasten a white feather in\nhis cap, so that, when they were fighting, they would know who were\ntheir friends and who their foes, and he would not allow them to stand\nabout on the hill-side, but made them lie down hidden in the heather\nuntil he gave them the signal to rise.\n\nHe knew well what he was doing, for he was as cunning as a fox, and\nneither the Knight of Harden nor the Wild Boar of Fauldshope, brave\nthough they were, were a match for him.\n\nThey, on their part, thought things were going splendidly, for when they\nrode up in the darkness of midnight to the Elibank haughs, all was\nquiet; not so much as a dog barked. It was not difficult to collect a\ngoodly drove of fat cattle, and, as long as the animals were driven\nalong a familiar path, all went well. But all the world knows the saying\nabout \"a cow in an unca loaning,\"[8] and it held good in this case. The\nmoment the animals' heads were turned to the hills that lay between\nElibank and Oakwood the trouble began. They broke in confusion, and ran\nhither and thither in the darkness, lowing and crying in great\nbewilderment.\n\n  [Footnote 8: A cow in a strange lane or milking-place.]\n\n\"Faith, but this will never do,\" exclaimed Will of Fauldshope; \"if the\nbeasts bellow at this rate, they will awaken old Sir Juden and his sons,\nand they will set on in pursuit. Not that that would matter much, but we\nmay as well do the job with as little bloodshed as possible. See, I and\nmy men will take a dozen or so, and push on over the hill. If once the\nway be trodden the rest will follow.\"\n\nSo Will of Fauldshope and his men went their way cheerily up the hill,\nand over its crest, and down the other side, on their way to Oakwood,\nwith a handful of cattle before them, little recking that Sir Juden and\nhis sons, whom they thought to be sleeping peacefully at Elibank, were\ncrouching among the heather with their friends and retainers, or that\nthey had ridden over a few of them on their way, and that, as soon as\nthey were past, and out of earshot, and young Harden came on with the\nmain body of the stolen cattle, the Murrays would rise and set on him\nwith sudden fierceness, and after a sharp and bloody conflict would take\nhim prisoner, and kill many a brave man.\n\nNor would Will have heard of the fight at all, until he had arrived at\nOakwood, and his suspicions had been aroused by the fact that young\nHarden did not follow him, had it not been for a trusty fellow called\nAndrew o' Langhope, who was knocked down in the fight, and who thought\nthat he could serve his master best by lying still. So he pretended to\nbe dead, and lay motionless until the fray was over, and poor young\nScott bound hand and foot, and carried off in triumph by the Murrays;\nthen he sprang to his feet, and ran off in pursuit of Will of Fauldshope\nas fast as his legs could carry him.\n\nNow, if there was one man on earth whom the Wild Boar of Fauldshope and\nhis men loved, it was the young Knight of Harden. He was so handsome,\nand brave, and debonair, a very leader among men, that I ween there was\ndire confusion among them when they heard Andrew o' Langhope's tale. A\ngreat oath fell from Will's lips as he threw off his jerkin and helmet,\nto ease his horse, and turned and galloped over the hill again, followed\nby all his company.\n\nBut in spite of their haste they were too late. The dawn was breaking as\nthey reined up on the green in front of Elibank, and the gray morning\nlight showed them that the stout oak door was closed, and the great iron\ngates made fast. By now young Harden was safe in the lowest dungeon, and\nright well they knew that only once again would he breathe the fresh air\nof heaven, and that would be when he was led out to die under the great\ndule-tree on the green.\n\nBitter tears of grief and rage filled the Boar of Fauldshope's eyes at\nthe thought, but no more could be done, except to ride over to Harden,\nand tell old Sir Walter Scott of the fate that had befallen his eldest\nson.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Juden, Juden.\" It was the Lady of Elibank's voice, and it woke her\nhusband out of the only sound sleep he had had, for he had been terribly\ntroubled with bad dreams all night: dreams not, as one would have\nimagined, of the fight which he had passed through, but of his eldest\ndaughter Meg, and her sad lack of wooers.\n\n\"What is it?\" he asked drowsily, as he looked across the room to where\nhis worthy spouse, Dame Margaret Murray, already up and dressed, stood\nlooking out of the narrow casement.\n\n\"I was just wondering,\" she said slowly, \"what thou intendest to do with\nthat poor young man?\"\n\n\"Do,\" cried Sir Juden, wide awake now, and starting up in astonishment\nat the question, for his wife was not wont to be so pitiful towards any\nof his prisoners. \"By'r Lady, but there is only one thing that I shall\ndo. Hang the rogue, of course, and that right speedily.\"\n\n\"What,\" said the Lady of Elibank, and she turned and looked at her angry\nhusband with an expression which seemed to say that at that moment he\nhad taken leave of his senses; \"hang the young Knight of Harden, when I\nhave three ill-favoured daughters to marry off my hands! I wonder at ye,\nJuden! I aye thought ye had a modicum of common sense, and could look a\nlong way in front of ye, but at this moment I am sorely inclined to\ndoubt it. Mark my words, ye'll never again have such a chance as this.\nFor, besides Harden, he is heir to some of the finest lands in Ettrick\nForest.[9] There is Kirkhope, and Oakwood, and Bowhill. Think of our\nMeg; would ye not like to see the lassie mistress of these? And well I\nwot ye might, for the youth is a spritely young fellow, though given to\nadventure, as what brave young man is not? And I trow that he would put\nup with an ill-featured wife, rather than lose his life on our\nhanging-tree.\"\n\n  [Footnote 9: These lands were sold to the Scotts of Buccleuch sometime\n  afterwards, and the Duke of Buccleuch is the present owner.]\n\nSir Juden looked at his wife for full three minutes in silence, and then\nhe broke into a loud laugh. \"By my soul, thou art right, Margaret,\" he\nsaid. \"Thou wert born with the wisdom of Solomon, though men would\nscarce think it to look at thee.\" And he began to dress himself, without\nmore ado.\n\nLess than two hours afterwards, the door of the dungeon where young\nScott was confined was thrown open with a loud and grating noise, and\nthree men-at-arms appeared, and requested the prisoner, all bound as he\nwas, to follow them.\n\nWillie obeyed without a word. He had dared, and had been defeated, and\nnow he must pay the penalty that the times required, and like a brave\nman he would pay it uncomplainingly, but I warrant that, as he followed\nthe men up the steep stone steps, his heart was heavy within him, and\nhis thoughts were dwelling on the bonnie braes that lay around Harden,\nwhere he had so often played when he was a bairn, with his mother, the\ngentle \"Flower of Yarrow,\" watching over him, and which he knew he would\nnever see again.\n\nBut, to his astonishment, instead of being led straight out to the\n\"dule-tree,\" as he had expected, he was taken into the great hall, and\nstationed close to one of the narrow windows. A strange sight met his\neyes.\n\nThe hall was full of armed men, who were looking about them with broad\nsmiles of amusement, while, on a dais at the far end of the hall, were\nseated, in two large armchairs, his captor of the night before, Sir\nJuden Murray, and a severe-looking lady, in a wondrous head-dress, and a\nstiff silken gown, whom he took to be his wife.\n\nBetween them, blushing and hanging her head as if the ordeal was too\nmuch for her, was the plainest-looking maiden he had ever seen in his\nlife. She was thin and ill-thriven-looking, very different from the\nbuxom lassies he was accustomed to see: her eyes were colourless; her\nnose was long and pointed, and the size of her mouth would alone have\nproclaimed her to be the worthy couple's eldest daughter, Muckle-Mou'ed\nMeg.\n\nNear the dais stood her two younger sisters. They were plain-looking\ngirls also, but hardly so plain-looking as Meg, and they were laughing\nand whispering to one another, as if much amused by what was going on.\n\nSir Juden cleared his throat and crossed one thin leg slowly over the\nother, while he looked keenly at his prisoner from under his bushy\neyebrows.\n\n\"Good morrow, young sir,\" he said at last; \"so you and your friends\nthought that ye would like a score or two o' the Elibank kye. By whose\nwarrant, may I ask, did ye ride, seeing that in those days peace is\ndeclared on the Border, and anyone who breaks it, breaks it at his own\nrisk?\"\n\n\"I rode at my own peril,\" answered the young man haughtily, for he did\nnot like to be questioned in this manner, \"and it is on mine own head\nthat the blame must fall. Thou knowest that right well, Sir Juden, so it\nseems to me but waste of words to parley here.\"\n\n\"So thou knowest the fate that thy rash deed brings on thee,\" said Sir\nJuden hastily, his temper, never of the sweetest, rising rapidly at the\nyoung man's coolness. He would fain have hanged him without more ado,\ndid prudence permit; and it was hard to sit still and bargain with him.\n\n\"So thou knowest that I have the right to hang thee, without further\nwords,\" he continued; \"and, by my faith, many a man would do it, too,\nwithout delay. But thou art young, William, and young blood must aye be\nroving, that I would fain remember, and so I offer thee another chance.\"\n\nHere the Lord of Elibank paused and glanced at his wife, to see if he\nhad said the right thing, for it was she who had arranged the scene\nbeforehand, and had schooled her husband in the part he was to play.\n\nMeanwhile young Harden, happening to meet Meg Murray's eyes, and puzzled\nby the look, half wistful, half imploring, which he saw there, glanced\nhastily out of the little casement beside which he was standing, and\nreceived a rude shock, in spite of all his courage, when he saw a strong\nrope, with a noose at the end of it, dangling from a stout branch of the\ndule-tree on the green, while a man-at-arms stood kicking the ground\nidly beside it, apparently waiting till he should be called on to act as\nexecutioner.\n\n\"So the old rascal is going to hang me after all,\" he said to himself;\n\"then what, in Our Lady's name, means this strange mummery, and how\ncomes that ill-favoured maiden to look at me as if her life depended on\nmine?\"\n\nAt that moment, old Sir Juden, reassured by a nod from Dame Margaret,\nwent on with his speech.\n\n\"I will therefore offer thee another chance, I say, and, moreover, I\nwill throw a herd of the cattle which thou wert so anxious to steal into\nthe bargain, if thou wilt promise, on thy part, to wed my daughter Meg\nwithin the space of four days.\"\n\nHere the wily old man stopped, and the Lady of Elibank nodded her head\nagain, while, as for young Harden, for the moment he was too astonished\nto speak.\n\nSo this was the meaning of it all. He was to be forced to marry the\nugliest maiden in the south of Scotland in order to save his life. The\nvision of his mother's beauty rose before him, and the contrast between\nthe Flower of Yarrow and Muckle-Mou'ed Meg o' Elibank struck him so\nsharply that he cried out in anger, \"By my troth, but this thing shall\nnever be. So do thy worst, Sir Juden.\"\n\n\"Think well before ye choose,\" said that knight, more disappointed than\nhe would have cared to own at his prisoner's words, \"for there are\nbetter things in this world than beauty, young man. Many a beautiful\nwoman hath been but a thorn in her husband's side, and forbye[10] that,\nhast thou not learned in the Good Book--if ever ye find time to read it,\nwhich I fear me will be but seldom--that a prudent wife is more to be\nsought after than a bonnie one? And though my Meg here is mayhap no' sae\nwell-favoured as the lassies over in Borthwick Water, or Teviotdale, I\nwarrant there is not one of them who hath proved such a good daughter,\nor whose nature is so kind and generous.\"\n\n  [Footnote 10: Besides.]\n\nStill young Harden hesitated, and glanced from the lady, who, poor\nthing, had hidden her face in her hands, to the gallows, and from the\ngallows back again to the lady.\n\nWas ever mortal man in such a plight? Here he was, young, handsome,\nrich, and little more than four-and-twenty, and he must either lose his\nlife on the green yonder, or marry a damsel whom everyone mocked at for\nher looks.\n\n\"If only I could be alone with her for five minutes,\" he thought to\nhimself, \"to see what she looks like, when there is no one to peep and\npeer at her. The maiden hath not a chance in the midst of this\nmannerless crowd, and methought her eyes were open and honest, as they\nlooked into mine a little while ago.\"\n\nAt that moment Meg Murray lifted her head once more, and gazed round her\nlike a stag at bay. Poor lassie, it had been bad enough to be jeered at\nby her father, and flouted and scolded by her mother, because of the\nunfortunately large mouth with which Providence had endowed her, without\nbeing put up for sale, as it were, in the presence of all her father's\nretainers, and find that the young man to whom she had been offered\nchose to suffer death rather than have her for a bride.\n\nIt was the bitterest moment of all her life, and, had she known it, it\nwas the moment that fixed her destiny.\n\nFor young Willie of Harden saw that look, and something in it stirred\nhis pity. Besides, he noticed that her pale face was sweet and\ninnerly,[11] and her gray eyes clear and true.\n\n  [Footnote 11: Confiding.]\n\n\"Hold,\" he cried, just as Sir Juden, whose patience was quite exhausted,\ngave a signal to his men-at-arms to seize the prisoner, and hurry him\noff to the gallows, \"I have changed my mind, and I accept the\nconditions. But I call all men to witness that I accept not the hand of\nthis noble maiden of necessity, or against my will. I am a Scott, and,\nhad I been minded to, I could have faced death. But I crave the honour\nof her hand from her father with all humility, and here I vow, before ye\nall, to do my best to be to her a loyal and a true man.\"\n\nLoud cheers, and much jesting, followed this speech, and men would have\ncrowded round the young Knight and made much of him, but he pushed his\nway in grim silence up the hall to where Meg o' Elibank stood trembling\nby her delighted parents.\n\nShe greeted him with a look which set him thinking of a bird which sees\nits cage flung open, and I wot that, though he did not know it, at that\nmoment he began to love her.\n\nBe that as it may, his words to Sir Juden were short and gruff. \"Sir,\"\nhe asked, \"hast thou a priest in thy company? For, if so, let him come\nhither and finish what we have begun. I would fain spend this night in\nmy own Tower of Oakwood.\"\n\nSir Juden and his lady were not a little taken aback at this sudden\ndemand, for, now that the matter was settled to their satisfaction, they\nwould have liked to have married their eldest daughter with more state\nand ceremony.\n\n\"There's no need of such haste,\" began Dame Margaret, with a look at her\nlord, \"if your word is given, and the Laird satisfied. The morn, or even\nthe next day might do. The lassie's providing[12] must be gathered\ntogether, for I would not like it said that a bride went out of Elibank\nwith nothing but the clothes she stood in.\"\n\n  [Footnote 12: Trousseau.]\n\nBut young Harden interrupted her with small courtesy. \"Let her be\nmarried now, or not at all,\" he said, and as the heir of Harden as a\nprospective son-in-law was very different from the heir of Harden as a\nprisoner, she feared to say him nay, lest he went back on his word.\n\nSo a priest was sent for, and in great haste William Scott of Harden was\nwedded to Margaret Murray of Elibank, and then they two set off alone,\nover the hills to the old Tower of Oakwood--he, with high thoughts of\nanger and revenge in his heart for the trick that had been played\nhim;--she, poor thing, wondering wistfully what the future held in store\nfor her.\n\nThe day was cold and wet, and halfway over the Hangingshaw Height he\nheard a stifled sob behind him, and, looking over his shoulder, he saw\nhis little woebegone bride trying in vain with her numbed fingers to\nguide her palfrey, which was floundering in a moss-hole, to firmer\nfooting.\n\nThe sight would have touched a harder heart than Willie of Harden's, for\nhe was a true son of his mother, and the Flower of Yarrow was aye\nkind-hearted; and suddenly all his anger vanished.\n\n\"God save us, lassie, but there's nothing to greet[13] about,\" he said,\nturning his horse and taking her reins from her poor stiff fingers, and,\nthough the words were rough, his voice was strangely gentle. \"'Tis not\nthy fault that things have fallen out thus, and if I be a trifle\nangered, in good faith it is not with thee. Come,\" and, as he spoke, he\nstooped down and lifted her bodily from her saddle, and swung her up in\nfront of him on his great black horse. \"Leave that stupid beast of thine\nalone; 'twill find its way back to Elibank soon enough, I warrant. We\nwill go over the hill quicker in this fashion, and thou wilt have more\nshelter from the rain. There is many a good nag on the hills at Harden,\nand, when she hears of our wedding, I doubt not but that my mother will\nhave one trained for thee.\"\n\n  [Footnote 13: Cry.]\n\nPoor Meg caught her breath. She did not feel so much afraid of her\nhusband now that she was close to him, and his arm was round her;\nbesides, the shelter from the rain was very pleasant; but still her\nheart misgave her.\n\n\"Thy Lady Mother, she is very beautiful,\" she faltered, \"and doubtless\nshe looked for beauty in her sons' wives.\"\n\nThen, for ever and a day, all resentment went out of Willie of Harden's\nheart, and pure love and pity entered into it.\n\n\"If her sons' wives are but good women, my mother will be well content,\"\nhe said, and with that he kissed her.\n\nAnd I trow that that kiss marked the beginning of Meg Scott's happiness.\n\nFor happy she always was. She was aye plain-looking--nothing on earth\ncould alter her features--but with great happiness comes a look of\nmarvellous contentment, which can beautify the most homely face, and she\nwas such a clever housekeeper (no one could salt beef as she could), and\nso modest and gentle, that her handsome husband grew to love her more\nand more, and I wot that her face became to him the bonniest and the\nsweetest face in the whole world.\n\nSons and daughters were born to them, strapping lads and fair-faced\nlassies, and, in after years, when old Wat o' Harden died, and Sir\nWilliam reigned in his stead, in the old house at the head of the glen,\nhe was wont to declare that for prudence, and virtue, and honour, there\nwas no woman on earth to be compared with his own good wife Meg.\n\n\n\n\nDICK O' THE COW\n\n    \"Now Liddesdale has layen lang in,\n      There is na ryding there at a';\n    The horses are a' grown sae lither fat,\n      They downa stir out o' the sta'.\n\n    Fair Johnie Armstrong to Willie did say--\n      'Billy, a riding we will gae;\n    England and us have lang been at feid;\n      Ablins we'll light on some bootie.'\"\n\n\nIt was somewhere about the year 1592, and Thomas, Lord Scroope, sat at\nease in his own apartment in Carlisle Castle. He had finished supper,\nand was now resting in a great oak chair before a roaring fire. A\ntankard of ale stood on a stool by his side (for my Lord of Scroope\nloved good cheer above all things), and his favourite hound lay\nstretched on the floor at his feet.\n\nTo judge by the look on his face, he was thinking pleasant thoughts just\nthen. He held the office of Warden of the English Marches, as well as\nthat of Governor of Carlisle Castle, and in those lawless days the post\nwas not an easy one. There was generally some raid or foray which had to\nbe investigated, some turbulent Scot pursued, or mayhap some noted\nfreebooter hung; but just at present the country-side was at peace, and\nthe Scotts, and Elliots, and Armstrongs, seemed to be content to stay\nquietly at home on their own side of the Border.\n\nSo that very day he had sent off a good report to his royal mistress,\nQueen Elizabeth, then holding her court in far-off London, and now he\nwas dreaming of paying a long deferred visit to his Castle of Bolton in\nLancashire.\n\nA sharp knock at the door came as a sudden interruption to these dreams.\n\"Enter,\" he cried hastily, wondering to himself what message could have\narrived at the castle at that hour of night.\n\nIt was his own poor fool who entered, for in Carlisle Castle high state\nwas kept, and Lord Scroope had his jester, like any king.\n\nThe man was known to everyone as \"Dick o' the Cow,\" the reason probably\nbeing that his wife helped to eke out his scanty wages by keeping three\ncows, and selling their milk to the honest burghers of Carlisle. He was\na harmless, light-hearted fellow, whom some men called half-witted, but\nwho was much cleverer than he appeared at first sight to be.\n\nAs a rule he was always laughing and making jokes, but to-night his face\nwas long and doleful.\n\n\"What ails thee, man?\" cried Lord Scroope impatiently. \"Methinks thou\nhast forgot thine office, else why comest thou here with a face that\nwould make a merry man sad?\"\n\n\"Alack, Master,\" answered the fool, \"up till now I have been an honest\nman, but at last I must turn my hand to thieving, and for that reason I\nwould crave thy leave to go over the Border into Liddesdale.\"\n\n\"Tush!\" said the Warden impatiently, \"I love not such jesting. I hear\nenough about thieving and reiving, and such-like business, without my\nvery fool dinning it into my ears. Leave such matters for my Lord of\nBuccleuch and me to settle, Sirrah, and bethink thee of thy duty. 'Tis\neasier to crack jokes and sing songs in the safe shelter of Carlisle\nCastle than to ride out armed against these Scottish knaves.\"\n\nBut Dick knelt at his master's feet.\n\n\"This is no jest, my lord,\" he said. \"For once in his life this poor\nfool is in earnest. For I am like to be ruined if I cannot have revenge.\nThou knowest how my wife and I live in a little cottage just outside the\ncity walls, and how, with my small earnings, I bought three milch cows.\nMy wife is a steady woman and industrious, and she sells the milk which\nthese three cows give, to the people in the city, and so she earns an\nhonest penny.\"\n\n\"In good sooth, a very honest penny,\" repeated Lord Scroope, laughing,\nfor 'twas well known in Carlisle that the milk which was sold by Dick o'\nthe Cow's wife was thinner and dearer than any other milk sold in the\ntown.\n\n\"Last night,\" went on the fool, \"these Scottish thieves, the Armstrongs\nof Liddesdale, rode past the house, and, of course, they must needs\ndrive these cows off, and, not content with that, they broke open the\ndoor, and stole the very coverlets off my bed. My wife bought these\ncoverlets at the Michaelmas fair, and, I trow, what with the loss of\nthem, and the loss of the cows, she is like to lose her reason. So, to\ncomfort her, I have promised to bring them back. Therefore, my lord, I\ncrave leave of thee to go over into Liddesdale, and see what I can lay\nmy hands on there.\"\n\nThe blood rose to the Warden's face. \"By my troth, but thou art not\nfrightened to speak, Sirrah,\" he cried. \"Am I not set here to preserve\nlaw and order, and thou wouldst have me give thee permission to steal?\"\n\n\"Nay, not to steal,\" said the fool slyly; \"I only crave leave to get\nback my own, or, at least, the money's worth for what was my own.\"\n\nLord Scroope pondered the request for a minute or two.\n\n\"After all,\" he thought to himself, \"what can this one poor man do\nagainst such a powerful clan as the Armstrongs? He will be killed, most\nlikely, and that will be the end of it. So there can be no great harm in\nletting him go.\"\n\n\"If I give thee leave, wilt thou swear that thou wilt steal from no one\nbut those who stole from thee?\" he asked at last.\n\n\"That I will,\" said Dick readily. \"I give thee my troth, and there is my\nright hand upon it. Thou canst hang me for a thief myself, if I take as\nmuch as a bannock of bread from the house of any man who hath done me no\nharm.\"\n\nSo my Lord of Scroope let him go.\n\nA blithe man was Dick o' the Cow as he went down the streets of Carlisle\nnext morning, for he had money in his pocket, and a big scheme floating\nin his brain. It mattered little to him that men smiled to each other as\nthey passed him, and whispered, \"There goes my Lord of Scroope's poor\njester.\"\n\n\"He laughs the longest who laughs the last,\" he thought to himself, \"and\nmayhap all men will envy me before long.\"\n\nFirst of all, he went and bought a pair of spurs, and a new bridle,\nwhich he carefully hid in his breeches pocket, then he turned his back\non Carlisle and set out to walk over Bewcastle Waste into Liddesdale. It\nwas a long walk, but he footed it bravely, and at last he arrived at\nPudding-burn House, a strongly fortified place, held by John Armstrong,\n\"The Laird's Jock,\" as he was called, son of the Laird of Mangerton, and\na man of importance in the clan. He was known to be both just and\ngenerous, and the poor fool thought that he would go to him, and tell\nhim his story, in the hope that he would force the rest of the\nArmstrongs to give him back his three cows. But when he came near the\nPudding-burn House, he found to his dismay that the two Armstrongs who\nhad stolen his cows, Johnie and Willie, had stopped there, on their way\nhome, with all their men-at-arms, and, from the sounds of feasting and\nmirth which he heard as he approached, he suspected that one, at least,\nof his three cows had been killed to provide the supper.\n\n\"Ah well,\" thought he to himself, \"I am but a poor fool, and there are\nthree-and-thirty armed men against me. To fight is impossible, so I must\ne'en set my wits to work against their strength of arms.\"\n\nSo he walked boldly up to the house, and demanded to see the Laird's\nJock. There was much laughter among the men-at-arms as he was led into\nthe great hall, for everyone had heard of my Lord of Scroope's jester,\nand, when they knew that it was he, they all crowded round to see what\nhe was like.\n\nHe knew his manners, and bowed right low before the master of the house.\n\"God save thee, my good Laird's Jock,\" he said, \"although I fear me I\ncannot wish so well to all thy company. For I come here to bring a\ncomplaint against two of these men--against Johnie and Willie Armstrong,\nwho, with their followers, broke into my house near Carlisle these two\nnights past, and drove away my three good milk cows, forbye stealing\nthree coverlets from my bed. And I crave that I get my own again, and\nthat justice may be meted out to the dishonest varlets.\"\n\nThese words were greeted by a shout of laughter, for these were rough\nand lawless times, when might was right, and the strong tyrannised over\nthe weak, and it seemed ridiculous to see this poor fool standing in the\nmiddle of all these armed moss-troopers, and expecting to be heard.\n\n\"He deserves to be hanged for his insolence,\" said Johnie Armstrong, who\nhad been the leader of the company.\n\n\"Run him through with a sword,\" said Willie, laughing; \"'tis less\ntrouble, and 'twill serve the same end.\"\n\n\"No,\" cried another. \"'Tis not worth while to kill him. He is but a fool\nat the best. Let us give him a good beating, and then let him go.\"\n\nBut the Laird's Jock heard them, and his voice rang out high above the\nrest. \"Why harm the poor man?\" he said. \"After all, he hath but come to\nseek his own, and he must be both hungry and footsore.\" Then, turning to\nthe fool, he added kindly, \"Sit thyself down, my man, and rest thee a\nlittle. I am sorry that we cannot exactly give thee thy cattle back\nagain, but at least we can give thee a slice from the leg of one of\nthem. Beshrew me if I have tasted finer beef for many a long day.\"\n\nAmid roars of laughter a slice of beef was cut from the enormous leg\nwhich lay roasted on the great table, and placed before Dick. But he\ncould not eat it, he could only think what a fine cow it had been when\nit was alive. At last he slipped away unobserved out of the house, and,\nlooking about for somewhere to sleep, he found an old tumble-down house\nfilled with peats.\n\nHe crept into it, and lay there, wondering and scheming how he could\navenge himself.\n\nNow it had always been the custom at Mangerton Hall, where the Laird's\nJock had been brought up, that whoever was not in time for one meal had\nto wait till the next, and he made the same rule hold good at\nPudding-burn House.\n\nAs the poor fool lay among the peats, he could see what was going on\nthrough a crack in the door, and he noticed that, as the Armstrongs' men\nwere both tired and hungry, they did not take time to put the key away\nsafely after attending to their horses and locking the stable door, but\nflung it hastily up on the roof, where it could easily be found if it\nwere wanted, and hurried off in case they were late for their supper.\n\n\"Here is my chance,\" he thought to himself, and, as soon as they were\nall gone into the house, he crept out, and took down the key, and\nentered the stable. Then he did a very cruel thing. He cut every horse,\nexcept three, on one of its hind legs, \"tied it with St Mary's knot,\" as\nit was called; so that he made them all lame. Then he hastily drew the\nspurs and the new bridle out of his breeches pocket. He buckled on the\nspurs, and began to examine the three horses which he had not lamed. He\nknew to whom they belonged. Two of them, which were standing together,\nbelonged to Johnie and Willie Armstrong, and were the very horses they\nhad ridden when they stole the cows. The third, a splendid animal, which\nhad a stall to itself, plainly belonged to the Laird's Jock.\n\n\"I will leave the Laird's Jock's,\" thought Dick to himself, \"for I\ncannot take three, and he is a kind man; but Johnie's and Willie's must\ngo. 'Twill perhaps teach them what comes of dishonest ways.\"\n\nSo saying, he slipped the bridle over the head of one horse, and tied a\nrope round the neck of the other, and, opening the stable door, he led\nthem out quietly, and then, mounting one of them, he galloped away as\nfast as he could.\n\nThe next morning, when the men went to the stable to see after their\nhorses, there were shouts of anger and consternation. And no wonder. For\nit was easy to be seen that thirty of the horses would never put foot to\nthe ground again; other two were stolen; and there was only one, the\nbeautiful bay mare which belonged to the Laird's Jock, which was of any\nuse at all.\n\n\"Now who hath done this cruel thing?\" cried the master of the house in\ngreat anger. \"Let me know his name, and by my soul, he shall be\npunished.\"\n\n\"'Twas the varlet whom we all took to be such a fool,\" cried Johnie;\n\"the rascal who came here last night whining for his precious cows. A\nthousand pities but we had done as I said, and hanged him on the nearest\ntree.\"\n\n\"Hold thy tongue and take blame to thyself,\" said the Laird's Jock\nsharply. \"Did I not tell thee, ere thou rode to Carlisle, thou and\nWillie and thy thieving band, that the two countries were at peace, and\nif thou began this work once more, 'twas hard to say where it would end?\nTruly the tables are indeed turned. For this poor fool, as thou callest\nhim, hath befooled us all, for the men's horses are maimed and useless,\nthine own and thy brother's are stolen, and there but remains this good\nbay mare of mine. Beshrew me, but it seems as if the fellow had some\ngratitude left that he did not touch her, for I love her as I never\nloved a horse before.\"\n\n\"Give her to me,\" cried Johnie Armstrong quickly, stung by this\nwell-earned reproof, \"and I will bring the two horses back, and the\ncunning fool with them, either alive or dead. 'Tis a far cry from here\nto Carlisle, and I trow he could ride but slowly in the darkness.\"\n\n\"A likely story,\" said the Laird's Jock. \"The fool, as thou callest him,\nhath already stolen two good horses, and to send another after him would\nbut be sending good siller after bad.\"\n\n\"An' dost thou think that he could take the horse from me?\" asked Johnie\nindignantly, and he pleaded so hard to be allowed to pursue Dick, that\nat last the Laird's Jock gave him leave.\n\nHe wasted no time in seeking his armour, but, snatching up hastily his\nkinsman's doublet, sword, and helmet, he leaped on the bay mare and\ngalloped away.\n\nHe rode so furiously that by midday he overtook Dick on Canonbie Lee,\nnot far from Longtown.\n\nThe poor fool had had to ride slowly, for he was not very much\naccustomed to horses, and it was not easy for him to manage two. He\nlooked round in alarm when he heard the thunder of hoofs behind him, but\nhis face cleared when he saw that Johnie Armstrong was alone.\n\n\"I have outwitted a whole household,\" he thought to himself; \"beshrew me\nif I cannot tackle one man, even although it be Johnie Armstrong.\"\n\nAll the same he put his horses to the gallop, and went on as fast as he\ncould.\n\n\"Now hold, thou traitor thief, and stand for thy life,\" shouted Johnie\nin a passion.\n\nDick glanced hastily over his shoulder, and then he pulled his horses\nround suddenly. He could fight better than most men thought, when he was\nput to it.\n\n\"Art thou alone, Johnie?\" he said tauntingly. \"Then must I tell thee a\nlittle story. I am an unlettered man, being but a poor fool, as thou\nknowest, but I try to do my duty, and every Sunday I go to church in\nCarlisle city with my betters. And at our church we have a right good\npreacher, though his sermons run through my poor brain as if it were a\nsieve; but there are three words which I aye remember. The first two of\nthese are 'faith' and 'conscience,' and it seems to me that ye lacked\nboth of them when ye came stealing in the dark to my humble cottage,\nknowing full well that I could not defend myself, and stole my cows, and\ntook my wife's coverlets. What the third word is, I cannot at this\nmoment remember, but it means that when a man lacks faith and conscience\nhe deserves to be punished, and therefore have I punished thee.\"\n\nJohnie Armstrong felt that he was being laughed at, and, blind with\nfury, he took his lance and flung it at the fool, thinking to kill him.\nBut he missed his aim, and it only glanced against Dick's doublet, and\nfell harmless to the ground.\n\nDick saw his advantage, and rode his horse straight at his enemy, and,\ntaking his cudgel by the wrong end, he struck Johnie such a blow on the\nhead that he fell senseless to the ground.\n\nThen was the fool a proud man. \"Lord Scroope shall hear of this,\nJohnie,\" he said to himself, with a chuckle of delight, as he\ndismounted, and stripped the unconscious man of his coat-of-mail, his\nsteel helmet, and his two-handed sword. He knew that if he went home\nempty-handed, and told his master that he had fought with Johnie\nArmstrong and defeated him, Lord Scroope would laugh him to scorn, for\nJohnie was known to be one of the best fighters on the Borders; but\nthese would serve as proofs that his story was true.\n\nThen, taking the bay mare by the bridle, he mounted his horse once more,\nand rode on to Carlisle in triumph.\n\nWhen Johnie Armstrong came to his senses, he cursed the English and all\nbelonging to them with right goodwill. \"Now verily,\" he said to himself,\nas he turned his face ruefully towards Liddesdale, \"'twill be a hundred\nyears and more ere anyone finds me fighting with a man who is called a\nfool again.\"\n\nWhen Dick o' the Cow rode into the courtyard of Carlisle Castle with his\nthree horses, the first man he met was My Lord of Scroope. Now the\nWarden knew the Laird's Jock's bay mare at once, and at the sight of her\nhe flew into a violent passion. For he knew well enough that if Dick had\nstolen three horses from the Armstrongs, that powerful clan would soon\nride over into Cumberland to avenge themselves, and had he not written\nto Queen Elizabeth, not three days before, of the peace which prevailed\non the Borders?\n\n\"By my troth, fellow,\" he said in deep vexation, \"I'll have thee hanged\nfor this.\"\n\nPoor Dick was much taken aback at this unlooked-for welcome. He had\nexpected to be greeted as a hero, instead of being threatened with\ndeath.\n\n\"'Twas thyself gave me leave to go, my Lord,\" he said sullenly.\n\n\"Ay, I gave thee leave to go and steal from those who stole from thee,\nan thou couldst,\" said Lord Scroope in reply; \"but beshrew me if I ever\ngave thee leave to steal from the good Laird's Jock. He is a peaceful\nman, and a true, and meddles not the Border folk. 'Twas not he who stole\nthy cows.\"\n\nThen Dick held up the coat-of-mail, and the helmet, and the two-handed\nsword. \"On my honour, I won them all in fair and open fight,\" he cried.\n\"Johnie Armstrong stole my cows, and 'twas he who followed me on the\nLaird's Jock's mare, and clad in the Laird's Jock's armour. He would\nfain have slain me with his lance, but by God's grace it glanced from my\ndoublet, and I felled him to the ground with my cudgel.\"\n\n\"Well done!\" cried the Warden, slapping his thigh in his delight. \"By my\nsoul, but it was well done. My poor fool is more of a man than I thought\nhe was. If the horse be the fair spoil of war, then will I buy her of\nthee. See, I will give thee fifteen pounds for her, and throw a milk cow\ninto the bargain. 'Twill please thy wife to have milk again.\"\n\nBut Dick was not satisfied with this offer. \"May the mother of all the\nwitches fly away with me,\" he said, \"if the horse is not worth more than\nfifteen pounds. No, no, my Lord, twenty pounds is her price, an if thou\nwilt not pay that for her, she goes with me to-morrow to be sold at\nMorton Fair.\"\n\nNow Lord Scroope happened to know the worth of the mare, so he paid the\nmoney down without more ado, and he kept his word about the milk cow.\n\nAs Dick pocketed the money, and took possession of the cow, he thought\nwhat a very clever fellow he was, and he held his head high as he rode\nout of the courtyard, and down the streets of Carlisle, still leading\none horse, and driving the cow in front of him.\n\nHe had not gone very far before he met Lord Scroope's brother.\n\n\"Well met, fool,\" he cried, laying his hand on Dick's bridle rein.\n\"Where in all the world didst get Johnie Armstrong's horse? I know 'tis\nhis by the white feet and white forelock. Has my brother been having a\nfray with Scotland?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the fool proudly, \"but I have. The horse is mine by right of\narms.\"\n\n\"Wilt sell him me?\" asked the Warden's brother, who loved a good horse\nif only he could get him cheaply. \"I will give thee ten pounds for him,\nand a milk cow into the bargain.\"\n\n\"Say twenty pounds,\" said Dick contemptuously, \"and keep thy word about\nthe milk cow, else the horse goes with me to Morton Fair.\"\n\nNow the Warden's brother needed the horse, and, besides, it was not dear\neven at twenty pounds, so he paid down the money, and told the fool\nwhere to go for the milk cow.\n\nAn hour later Dick appeared at his own cottage door, and shouted for his\nwife. She rubbed her eyes and blinked with astonishment when she saw her\nhusband mounted on a good black horse, and driving two fat milk cows\nbefore him.\n\nLike everyone else, she had always counted him a fool, and had never\nlooked for much help from him. So the loss of the three cows had been a\nserious matter to her, for the money which their milk brought had done\nmuch towards keeping up the house, and clothing the children.\n\n\"Here, woman,\" he cried joyously, leaping from his horse, and emptying\nthe gold out of his pockets into her apron. \"Thou madest a great to-do\nover thy coverlets, but I trow that forty pounds of good red money will\npay for them fully, and the three cows which we lost were but thin,\nstarved creatures, compared with these two that I have brought back, and\nhere is a good horse into the bargain.\"\n\nIt all seemed too good to be true, and Dick's wife rubbed her eyes once\nmore. \"Take care that they be not taken from thee,\" she said. \"Methinks\nthe Armstrongs will demand vengeance.\"\n\n\"They will not get it from My Lord of Scroope,\" answered Dick, \"for\n'twas he who gave me leave to go and steal from them. But mayhap we live\ntoo near the Borders for our own comfort, now that we are so rich. When\na man hath made his fortune by his wits, as I have, he deserves a little\npeace in his old age. What wouldst thou think of going further South\ninto Westmoreland, and taking up house near thy mother's kinsfolk?\"\n\n\"I would think 'twas the wisest plan that ever entered that silly pate\nof thine,\" answered his wife, who had never liked to live in such an\nunsettled region.\n\nSo they packed up their belongings, and, getting leave from Lord\nScroope, they went to live at Burghunder-Stanmuir, where they passed for\nquite rich and clever people.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HEIR OF LINNE\n\n    \"Lithe and listen, gentlemen,\n      To sing a song I will beginne;\n    It is of a lord of faire Scotland,\n      Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne.\"\n\n\nThere was trouble in the ancient Castle of Linne. Upstairs in his\nlow-roofed, oak-panelled chamber the old lord lay dying, and the\nservants whispered to one another, that, when all was over, and he was\ngone, there would be many changes at the old place. For he had been a\ngood master, kind and thoughtful to his servants, and generous to the\npoor. But his only son was a different kind of man, who thought only of\nhis own enjoyment; and John o' the Scales, the steward on the estate,\nwas a hard task-master, and was sure to oppress the poor and helpless\nwhen the old lord was no longer there to keep an eye on him.\n\nBy the sick man's bedside sat an old nurse, the tears running down her\nwrinkled face. She had come to the castle long years before, with the\nfair young mistress who had died when her boy was born. She had taken\nthe child from his dying mother's arms, and had brought him up as if he\nhad been her own, and many a time since he became a man she had mourned,\nalong with his father, over his reckless and sinful ways.\n\nNow she saw nothing before him but ruin, and she shook her head sadly,\nand muttered to herself as she sat in the darkened room.\n\n\"Janet,\" said the old lord suddenly, \"go and tell the lad to speak to\nme. He loves not to be chided, and of late years I have said but little\nto him. It did no good, and only angered him. But there are things which\nmust be said, and something warns me that I must make haste to say\nthem.\"\n\nNoiselessly the old woman left the room, and went to do his bidding, and\npresently slow, unwilling footsteps sounded on the staircase, and the\nLord of Linne's only son entered.\n\nHis father's eye rested on him with a fondness which nothing could\nconceal. For, as is the way with fathers, he loved him still, in spite\nof all the trouble and sorrow and heartache which he had caused him.\n\nHe was a fine-looking young fellow, tall and strong, and debonair, but\nhis face was already beginning to show traces of the wild and reckless\nlife which he was leading.\n\n\"I am dying, my son,\" said his father, \"and I have sent for thee to ask\nthee to make me one promise.\"\n\nA shadow came over the young man's careless face. He feared that his\nfather might ask him to give up some of his boon companions, or never to\ntouch cards or wine again, and he knew that his will was so weak, that,\neven if he made the promise, he would break it within a month.\n\nBut his father knew this as well as he did, and it was none of these\nthings that he was about to ask, for he knew that to ask them would be\nuseless.\n\n\"'Tis but a little promise, lad,\" he went on, \"and one that thou wilt\nfind easy to keep. I am leaving thee a large estate, and plenty of gold,\nbut I know too well that in the days to come thou wilt spend the gold\nand sell the land. Thou canst not do otherwise, if thou continuest to\nlead the life thou art leading now. But think not that I sent for thee\nto chide thee, lad; the day is past for that. Promise only, that when\nthe time I speak of hath come, and thou must needs sell the land, that\nthou wilt refuse to part with one corner of it. 'Tis the little lodge\nwhich stands in the narrow glen far up on the moor. 'Tis a tumble-down\nold place, and no man would think it worth his while to pay thee a price\nfor it. It would go for an old song wert thou to sell it. Therefore I\npray thee to give me thy solemn promise that when thou partest with all\nthe rest, thou wilt still remain master of that. For remember this,\nlad,\" and in his eagerness the old man raised himself in his bed, \"when\nall else is lost, and the friends whom thou hast trusted turn their\nbacks and frown on thee, then go to that old lodge, for in it, though\nthou mayest not think so now, there will always be a trusty friend\nwaiting for thee. Say, wilt thou promise?\"\n\n\"Of course I will, father,\" said the young man, much moved; \"but I never\nmean to sell any of the land. I am not so bad as all that. But if it\nmakes thee happier, I swear now in thy presence that I will never part\nwith the old lodge.\"\n\nWith a sigh of satisfaction the old lord fell back on his pillow, and\nbefore his son could call for help he was dead.\n\nFor the first few weeks after his father's death, the Heir of Linne\nseemed sobered, and as if he intended to lead a better life; but after a\nlittle while he forgot all about it, and began to riot and drink and\ngamble as hard as ever. He filled the old house with his friends, and\nwild revelry went on in it from morning till night.\n\nHe had always been wild and reckless; he was worse than ever now.\n\nHis father's friends shook their heads when they heard of his wild\ndoings. \"It cannot go on,\" they said. \"He is doing no work, and he is\nthrowing away his money right and left. Had he all the gold of the\nIndies, it would soon come to an end at this rate.\"\n\nAnd they were right. It could not go on.\n\nOne day the young man found that not one penny remained of all the money\nwhich his father had left him, and there seemed nothing for it but to\nsell some of his land. Money must be got somehow, for he was deeply in\ndebt. Besides, he had to live, and he had never been taught to work,\nand, even if he had, he was too lazy and idle to do it.\n\nSo away he went, and told his dilemma to his father's steward, John o'\nthe Scales, who, as I have said, was a hard man, and a rogue into the\nbargain. He knew far more about money matters than his master's son, and\nwhen he heard the story which he had to tell him, his wicked heart gave\na throb of joy.\n\nHere, at last, was the very opportunity which he had been looking for:\nfor, while the heir had been wasting his time, and spending his money,\ninstead of looking after his estates, the dishonest steward had been\nfilling his own pockets; and now he would fain turn a country gentleman.\n\nSo, with many fair words, and a great show of sympathy, he offered to\nbuy the land for himself.\n\n\"Young men would be young men,\" he said, \"and 'twas no wonder that a\ndashing young fellow, like the Heir of Linne, should wish to see the\nworld, rather than stay quietly at home and look after his land. That\nwas only fit for old men when they were past their prime. So, if he\ndesired to part with the land, he would give him a fair price for it,\nand then there would be no need for him to trouble any more about money\nmatters.\"\n\nThe foolish young man was quite ready to agree to this. All that he\ncared about was how to get money to pay his debts, and to enable him to\ngo on gambling and drinking with his companions.\n\nSo when John o' the Scales named a price for the land, and drew up an\nagreement, he signed it readily, never dreaming that the cunning steward\nwas cheating him, and that the land was worth at least three times as\nmuch as he was paying for it. There was only one corner of the estate\nwhich he refused to sell, and that was the narrow glen, far out on the\nhillside, where the old tumble-down lodge stood.\n\nFor the Heir of Linne was not wholly bad, and he had enough manliness\nleft in him to remember the promise which he had made to his dying\nfather.\n\nSo John o' the Scales became Lord of Linne, and a mighty big man he\nthought himself. He went to live, with his wife Joan, in the old castle,\nand he turned his back on his former friends, and tried to make everyone\nforget that up till now he had only been a steward.\n\nMeanwhile the Heir of Linne, as people still called him--though, like\nEsau, he had sold his birthright--went away quite happily now that his\npockets were once more filled with gold, and went on in his old ways,\ndrinking, and gambling, and rioting, with his boon companions, as if he\nthought that this money would last for ever.\n\nBut of course it did not, and one fine day, nearly a year after he had\nsold his land, he found that his purse was quite empty again, except for\na few small coins.\n\nHe had no more land to sell, and for the first time in his life he grew\nthoughtful, and began to wonder what he should do. But he never took the\ntrouble to worry about anything, and he trusted that in the end it would\nall come right.\n\n\"I have no lack of friends,\" he thought to himself, \"and in the past I\nhave entertained them right royally; surely now it is their turn to\nentertain me, and by and by I shall look for work.\"\n\nSo with a light heart he travelled to Edinburgh, where most of his fine\nfriends lived, never thinking but that they would be ready to receive\nhim with open arms. Alas! he had yet to learn that the people who are\nmost eager to share our prosperity are not always those who are readiest\nto share our adversity. With all his faults he had ever been open-handed\nand generous, and had lent his money freely, and he went boldly to their\ndoors, intending to ask them to lend him money in return, now that he\nwas in need of it.\n\nBut, to his surprise, instead of being glad to see him, one and all gave\nhim the cold shoulder.\n\nAt the first house the servant came to the door with the message that\nhis master was not at home, though the heir could have sworn that a\nmoment before he had seen him peeping through the window.\n\nThe master of the next house was at home, but he began to make excuses,\nand to say how sorry he was, but he had just paid all his bills, and he\nhad no more money by him; while at the third house his friend spoke to\nhim quite sharply, just as if he had been a stranger, and told him that\nhe ought to be ashamed of the way he had wasted his father's money, and\nsold his land, and that certainly he could not think of lending gold to\nhim, as he would never expect to see it back again.\n\nThe poor young man went out into the street, feeling quite dazed with\nsurprise.\n\n\"Ah, lack-a-day!\" he said to himself bitterly. \"So these are the men who\ncalled themselves my friends. As long as I was Heir of Linne, and master\nof my father's lands, they seemed to love me right well. Many a meal\nhave they eaten at my table, and many a pound of mine hath gone into\ntheir pockets; and this is how they repay me.\"\n\nAfter this things went from bad to worse. He tried to get work, but no\none would hire him, and it was not very long before the Heir of Linne,\nwho had been so proud and reckless in his brighter days, was going about\nin ragged clothes, begging his bread from door to door. No one who saw\nhim now would have known him to be the bright-faced, handsome lad of\nwhom the old lord had been so proud a few years before.\n\nAt last, one day when his courage was almost gone, the words which his\nfather had spoken on his death-bed, and which he had forgotten up till\nnow, flashed into his mind.\n\n\"He said that I would find a faithful friend in the little lodge up in\nthe glen, when all my other friends had forsaken me,\" he said to\nhimself. \"I cannot think what he meant, but surely now is the time to\ntest his words, for surely no man could be more forsaken than I am.\"\n\nSo he turned his face from the city, and wended his way over hill and\ndale, moor and river, till he came to the little lodge, standing in the\nlonely glen, high up on the moors near the Castle of Linne.\n\nHe had hardly seen the tumble-down old place since he was a boy, and\nsomehow, from his father's words, he expected to find someone living in\nit--his good old nurse, perhaps. He was so worn out and miserable that\nthe tears came into his eyes at the mere thought of seeing her kindly\nface. But the old building was quite deserted, and, when he forced open\nthe rusty lock, and entered, he found nothing but a low, dark,\ncomfortless room. The walls were bare and damp, and the little window\nwas so overgrown with ivy that scarcely any light could get in. There\nwas not even a chair or a table in it, nothing but a long rope with a\nnoose at the end of it, which hung dangling down from the ceiling.\n\nAs his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he noticed that on the\nrafter above the rope there was written in large letters--\n\n\"_Ah, graceless wretch, I knew that thou wouldst soon spoil all, and\nbring thyself to poverty. So, to hide thy shame, and bring thy sorrows\nto an end, I left this rope, which will prove thy best friend._\"\n\n\"So my father knew the straits which my foolishness would bring me to,\nand he thought of this way of ending my life,\" said the poor young man\nto himself, and he felt so heart-broken, and so hopeless, that he put\nhis head in the noose and tried to hang himself.\n\nBut this was not the end of which his father had been thinking when he\nwrote the words; he had only meant to give his son a lesson, which he\nhoped would be a warning to him. So, when he put his head in the noose,\nand took hold of the rope, the beam that it was fastened to gave way,\nand the whole ceiling came tumbling down on top of him.\n\nFor a long time he lay stunned on the floor, and when at last he came to\nhimself, he could hardly remember what had happened. At last his eye\nfell on a packet, which had fallen down with the wood and the mortar,\nand was lying quite close to him.\n\nHe picked it up and opened it.\n\nInside there was a golden key, and a letter, which told him, that, if he\nwould climb up through the hole in the ceiling, he would find a hidden\nroom under the roof, and there, built into the wall, he would see three\ngreat chests standing together.\n\nWondering greatly to himself, he climbed up among the broken rafters,\nand he found that what the letter said was true. Sure enough there was a\nlittle dark room hidden under the roof, which no one had known of\nbefore, and there, standing side by side in the wall, were three\niron-bound chests.\n\nThere was something written above them, as there had been something\nwritten above the rope, but this time the words filled him with hope.\nThey ran thus:--\n\n    \"_Once more, my son, I set thee free;\n      Amend thy Life and follies past:\n    For if thou dost not amend thy life,\n      This rope will be thy end at last._\"\n\nWith trembling hands the Heir of Linne fitted the golden key into the\nlock of one of the chests. It opened it easily, and when he raised the\nlid, what was his joy to find that the chest was full of bags of good\nred gold. There was enough of it to buy back his father's land, and when\nhe saw it he hid his face in his hands, and sobbed for very\nthankfulness.\n\nThe key opened the other two chests as well, and he found that one of\nthem was also full of gold, while the other was full of silver.\n\nIt was plain that his father had known how recklessly he would spend his\nmoney, and had stored up these chests for him here in this hidden place,\nwhere no one was likely to find them, so that when he was penniless, and\nhad learned how wicked and stupid he had been, he might get another\nchance if he liked to take it.\n\nHe had indeed learned a lesson.\n\nWith outstretched hands he vowed a vow that he would follow his father's\nadvice and mend his ways, and that from henceforth he would try to be a\nbetter man, and lead a worthier life, and use this money in a better\nway.\n\nThen he lifted out three bags of gold, and hid them in his ragged cloak,\nand locked up the chests again, and took his way down the hill to his\nfather's castle.\n\nWhen he arrived, he peeped in at one of the windows, and there he saw\nJohn o' the Scales, fat and prosperous-looking, sitting with his wife\nJoan at the head of the table, and beside them three gentlemen who lived\nin the neighbourhood. They were laughing, and feasting, and pledging\neach other in glasses of wine, and, as he looked at them, he wondered\nhow he had ever allowed the sleek, cunning-looking steward to become\nLord of Linne in his father's place.\n\nWith something of his old pride he knocked at the door, and demanded\nhaughtily to speak with the master of the castle. He was taken straight\nto the dining-hall, and when John o' the Scales saw him standing in his\nrags he broke into a rude laugh.\n\n\"Well, Spendthrift,\" he cried, \"and what may thine errand be?\"\n\nThe heir wondered if this man, who, in the old days had flattered and\nfawned upon him, had any pity left, and he determined to try him.\n\n\"Good John o' the Scales,\" he said, \"I have come hither to crave thy\nhelp. I pray thee to lend me forty pence.\"\n\nIt was not a large sum. John o' the Scales had often had twice as much\nfrom him, but the churlish fellow started up in a rage.\n\n\"Begone, thou thriftless loon,\" he cried; \"thou needst not come hither\nto beg. I swear that not one penny wilt thou get from me. I know too\nwell how thou squandered thy father's gold.\"\n\nThen the heir turned to John o' the Scales' wife Joan. She was a woman;\nperhaps she would be more merciful.\n\n\"Sweet madam,\" he said, \"for the sake of blessed charity, bestow some\nalms on a poor wayfarer.\"\n\nBut Joan o' the Scales was a hard woman, and she had never loved her\nmaster's son, so she answered rudely, \"Nay, by my troth, but thou shalt\nget no alms from me. Thou art little better than a vagabond; if we had a\nlaw to punish such, right gladly would I see thee get thy deserts.\"\n\nNow one of the guests who sat at the board with this rich and prosperous\ncouple was a knight called Sir Ned Agnew. He was not rich, but he was a\ngentleman, and he had been a friend of the old lord, and had known the\nHeir when he was a boy, and now, when he saw him standing, ragged and\nhungry, in the hall that had once been his own, he could not bear that\nhe should be driven away with hard and cruel words. Besides, he felt\nvery indignant with John o' the Scales, for he knew that he had bought\nthe land far too cheaply. He had not much money to lend, but he could\nalways spare a little.\n\n\"Come back, come back,\" he cried hastily, as he saw the Heir turn as if\nto leave the house. \"Whatever thou art now, thou wert once a right good\nfellow, and thou wert always ready to part with thy money to anyone who\nneeded it. I am a poor man myself, but I can lend thee forty pence at\nleast; in fact I think that I could lend thee eighty, if thou art in\nsore want.\" Then, turning to his host, he added, \"The Heir of Linne is a\nfriend of mine, and I will count it a favour if thou wilt let him have a\nseat at thy table. I think it is as little as thou canst do, seeing that\nthou hadst the best of the bargain about his land.\"\n\nJohn o' the Scales was very angry, but he dare not say much, for he knew\nin his heart that what the knight said was true, and, moreover, he did\nnot want to quarrel with him, for he liked to be able to go to market,\nwhere people were apt to think of him still as the castle steward, and\nboast about \"my friend, Sir Ned.\"\n\n\"Nay, thou knowest 'tis false,\" he blustered, \"and I'll take my vow\nthat, far from making a good bargain, I lost money over that matter,\nand, to prove what I say, I am willing to offer this young man, in the\npresence of you all, his lands back again, for a hundred merks less than\nI gave for them.\"\n\n\"'Tis done,\" cried the Heir of Linne, and before the astonished John o'\nthe Scales could speak, he had thrown down a piece of money on the table\nbefore him.\n\n\"'Tis a God's-penny,\" cried the guests in amazement, for when anyone\nthrew down a piece of money in that way, it meant that they had accepted\nthe bargain, and that the other man could not draw back.\n\n[Illustration: \"'TIS A GOD'S-PENNY,' CRIED THE GUESTS IN AMAZEMENT.\"]\n\nThen the Heir pulled out the three bags of gold from under his cloak,\nand threw them down on the table before John o' the Scales, who began to\nlook very grave. He had never dreamt, when he offered to let the young\nman buy back the land, that he would ever be able to do it. He had meant\nit as a joke, and the joke was very much like turning into a reality.\nHis face grew longer and longer as the Heir emptied out the good red\ngold in a heap.\n\n\"Count it,\" he cried triumphantly. \"It is all there, and honest money.\nIt is thine, and the land is mine, and once more I am the Lord of\nLinne.\"\n\nBoth John o' the Scales and his wife were very much taken aback; but\nthere was nothing to be done but to count the money and to gather it up.\nJohn would fain have asked to be taken back as steward again, but the\nyoung lord knew now how dishonest he had been, and would not hear of\nsuch a thing.\n\n\"No, no,\" he said, \"it is honest men whom I want now, and men who will\nbe my friends when I am poor, as well as when I am rich. I think I have\nfound such a man here,\" and he turned to Sir Ned Agnew. \"If thou wilt\naccept the post, I shall be glad to have thee for my steward, and for\nthe keeper of my forests, and my deer, as well. And for everyone of the\npence which thou wert willing to lend me, I will pay thee a full pound.\"\n\nSo once more the rightful lord reigned in the Castle of Linne, and to\neveryone's surprise he settled down, and grew so like his father, that\nstrangers who came to the neighbourhood would not believe the stories\nwhich people told them of the wild things which he had done in his\nyouth.\n\n\n\n\nBLACK AGNACE OF DUNBAR\n\n    \"Some sing o' lords, and some o' knichts,\n      An' some o' michty men o' war,\n    But I sing o' a leddy bricht,\n      The Black Agnace o' Dunnebar.\"\n\n\nIt was in the year 1338, when Bruce's son was but a bairn, and Scotland\nwas guided by a Regent, that we were left, a household of women, as it\nwere, to guard my lord's strong Castle of Dunbar.\n\nMy lord himself, Cospatrick, Earl of Dunbar and March, had ridden off to\njoin the Regent, Sir Andrew Moray, and help him to drive the English out\nof the land. For the English King, Edward III., thought it no shame to\nwar with bairns, and since he had been joined by that false loon, Edward\nBaliol, he had succeeded in taking many of our Scottish fortresses,\nincluding Edinburgh Castle, and in planting an English army in our\nmidst.\n\nNow the Castle of Dunbar, as all folk know, is a strong Castle, standing\nas it doth well out to sea, on a mass of solid rock, and connected with\nthe mainland only by one narrow strip of land, which is defended by a\ndrawbridge and portcullis, and walls of solid masonry. Its other sides\nneed no defence, for the wild waters of the Northern Sea beat about them\nwith such fury that it is only at certain times of the tide that even\npeaceful boatmen can find a safe landing. Indeed, 'tis one of the\nstrongest fortresses in the country, and because of its position, lying\nnot so far from the East Border, and being guard as it were to the\nLothians, and Edinburgh, it is often called \"The Key of Scotland.\"\n\nMy lord deemed it impregnable, as long as it was well supplied with\nfood, so he had little scruple in leaving his young wife and her two\nlittle daughters alone there, with a handful of men-at-arms, too old,\nmost of them, to be of any further service in the field, to guard them.\n\nShe, on her part, was very well content to stay, for was she not a\ndaughter of the famous Randolph, and did she not claim kinship with\nBruce himself? So fear to her was a thing unknown.\n\nI, who was a woman of fifty then, and am well-nigh ninety now, can truly\nsay that in all the course of a long life, I never saw courage like to\nhers.\n\nI remember, as though it were yesterday, that cold January morning when\nmy lord set off to the Burgh Muir, where he was to meet with the Regent.\nWhen all was ready, and his men were mounted and drawn up, waiting for\ntheir master, my lady stepped forth joyously, in the sight of them all,\nand buckled on her husband's armour.\n\n\"Ride forth and do battle for thy country and thine infant King, poor\nbabe,\" she said, \"and vex not thy heart for us who are left behind. We\ndeserve not the name we bear, if we cannot hold the Castle till thy\nreturn, even though it were against King Edward himself. Thinkest thou\nnot so, Marian?\" and she turned round to where I was standing, a few\npaces back, with little Mistress Marjory clinging to my skirts, and\nlittle Mistress Jean in my arms.\n\nFor though I was but her bower-woman, I was of the same clan as my lady,\nand had served in her family all my life. I had carried her in my arms\nas I now carried her little daughter, and, at her marriage, I had come\nwith her to her husband's home.\n\n\"Indeed, Madam, I trow we can, God and the Saints helping us,\" I\nanswered, and at her brave words the soldiers raised a great cheer, and\nmy lord, who was usually a stern man, and slow to show his feelings, put\nhis arm round her and kissed her on the lips.\n\n\"Spoken like my own true wife,\" he said. \"But in good troth, Sweetheart,\nmethinks there is nothing to fear. For very shame neither King Edward\nnor his Captains will war against a woman, and, e'en if they do, if thou\nbut keep the gates locked, and the portcullis down, I defy any one of\nthem to gain admittance. And, look ye, the well in the courtyard will\nnever run dry--'tis sunk in the solid rock--and besides the beeves that\nwere salted down at Martinmas, and the meal that was laid in at the end\nof harvest, there are bags of grain hidden down in the dungeons, enough\nto feed a score of men for three months at least.\"\n\nSo saying, he leaped into his saddle, and rode out of the gateway, a\ngallant figure at the head of his troop of armed men, while we climbed\nto the top of the tower, and stood beside old Andrew, the watchman, and\ngazed after them until the last glint of their armour disappeared behind\na rising hill.\n\nAfter their departure all went well for a time. Indeed, it was as though\nthe years had flown back, and my lady was once more a girl, so\nlight-hearted and joyous was she, pleased with the novelty of being left\ngovernor of that great Castle. It seemed but a bit of play when, after\nordering the house and setting the maidens to their tasks, she went\nround the walls with Walter Brand, a lame archer, who was gently born,\nand whom she had put in charge of our little fighting force, to see that\nall the men were at their posts.\n\nAnd mere play it seemed to her still, when, some two weeks after my\nlord's departure, as she was sitting sewing in her little chamber, whose\nwindows looked straight out over the sea, and I was rocking Mistress\nJean's cradle, and humming a lullaby, little Mistress Marjory, who was\nfive years old, and stirring for her age, came running down from the\nwatch-tower, where she had been with old Andrew, and cried out that a\ngreat host of men on horseback were coming, and that old Andrew said\nthat it was the English.\n\nWe were laughing at the bairn's story, and wondering who the strangers\ncould be, when old Andrew himself appeared, a look of concern on his\nusually jocund face.\n\n\"Oh, my lady,\" he cried, \"there be a body of armed men moving towards\nthe Castle, led by a knight in splendid armour. A squire rides in front\nof him, carrying his banner; but the device is unknown to me, and I fear\nme it was never wrought by Scottish hands.\"\n\n\"Ah ha,\" laughed the Countess, rising and throwing away her tapestry.\n\"Thou scentest an Englishman, dost thou, Andrew? Mayhap thy thoughts\nhave run on them so much of late, that the habit hath dimmed thine\neyes.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, my lady,\" stammered old Andrew, half hurt by her gentle\nraillery, \"mine een are keen enough as yet, although my limbs be old.\"\n\n\"'Tis but my sport, Andrew,\" she answered kindly. \"I have always loved a\njest, and I have no wish to grow old and grave before my time, even if I\nhave the care of a whole Castle on my shoulders. But hark, there be the\nstranger's trumpets sounding before the gate. See to it that Walter\nBrand listens to his message, and answers it as befits the dignity of\nour house: and thou, do thou mount to thy watch-tower, and keep a good\nlookout on all that passes.\"\n\nWe waited in silence for some little space; we could hear the sound of\nvoices, but no distinct words reached us.\n\nAt last Walter Brand came halting to the door and knocked. Like old\nAndrew, he wore an anxious look. He was devoted to the Countess, and was\naye wont to be timorous where she was concerned.\n\n\"'Tis the English Earl of Salisbury,\" he said, \"who desires to speak\nwith your Grace. I asked him to entrust his message to me, and I would\ndeliver it, but he gave answer haughtily, that he would speak with no\none but the Countess.\"\n\n\"Then speak with me he shall,\" said my lady, with a flash of her eye,\n\"but he must e'en bring himself to catch my words as they drop like\npearls from the top of the tower. Summon the archers, Walter, and let\nthem stand behind me for a bodyguard: no man need know how old and frail\nthey be, if they are high enough up, and keep somewhat in the\nbackground. And thou, Marian, attend me, for 'tis not fitting that the\nCountess of Dunbar and March should speak with a strange knight in her\nhusband's absence, without a bower-woman standing by.\"\n\nCasting her wimple round her, she ascended the steep stone stairs, and,\nas we followed, Walter Brand put his head close to mine. \"I like it\nnot,\" he said in his sober way, \"for this Earl of Salisbury is a bold,\nbrazen-faced fellow, and to my ears his voice rings not true. I fear me,\nhe wishes no good to our lady. They say, moreover, that he is one of the\nbest Captains that the King of England hath, and he hath at least two\nhundred men with him.\"\n\n\"Trust my lady to look after her own, and her husband's honour,\" I said\nsharply, for, good man though he was, Walter Brand aye angered me; he\nseemed ever over-anxious, a character I love not in a man.\n\nAll the same my heart sank, as we stepped out on the flat roof of the\ntower, and glanced down over the battlements.\n\nI saw at once that Walter had spoken truly. Montague, Earl of Salisbury,\nhad a bold, bad face, and his words, though honeyed and low, had a false\nring in them.\n\n\"My humblest greetings, fair lady,\" he cried; \"my life is at thy\nservice, for I heard but yesterday that thy lord, caitiff that he be,\nhath left thee alone among rough men, in this lonely wind-swept Castle.\nMethinks thou art accustomed to kinder treatment and therefore am I come\nto beg thee to open thy gates, and allow me to enter. By my soul, if\nthou wilt, I shall be thy servant to the death. Such beauty as thine was\nnever meant to be wasted in the desert. Let me enter, and be thy friend,\nand I will deck thee with such jewels,--with gold and with pearls, that\nthou shalt be envied of all the ladies in Christendom.\"\n\nMy lady drew herself up proudly; but even yet she thought it was some\nsport, albeit not the sport that should have been offered to a noble\ndame in her husband's absence.\n\n\"Little care I for gold, or yet for pearls, my Lord of Salisbury,\" she\nsaid in grave displeasure. \"I have jewels enough and to spare, and need\nnot that a stranger should give them to me. As for the gates, I am a\nloyal wife, and I open them to no one until my good lord return.\"\n\nNow, had my Lord of Salisbury been a true knight, or even a plain,\nhonest, leal soldier, this answer of my lady's would have sufficed, and\nhe would have parleyed no more, but would have departed, taking his men\nwith him. But, villain that he was, his honeyed words rose up once more\nin answer.\n\n\"Oh, lady bright, oh, lady fair,\" he cried, \"I pray thee have mercy on\nthy humble servant, and open thy gates and speak with him. Thou art far\ntoo beautiful to live in these cold Northern climes, among rough and\nbrutal men. Come with me, and I will dress thee in cloth-of-gold, and\ntake thee along with me to London. King Edward will welcome thee, for\nthy beauty will add lustre to his court, and we shall be married with\nall speed. I warrant the Countess of Salisbury will be a person of\nimportance at the English court, and thou shalt have a retinue such as\nin this barren country ye little dream of. Thou shalt have both lords\nand knights to ride in thy train, and twenty little page boys to serve\nthee on bended knee; and hawks, and hounds, and horses galore, so thou\nwouldst join in the chase. Think of it, lady, and consider not thy rough\nand unkind lord. If he had loved thee in the least, would he have left\nthee in my power?\"\n\nNow the English lord's words were sweet, and he spoke in the soft\nSouthern tongue, such as might wile a bird from the lift,[14] if the\nbird chanced to have little sense, and when he ceased I glanced at my\nlady in alarm, lest for a moment she were tempted.\n\n  [Footnote 14: Sky.]\n\nHeaven forgive me for the thought.\n\nShe had drawn herself up to her full height, and her face of righteous\nanger might have frightened the Evil One himself; and, by my Faith, I am\nnot so very sure that it was not the Evil One who spoke by the mouth of\nmy Lord of Salisbury.\n\nThe Countess was very stately, and of wondrous beauty. \"Black Agnace,\"\nthe common folk were wont to call her, because of her raven hair and jet\nblack eyes. Verily at that moment these eyes of hers burned like stars\nof fire.\n\n\"Now shame upon thee, Montague, Earl of Salisbury,\" she cried, and\nbecause of her indignation her voice rang out clear as a trumpet. \"Open\nmy gates to _thee_, forsooth! go to London with _thee_, and be married\nto _thee_ there, and bear thy name, and ride in the chase with thy\nhorses and hounds, as if I were thy lawful Countess. Shame on thee, I\nsay. I trow thou callest thyself a belted Earl, and a Christian Knight,\nand thou comest to me, the wife of a belted Earl--who, thank God, is\nalso a Christian Knight, and a good man and true, moreover, which is\nmore than thou art--with words like these. Yea,\" and she drew a dainty\nlittle glove from her girdle, and threw it down at the Earl's feet, \"I\ncry thrice shame on thee, and here I fling defiance in thy face. Keep\nthy cloth-of-gold for thine own knights' backs; and as for thy squires\nand pages, if thou hast so many of them, give them each a sword, and set\nthem on a horse, and bring them here to swell thy company. Bring them\nhere, I say, and let them try to batter down these walls, for in no\nother way wilt thou ever set foot in Dunbar Castle.\"\n\nA subdued murmur, as if of applause, ran through the ranks of the armed\nmen, who stood drawn up in a body behind the English Earl. For men love\nbravery wherever they chance to meet it, and I trow we must have seemed\nto them but a feeble company to take upon us the defence of the Castle,\nand to throw defiance in the teeth of their lord.\n\nBut the bravery of the Countess did not seem to strike their leader;\npossibly he was not accustomed to receive such answers from the lips of\nwomen. His face flushed an angry red as his squire picked up my lady's\nlittle white glove and handed it to him.\n\n\"Now, by my soul, Madam,\" he cried, \"thou shalt find that it is no light\nmatter to jeer at armed men. I have come to thee with all courtesy,\nasking thee to open thy Castle gates, and thou hast flouted me to my\nface. Well, so be it. When next I come, 'twill be with other words, and\nother weapons. Mayhap thou wilt be more eager to treat with me then.\"\n\n\"Bring what thou wilt, and come when thou wilt,\" answered my lady\npassionately, \"thou shalt ever find the same answer waiting thee. These\ngates of mine open to no one save my own true lord.\"\n\nWith a low mocking bow the Earl turned his horse's head to the South,\nand galloped away, followed by his men.\n\nWe stood on the top of the tower and watched them, I, with a heart full\nof anxious thoughts for the time that was coming, my lady with her head\nheld high, and her eyes flaming, while the men stood apart and whispered\namong themselves. For we all knew that, although the English had taken\nthemselves off, it was only for a time, and that they would return\nwithout fail.\n\nWhen the last horseman had disappeared among the belt of trees which lay\nbetween us and the Lammermuirs, my lady turned round, her bonnie face\nall soft and quivering.\n\n\"Will ye stand by me, my men?\" she asked.\n\n\"That will we, till the death, my lady,\" answered they, and one after\nanother they knelt at her feet and kissed her hand, while, as for me, I\ncould but take her in my arms, as I had done oft-times when she was a\nlittle child, and pray God to strengthen her noble heart.\n\nHer emotion passed as quickly as it had come, however, and in a moment\nshe was herself again, laughing and merry as if it had all been a game\nof play.\n\n\"Come down, Walter; come down, my men,\" she cried; \"we must e'en hold a\ncouncil of war, and lay our plans; while old Andrew will keep watch for\nus, and tell us when the black-faced knave is like to return.\"\n\nAnd when we went downstairs into the great hall, and found that the\nsilly wenches had heard all that had passed, and were bemoaning\nthemselves for lost, and frightening little Mistress Marjory and\nMistress Jean well-nigh out of their senses, I warrant she did not spare\nthem, but called them a pack of chicken-hearted, thin-blooded baggages,\nand threatened that if they did not hold their tongues, and turn to\ntheir duties at once, she would send them packing, and then they would\nbe at the mercy of the English in good earnest.\n\nAfter that we set to work and made such preparations as we could. We set\nthe wenches to draw water from the well, and to bake a good store of\nbannocks to be ready in time of need, for the men must not be hungry\nwhen they fought. Walter Brand and two of the strongest men-at-arms set\nto work to strengthen the gates, by laying ponderous billets of wood\nagainst them, and clasping these in their places by strong iron bars;\nwhile the rest, led by old Andrew, went round the Castle, looking to the\nloopholes, and the battlements, and examining the cross-bows and other\nweapons.\n\nUpstairs and downstairs went my lady, overlooking everything, thinking\nof everything, as became a daughter of the great Randolph, while I sat\nand kept the bairns, who, poor little lassies, were puzzled to know what\nall the stir and din was about.\n\nAnd indeed it was none too soon to look to all these things, for\nalthough the country seemed quiet enough through the hours of that short\nafternoon, when night fell, and I was putting the bairns to bed, my lady\nhelping me--for, when one bears a troubled heart (and her heart must\nhave been troubled, in spite of her cheerful face), it aye seems lighter\nwhen the hands are full--a little page came running in to tell us that\nthere were lights flickering to Southward among the trees.\n\n\"Now hold thy silly tongue, laddie,\" said I, for I was anxious that we\nshould at least get one good night's rest before the storm and stress of\nwar came upon us.\n\nMy lady looked up with a smile from where she was kneeling beside\nMistress Jean's cradle. \"Let him be, Marian,\" she said; \"the lad meant\nit well, and 'tis good to know how the danger threatens. Come, we will\ngo up and watch with old Andrew.\"\n\nSo, as soon as the bairns were asleep, we threw plaids over our heads,\nand crept up the narrow stairs to where old Andrew was watching in his\nown little tower, which stood out from the great tower like a\ncorbie's[15] nest, and, crouching down behind the battlements to gain\nsome shelter from the cruel wind, we watched the flickering lights\ncoming nearer and nearer from the Southward, and listened to the\nshouting of men, and the tramp of horses' hoofs, which we could hear at\ntimes coming faintly through the storm.\n\n  [Footnote 15: Crow's.]\n\nFor two long hours we waited, and then, as we could only guess what was\ntaking place, it being far too dark to see, we crept down the narrow\nstairs again, stiff and chilled, and threw ourselves, all dressed as we\nwere, on our beds.\n\nThe gray winter dawn of next morning showed us that the English Earl\nmeant to do his best to reduce our fortress in good earnest, for a small\narmy of men had been brought up in the night, from Berwick most likely,\nand they were encamped on a strip of greensward facing the Castle. They\nmust have spent a busy night, for already the tents had been pitched,\nand fires lit, and the men were now engaged in cooking their breakfast,\nand attending to their horses. At the sight my heart grew heavier and\nheavier; but my lady's spirits seemed to rise.\n\n\"'Tis a brave sight, is it not, Marian?\" she said. \"In good troth, my\nLord of Salisbury does us too much honour, in setting a camp down at our\ngates, to amuse us in our loneliness. Methinks that is his own tent,\nthere on the right, with the pennon floating in front of it; and there\nare the mangonells behind,\" and she pointed to a row of strange-looking\nmachines, which were drawn up on a hill a little way to the rear. \"Well,\n'tis a stony coast; his lordship will have no trouble in finding stones\nto load them with.\"\n\n\"What be they, madam?\" I asked, for in all my life I had never seen such\nthings before.\n\nMy lady laughed as she turned her head to greet Walter Brand, who came\nup the stairs at that moment.\n\n\"Welcome, Walter,\" she said merrily. \"We are just taking the measure of\nour foes, and here is Marian, who has never seen mangonells before,\nwondering what they are. They are engines for shooting stones with,\nMarian; for well the knaves know that arrows are but poor weapons with\nwhich to batter stone walls. But see, the fray begins, for yonder are\nthe archers approaching, and yonder go the men down to the sea-shore to\ngather stones for the mangonells. Thou and I must e'en go down and leave\nthe men to brave the storm. See to it, Walter, that they do not expose\nthemselves unduly; we could ill afford to lose one of them.\"\n\nThen began the weary onslaught which lasted for so many weeks. In good\nfaith it seems to me that, had we known, when that first rush of arrows\nsounded through the air, how long it would be ere we were quiet again,\nwe scarce would have had the courage to go on. And when those infernal\nengines were set off, and their volleys of stones and jagged pieces of\niron sounded round our ears, the poor silly wenches lost their heads,\nand screamed aloud, while the bairns clung to my skirts, and hid their\nchubby faces in the folds.\n\nBut even then my lady was not daunted. Snatching up a napkin, she ran\nlightly up the stairs, and before anyone could stop her, she stepped\nforward to the battlements, and there, all unheeding of the danger in\nwhich she stood from the arrows of the enemy, she wiped the fragments of\nstone, and bits of loose mortar daintily from the walls, as if to show\nmy Lord of Salisbury how little our Castle could be harmed by all the\nstones he liked to hurl against it.\n\nIt was bravely done, and again a murmur of admiration went through the\nEnglish ranks; and--for I was peeping through a loophole--I trow that\neven the haughty Earl's face softened at the sight of her.\n\nThe story of that first day is but the story of many more days that\nfollowed. Showers of arrows flew from the cross-bows, volleys of stones\nfell from the mangonells, until we got so used to the sound of them,\nthat by the third week the veriest coward among the maidens would go\nboldly up and wipe the dust away where a stone had been chipped, or\nanother displaced, as calmly as our lady herself had done on that first\nterrible morning.\n\nTheir archers did little harm, for our men were so few, and our places\nof shelter so many, that they ran small risk of being hurt, and although\none or two poor fellows were killed, and half a dozen more had wounds,\nit was nothing to be compared with the loss which the English suffered,\nfor our archers had the whole army to take aim at, and I wot their\nshafts flew sure.\n\nIn vain they brought battering-rams and tried to batter down the doors.\nOur portcullis had resisted many an onslaught, and the gates behind it\nwere made of oak a foot thick, and studded all over with iron nails, and\nthey might as well have thought to batter down the Bass Rock itself.\n\nSo, in spite of all, as the weeks went by, we began to feel fairly safe\nand comfortable, although my lady never relaxed her vigilance, and went\nher round of the walls, early and late. At Walter's request she began to\nwear a morion on her head, and a breast-plate of fine steel, to protect\nher against any stray arrow, and in them, to my mind, she looked bonnier\nthan ever. In good sooth, I think the very English soldiers loved her,\nnot to speak of our own men; for whenever she appeared they would raise\ntheir caps as if in homage, and hum a couplet which ran in some wise\nthus--\n\n    \"Come I early, come I late,\n    I find Annot at the gate,\"\n\nas if they would praise her for her tireless watchfulness. One day, Earl\nMontague himself, moved to admiration by the manner in which Walter\nBrand had sent his shaft through the heart of an English knight, cried\nout in the hearing of all his army, \"There comes one of my lady's\ntire-pins; Agnace's love-shafts go straight to the heart.\" At which\nwords all our men broke into a mighty shout, and cheered, and cheered\nagain, till the walls rang, and the echoes floated back from far out\nover the sea.\n\nIn spite of their admiration at our lady's bravery, however, the English\nwere determined to conquer the Castle, and after a time, when they saw\nthat their battering-rams and mangonells availed little, they bethought\nthem of a more dangerous weapon of warfare.\n\nIt was somewhere towards the end of February, when one fine day a mighty\nsound of hammering arose from the midst of their camp.\n\n\"What are they doing now, think ye, Walter?\" asked my lady lightly. \"Is\nit possible that they look for so long a siege that they are beginning\nto build houses for themselves? Truly they are wise, for if my Lord of\nSalisbury means to stay there until I open my gates to him, he will grow\nweary of braving these harsh East winds in no better shelter than a\ntent.\"\n\nBut for once Walter Brand had no answering smile to give her.\n\n\"I fear me 'tis a sow that they are making,\" he said, \"and if that be so\nwe had need to look to our arms.\"\n\n\"A sow,\" repeated the Countess in graver tones. \"I have oft heard of\nsuch machines, but I never saw one. Thy words hint of danger, Walter. Is\na sow then so deadly that our walls cannot resist its onslaught?\"\n\n\"It is deadly because it brings the enemy nearer us, my lady,\" answered\nWalter. \"Hitherto our walls have been our shelter; without them we could\nnot stand a moment, for we are outnumbered by the English a score of\ntimes over. These sows, as men name them, are great wooden buildings,\nwhich can hold at least forty men inside, and with a platform above\nwhere other thirty can stand. They be mounted on two great wheels, and\ncan be run close up to the walls, and as they are oft as high as a\nhouse, 'twill be an easy matter for the men who stand on the platform to\nset up ladders and scale our walls, and after that what chance will\nthere be for our poor handful of men? 'Tis not for myself I fear,\" he\nwent on, \"nor yet for the men. We are soldiers and we can face death;\nbut if thou wouldst not fall into the hands of this English Earl, my\nlady, I would advise that thou, and Marian, and little Mistress Marjory\nand Mistress Jean, should set out in the boat the first dark night, when\nit is calm. 'Tis but ten miles to the Bass, and thou couldst aye find\nshelter there.\"\n\nThus spake honest Walter, who was, as I have said, ever timorous where\nmy lady was concerned; but at his words she shook her head.\n\n\"And leave the Castle, Walter?\" she said. \"That will I never do till I\nopen its doors to my own true lord. As for this English Earl and his\nsows--tush! I care not for them. If they have wood we have rock, my lad,\nand I warrant 'twill be a right strong sow that will stand upright after\na lump of Dunbar rock comes crashing down on its back; so keep up thy\ncourage, and get out the picks and crowbars. If they build sows by day,\nwe can quarry stones by night.\"\n\nSo saying, my lady shook her little white fist, by way of defiance, in\nthe direction of the tents which studded the greensward opposite, while\nWalter went off to do her bidding, muttering to himself that the famous\nRandolph himself was not better than she, for she had been born with the\ncourage of Bruce, and the wisdom of Solomon.\n\nSo it came about, that, while the English gave over wasting arrows for a\ntime, and turned their attention to the building of two great clumsy\nwooden structures, we would steal down in a body on dark nights to the\nlittle postern that opened on the shore, when the waves were dashing\nagainst the rocks, and making enough noise to deaden the sound of the\npicks, and while we women held a lanthorn or two, the men worked with\nmight and main, hewing at the solid rock which stretched out to seaward\nfor a few yards at the foot of the Castle wall. Then, when some huge\nblock was loosened, ropes would be lowered, and with much ado, for our\nnumbers were small, the unwieldy mass would be hoisted up, and placed in\nposition on the top of the Castle, hidden, it is true, behind the\nbattlements, but with the stones in front of it displaced, so that it\ncould be rolled over with ease at a given signal.\n\nWe all took a turn at the ropes, and our hands were often raw and frayed\nwith the work. 'Twas my lady who suffered most, for her skin was fine,\nand up till now she had never known what such labour meant.\n\nAt last the day came when the English mounted their great white sows on\nwheels, and filled them with armed men, and loaded the roofs of them\nwith broad-shouldered, strapping fellows, who carried ladders and irons\nwith which to scale our walls. When all was ready the mighty machines\nbegan to move forward, pushed by scores of willing arms, while we\nwatched them in silence.\n\nMy lady and I were hidden in old Andrew's tower, for no word that Walter\nBrand could say could persuade her to go down beside Mistress Marjory,\nand Mistress Jean, and the serving wenches.\n\nInstead of shooting, our archers stood motionless, stationed in groups\nbehind the great boulders of rock, ready for Walter's signal.\n\nOn came the sows, until we could look down and see the men they carried,\nwith upturned faces, and hands busy with the ladders they were raising\nto place against the walls. They were trundled over the narrow strip of\nland which connected us with the mainland, and stood still at last,\nclose to our very gates.\n\n\"Now, lads,\" shouted Walter, and before a single ladder could be placed,\nour great blocks of rock went crashing down on them, hurling the top men\nin all directions, and driving in the wooden roofs on those who were\ninside.\n\nWoe's me! Although they were our enemies, our hearts melted at the\nsight. The timbers of the sows cracked and fell in, and we could see\nnought but a mass of mangled, bleeding wretches. Had it not been that my\nlady feared treachery, and that she had sworn not to open the gates\nexcept to her husband, I ween she would fain have taken us all out to\nsuccour them.\n\nAs it was, we could only watch and pity, and keep the bairns in the\nchambers that looked on the sea, so that their young eyes should not\ngaze on so ghastly a scene.\n\nAnd when night fell, and there was no light to guide our archers to\nshoot, though I trust that, in any case, mercy would have kept them from\nit, the English stole across the causeway, and pulled away the broken\nbeams, and carried off the dead and wounded, and burned what remained of\nthe sows.\n\nAfter that day we had no more trouble from any attempts to storm the\nCastle.\n\nBut what force cannot do, hunger may. So my Lord of Salisbury, still\nsitting in front of our gates with his army, in order to prevent help\nreaching us from the land, set about starving us into submission. As yet\nwe had had no need to trouble about food, for, as I have said, we had a\nstore of grain, enough to last for some weeks yet, in the dungeon, and,\nlong ere it was done, we looked for help reaching us by the sea, if it\ncould not reach us by land.\n\nIt was soon made plain to us, however, that not only my Lord of\nSalisbury, but his royal master, King Edward, was determined that the\n\"Key of Scotland\" should fall into his hand, for one fine March morning\na great fleet of ships came sailing round St Abb's Head, and took up\ntheir station betwixt us and the Bass Rock, and then we were left,\nwithout hope of succour, until our stock of provisions should be eaten\nup, and starvation forced us to give in.\n\nAh me! but it was weary work, living through the ever-lengthening days\nof that cold bleak springtime, waiting for the help which never came,\nwhich never could come, so it seemed to us, with that army watching us\nfrom the land, and that fleet of ships girding us in on the sea.\n\nAnd all the time our store of food sank lower and lower, and the\nwenches' faces grew white, and the men pulled their belts tighter round\ntheir middles, and poor little Mistress Jean would turn wearily away\nfrom the water gruel which was all we had to give her, and moan and cry\nfor the white bread and the milk to which she was accustomed. Mistress\nMarjory, on the other hand, being five years old, and wise for her\nyears, never complained, though oft-times she would let the spoon fall\ninto her porringer at supper-time, and, laying her head against my\nsleeve, would say in a wistful little voice that went to my very heart,\n\"I cannot eat it, Marian; I am not hungry to-night.\"\n\nAs for my lady, she went about in those days in silence, with a stern,\nset face. It must have seemed to her that when the meal was all gone she\nmust needs give in, for she could not see her children die before her\neyes.\n\nBut Providence is aye ready to help those who help themselves, and, late\none evening, towards the latter end of May, when we had held the castle\nfor five long months, I chanced to be sitting alone in my chamber, when\nthe Countess entered, looking very pale and wan.\n\n\"Wrap a plaid round thee, and come to the top of the tower, Marian,\" she\nsaid. \"I cannot sleep, and I long for a breath of fresh air. It doth me\nno good to go up there by day, for I can see nothing but these English\nsoldiers in front, and these English ships behind. But by night it is\ndifferent. It is dark then, and I forget for a time how closely beset we\nare, and how few handfuls of meal there are in the girnels.[16] I will\ntell thee, Marian,\" and here her voice sank to a whisper, \"what as yet\nonly myself and Walter Brand know, that if help doth not come within a\nweek, we must either open our gates, or starve like rats in a hole.\"\n\n  [Footnote 16: Meal-barrels.]\n\n\"But a week is aye a week,\" I said soothingly, for I was frightened at\nthe wildness of her look, \"and help may come before it passes.\"\n\nAll the same my heart was heavy within me as I threw a wrap round my\nhead, and followed her up the narrow stone stairs, and out on to the\nflat roof of the tower.\n\nThe footing was bad in the darkness, for although the battlements had\nbeen built up again since the day that we destroyed the sows, there were\nstones and pieces of rock lying about in all directions, and not being\nso young and light of foot as I once had been, I stumbled and fell.\n\n\"Do not stir till I get a light,\" cried my lady; \"it is dangerous up\nhere in the dark, and a twisted ankle would not mend matters.\"\n\nShe felt her way over to Andrew's watch-tower, and the old man lighted\nhis lanthorn for her, and she came quickly back again, holding it low in\ncase the enemy should see it, and send a few arrows in our direction. By\nits light I raised myself, and we went across to the northern turret,\nwhich looked straight over to the Bass Rock, and stood there, resting\nour arms on the wall.\n\nSuddenly a speck of light shone out far ahead in the darkness. It\nflickered for a second and then disappeared. In a moment or two it\nappeared again, and then disappeared in the same way. I drew my lady's\nattention to it.\n\n\"'Tis a light from the Bass,\" she said in an excited whisper. \"Someone\nis signalling. It can hardly be to the English, for the Rock is held by\nfriends. Is it possible they can have seen our lanthorn? Let us try\nagain. The English loons are likely to be asleep by now; they have had\nlittle to disturb their rest for some weeks back, and may well have\ngrown lazy.\"\n\nCautiously she raised the lanthorn, and flashed its rays, once, twice,\nthrice over the waves. It was only for a second, but it was enough. The\nspark of light appeared three times in answer, and then all was dark\nagain.\n\n\"Run and tell Walter,\" whispered my lady, and her very voice had\nchanged. It was once more full of life and hope. The Bass Rock was but\nten miles off, and if there were friends there watching us, and\ndoubtless making plans to help us, was not that enough?\n\nWhen Walter came we tried our test for the fourth time, and the answer\ncame back as before.\n\n\"We must watch the sea, my lady,\" he said, when we were safely down in\nthe great hall again. \"Help will only come that way, and it will come in\nthe dark. Heaven send that the English sailors have not seen what we\nhave, and keep a double watch in consequence.\"\n\nAfter that, we hardly slept. Night after night, we strained our eyes\nthrough the darkness in the direction of the Bass, and for five nights\nour watching was in vain.\n\nBut on the sixth, a Sunday, just on the stroke of twelve, the silence\nwhich had lasted so long was broken by the sound of shouting, and lights\nsprang up all round us, first on the ships and then on the land.\n\nWith anxious hearts we crowded round the loopholes, for we knew that\nsomewhere, out among the lights, brave men were making a dash for our\nrescue, and we women, who could do nothing else, lifted up our hearts,\nand prayed that Heaven and the Holy St Michael would aid their efforts.\n\nMeanwhile, the men manned the walls, ready to shoot if the English ships\ncame within bow-shot, which they were scarce likely to do, as the coast\nwas wild and rocky, and fraught with danger to those who were\nunacquainted with it.\n\nPresently Walter called for wood to make a fire outside the little\npostern which opened on the rocks, and we ceased our prayers, and fell\nto work with a will, with the kitchen-wenches' choppers, on the empty\nbarrels which were piled up in a corner of a cellar. We even drained our\nlast flagon of oil to pour over them, and soon a fire was blazing on the\nrudely-cut-out landing-stage, and throwing its beams far out over the\nsea.\n\nAnd there, dim and shadowy at first, but aye coming nearer and nearer,\nguided by its light, we saw a boat, not cut in any foreign fashion, but\nbuilt and rigged near St Margaret's Hope. It was full of men; we could\nhear them cheering and shouting in our own good Scots tongue, which fell\nkindly on our ears after the soft mincing English which had been thrown\nat our heads for so many months.\n\nThey were safe now, for, as I have said, the ships through which they\nhad slipped dare not follow them too near the coast, in case they ran\nupon the rocks, and the Castle sheltered them from any arrows which\nmight be sent from the land. It sheltered us too, and we crowded down to\nthe little landing-stage, and watched with breathless interest the boat\nwhich was bringing safety and succour to us.\n\n\"Bring down the bairns, Marian,\" said my lady. \"Marjory at least is of\nan age to remember this.\"\n\nI hastened to do her bidding, and, calling one of the wenches, we ran up\nand roused the sleeping lambs, telling them stories of the wonderful\nboat which was coming over the sea, bringing them nice things to eat\nonce more; for, poor babes, the lack of dainty fare had been the hardest\npart of all the siege for them.\n\nWe had hardly got downstairs again, when the boat ran close up to our\nroughly constructed landing-stage, which was little more than a ledge of\nrock, and willing hands seized the ropes which were flung out to them.\n\nThen amidst such cheering as I shall never forget, her crew jumped out.\nForty men of them there were, strong, stalwart, strapping fellows,\nlooking very different from our own poor lads, who were pinched and thin\nfrom long watching, and meagre fare. Their leader was Sir Alexander\nRamsay of Dalhousie, one of the bravest of Scottish knights, and most\nchivalrous of men, who had risked his life, and the lives of his men, in\norder to bring us help.\n\n\"Now Heaven and all the Saints be thanked, we are in time,\" he cried, as\nhis eyes rested on my lady, who was standing at the head of the steps\nwhich led up to the little postern, with one babe in her arms, and the\nother clinging to her gown, \"for dire tales have reached us of\npestilence and starvation which were working their will within these\nwalls.\"\n\nThen he doffed his helmet, and ran up to where she was standing, and I\nwot there was not a dry eye in the crowd as he knelt and kissed her\nhand.\n\n\"Here greet I one of the bravest ladies in Christendom,\" he said, \"for,\nby my troth, as long as the Scots tongue lasts, the story of how thou\nkept thy lord's castle in his absence will be handed down from father to\nson.\"\n\n\"Nay, noble sir,\" she answered, and there was a little catch in her\nvoice as she spoke, \"it hath not been so very hard after all. My men\nhave been brave and leal, my walls are thick, and although the wolf hath\ncome very near the door, he hath not as yet entered.\"\n\n\"Nor shall he,\" said Sir Alexander cheerily, as he picked up Mistress\nMarjory and kissed her, \"for we have brought enough provisions with us\nto victual your Castle twice over.\"\n\nAnd in good sooth they had. It took more than half an hour to unload the\nboat, and to carry its contents into the great hall. There had been kind\nhands and thoughtful hearts at the loading of it. There was milk for the\nbairns, and capons, and eggs. There was meat and ale for the men, and\nred French wine and white bread for my lady, and bags of grain and meal,\nand many other things which I scarce remember, but which were right\ntoothsome, I can tell you, after the scanty fare on which we had been\nliving.\n\nAnd so ended the famous siege of Dunbar Castle, for on the morrow, the\nEnglish, knowing that now it was hopeless to think of taking it, struck\ntheir camp, and by nightfall they were marching southwards, worsted by a\nwoman.\n\nAnd ere another day had passed, another band of armed men came riding\nthrough the woods that lie thickly o'er the valley in which lies the\nLamp of Lothian;[17] but this time we knew right well the device which\nwas emblazoned on the banners, and the horses neighed, as horses are\nwont to do when they scent their own stables, and the riders tossed\ntheir caps in the air at the sight of us.\n\n  [Footnote 17: The Abbey of Haddington (an old name for it).]\n\nAnd I trow that if my lady had wished for reward for all the weary\nmonths of anxiety which she had passed through, she had it in full\nmeasure when at long last she opened the Castle gates, and saw the look\non her husband's face, as he took her in his arms, and kissed her, not\nonce, but many times, there, in the courtyard, in the sight of us all.\n\n\n\n\nTHOMAS THE RHYMER\n\n    \"True Thomas lay on Huntly bank;\n      A ferlie he spied with his e'e;\n    And there he saw a ladye bright,\n      Came riding down by the Eildon tree.\"\n\n\nMore than six hundred years ago, there lived in the south of Scotland a\nvery wonderful man named Thomas of Ercildoune, or Thomas the Rhymer.\n\nHe lived in an old tower which stood on the banks of a little river\ncalled the Leader, which runs into the Tweed, and he had the marvellous\ngift, not only of writing beautiful verses, but of forecasting the\nfuture:--that is, he could tell of events long before they happened.\n\nPeople also gave him the name of True Thomas, for they said that he was\nnot able to tell a lie, no matter how much he wished to do so, and this\ngift he had received, along with his gift of prophecy, from the Queen of\nthe Fairies, who stole him away when he was young, and kept him in\nfairyland for seven years and then let him come back to this world for a\ntime, and at last took him away to live with her in fairyland\naltogether.\n\nI do not say that this is true; I can only say again that Thomas the\nRhymer was a very wonderful man; and this is the story which the old\ncountry folk in Scotland tell about him.\n\nOne St Andrew's Day, as he was lying on a bank by a stream called the\nHuntly Burn, he heard the tinkling of little bells, just like fairy\nmusic, and he turned his head quickly to see where it was coming from.\n\nA short distance away, riding over the moor, was the most beautiful lady\nhe had ever seen. She was mounted on a dapple-gray palfrey, and there\nwas a halo of light shining all around her. Her saddle was made of pure\nivory, set with precious stones, and padded with crimson satin. Her\nsaddle girths were of silk, and on each buckle was a beryl stone. Her\nstirrups were cut out of clear crystal, and they were all set with\npearls. Her crupper was made of fine embroidery, and for a bridle she\nused a gold chain.\n\nShe wore a riding-skirt of grass-green silk, and a mantle of green\nvelvet, and from each little tress of hair in her horse's mane hung nine\nand fifty tiny silver bells. No wonder that, as the spirited animal\ntossed its dainty head, and fretted against its golden rein, the music\nof these bells sounded far and near.\n\nShe appeared to be riding to the chase, for she led seven greyhounds in\na leash, and seven otter hounds ran along the path beside her, while\nround her neck was slung a hunting-horn, and from her girdle hung a\nsheaf of arrows.\n\nAs she rode along she sang snatches of songs to herself, or blew her\nhorn gaily to call her dogs together.\n\n\"By my faith,\" thought Thomas to himself, \"it is not every day that I\nhave the chance of meeting such a beauteous being. Methinks she must be\nthe Virgin Mother herself, for she is too fair to belong to this poor\nearth of ours. Now will I hasten over the hill, and meet her under the\nEildon Tree; perchance she may give me her blessing.\"\n\nSo Thomas hasted, and ran, and came to the Eildon Tree, which grew on\nthe slope of the Eildon Hills, under which, 'tis said, King Arthur and\nhis Knights lie sleeping, and there he waited for the lovely lady.\n\nWhen she approached he pulled off his bonnet and louted[18] low, so that\nhis face well-nigh touched the ground, for, as I have said, he thought\nshe was the Blessed Virgin, and he hoped to hear some words of benison.\n\n  [Footnote 18: Bowed.]\n\nBut the lady quickly undeceived him. \"Do not do homage to me,\" she said,\n\"for I am not she whom thou takest me for, and cannot claim such\nreverence. I am but the Queen of Fairyland, and I ride to the chase with\nmy horn and my hounds.\"\n\nThen Thomas, fascinated by her loveliness, and loth to lose sight of\nher, began to make love to her; but she warned him that, if he did so,\nher beauty would vanish in a moment, and, worse still, she would have\nthe power to throw a spell over him, and to carry him away to her own\ncountry. But I wot that her spell had fallen on Thomas already, for it\nseemed to him that there was nothing on earth to be compared to her\nfavour.\n\n\"Here pledge I my troth with thee,\" he cried recklessly, \"and little\ncare I where I am carried, so long as thou art beside me,\" and as he\nsaid this, he gave her a kiss.\n\nWhat was his horror, as soon as he had done so, to see an awful change\ncome over the lady. Her beautiful clothes crumbled away, and she was\nleft standing in a long ash-coloured gown. All the brightness round her\nvanished; her face grew pale and colourless; her eyes turned dim, and\nsank in her head; and, most terrible of all, one-half of her beautiful\nblack hair went gray before his eyes, so that she looked worn and old.\n\n[Illustration: \"WHEN SHE APPROACHED, HE PULLED OFF HIS BONNET, AND\nLOUTED LOW.\"]\n\nA cruel smile came on her haggard face as she cried triumphantly, \"Ah,\nThomas, now thou must go with me, and thou must serve me, come weal,\ncome woe, for seven long years.\"\n\nThen she signed to him to get up behind her on her gray palfrey, and\npoor Thomas had no power to refuse. He glanced round in despair, taking\na last look at the pleasant country-side he loved so well, and the next\nmoment it vanished from his eyes, for the Eildon Hills opened beneath\nthem, and they sank in gloomy caverns, leaving no trace behind.\n\nFor three days Thomas and the lady travelled on, in the dreadful gloom.\nIt was like riding through the darkness of the darkest midnight. He\ncould feel the palfrey moving beneath him; he could hear, close at hand,\nthe roaring of the sea; and, ever as they rode, it seemed to him that\nthey crossed many rivers, for, as the palfrey struggled through them, he\ncould feel the cold rushing water creeping up to his knees, but never a\nray of light came to cheer him.\n\nHe grew sick and faint with hunger and terror, and at last he could bear\nit no longer.\n\n\"Woe is me,\" he cried feebly, \"for methinks I die for lack of food.\"\n\nAs he spoke these words, the lady turned her horse's head in the\ndarkness, and, little by little, it began to grow lighter, until at last\nthey emerged in open daylight, and found themselves in a beautiful\ngarden.\n\nIt was full of fruit trees, and Thomas feasted his eyes on their cool\ngreen leaves and luscious burden; for, after the terrible darkness he\nhad passed through, this garden seemed to him like the Garden of\nParadise.\n\nThere were pear trees in it, covered with pears, and apple trees laden\nwith great juicy apples; there were dates, and damsons, and figs, and\ngrapes. Brightly coloured parrots were flitting about among the\nbranches, and everywhere the thrushes were singing.\n\nThe lady drew rein under an apple tree, and, reaching up her hand, she\nplucked an apple, and handed it to him. \"Take this for thine arles,\"[19]\nshe said; \"it will confer a great gift on thee, for it will give thee a\ntongue that cannot lie, and from henceforth men shall call thee 'True\nThomas.'\"\n\n  [Footnote 19: Money paid at the engagement of a servant.]\n\nNow, I am sorry to say that Thomas was not very particular about always\nbeing truthful, and this did not seem to him to be a very enviable gift.\nHe wondered to himself what he would do if ever he got back to earth,\nand was always obliged to tell the truth, whether it were convenient or\nnot.\n\n\"A bonnie gift, forsooth!\" he said scornfully. \"My tongue is my own, and\nI would prefer that no one meddled with it. If I am obliged always to\ntell the truth, how shall I fare when I once more go back to the wicked\nworld? When I take a cow to market, have I always to point out the horn\nit hath lost, or the piece of skin that is torn? And when I talk to my\nbetters, and would crave a boon of them, must I always tell them my real\nthoughts, instead of giving them the flattery which, let me tell you,\nMadam, goes a long way in obtaining a favour?\"\n\n\"Now hold thy peace,\" said the lady sharply, \"and think thyself favoured\nto see food at all. Many miles of our journey lie yet before us, and\nalready thou criest out for hunger. Certs, if thou wilt not eat when\nthou canst, thou shalt have no more opportunity.\"\n\nPoor Thomas was so hungry, and the apple looked so tempting, that at\nlast he took it and ate it, and the Grace of Truth settled down on his\nlips for ever: that is why men called him \"True Thomas,\" when in after\nyears he returned to earth.\n\nThen the lady shook her bridle rein, and the palfrey darted forward so\nquickly that it appeared to be almost flying. On and on they flew, until\nthey came to the World's End, and a great desert stretched before them.\nHere the lady bade Thomas dismount and lean his head against her knee.\n\"I have three wonders to show thee, Thomas,\" she said, \"and it is thus\nthat thou canst see them best.\"\n\nThomas did as he was bid, and when he laid his head against the Fairy\nQueen's knee, he saw three roads stretching away before him through the\nsand.\n\nOne of them was a rough and narrow road, with thick hedges of thorn on\neither side, and branches of tangled briar hanging down from them, and\nlying across the path. Any traveller who travelled by that road would\nfind it beset with many difficulties.\n\nThe next road was smooth and broad, and it ran straight and level across\nthe plain. It looked so easy a way that Thomas wondered that anyone ever\nwanted to go along the narrow path at all.\n\nThe third road wound along a hillside, and the banks above it and below\nit were covered with beautiful brackens, and their delicate fronds rose\nhigh on either side, so high, indeed, that they would shelter the\nwayfarer from the burning heat of the noonday sun.\n\n\"That is the best road of all,\" thought Thomas to himself; \"it looks so\nfresh and cool, I should like to travel along it.\"\n\nThen the lady's voice sounded in his ears. \"Seest thou that narrow\npath,\" she asked, \"all set about with thorns and briars? That is the\nPath of Righteousness, and there be but few, oh, so few! who ever ask\nwhere it leads to, or who try to travel by it. And seest thou that\nbroad, broad road, that runs so smoothly across the desert? That is the\nPath of Wickedness, and I trow it is a pleasant way, and easy to travel\nby. Men think it so, at least, and, poor fools, they do not trouble to\nask where it leads to. Some would fain persuade themselves that it leads\nto Heaven, but Heaven was never reached by an easy road. 'Tis the narrow\nroad through the briars and thorns that leads us thither, and wise are\nthe men who follow it. And seest thou that bonnie, bonnie road, that\nwinds up round the ferny brae? That is the way to Fairyland, and that is\nthe road which lies before us.\"\n\nHere Thomas was about to speak, and to remonstrate with her for carrying\nhim away, but she interrupted him.\n\n\"Hush,\" she said, \"thou must be silent now, Thomas; the time for speech\nis past. Thou art on the borders of Elfland, and if ever mortal man\nspeak a word in Elfland, he can nevermore go back to his own country.\"\n\nSo Thomas held his peace, and climbed sadly on the palfrey's back, and\nonce more they started on their awful journey. On and on they went. The\nbeautiful road through the ferns was soon left behind, and great\nmountains had to be crossed, and steep, narrow valleys, until at last,\nfar away in the distance, a splendid castle appeared, standing on the\ntop of a high hill.\n\nIt was built of pure white marble, with massive towers, and lovely\ngardens stretched in front of it.\n\n\"That castle is mine,\" said the lady proudly. \"It belongs to me, and to\nmy husband, who is the King of this country. He is a jealous man, and\none greatly to be feared, and, if he knew how friendly thou and I have\nbeen, he would kill thee in his rage. Remember, therefore, what I told\nthee about keeping silence. Thou canst talk to me, an thou wilt, if an\nopportunity offers, but see to it that thou answerest no one else. There\nare knights and squires in abundance at my husband's court, and\ndoubtless they would fain question thee about the country from whence\nthou art come, but thou must pay no heed to them, and I shall pretend\nthat thou talkest in an unknown tongue, and that I learned to understand\nit in thine own country.\"\n\nWhile she was speaking, Thomas was amazed to see that a great change had\npassed over her again. Her face grew bright, and her gray gown vanished,\nand the green mantle took its place, and once more she became the\nbeauteous being who had charmed his eyes at the Huntly Burn. And he was\nstill more amazed when, on looking down, he found that his own raiment\nwas changed too, and that he was now dressed in a suit of soft, fine\ncloth, and that on his feet he wore velvet shoon.\n\nThe lady lifted the golden horn which hung from a cord round her neck,\nand blew a loud blast. At the sound of it all the squires, and knights,\nand great court ladies came hurrying out to meet their Queen, and Thomas\nslid from the palfrey's back, and walked humbly at her elbow.\n\nAs she had foretold, the pages and squires crowded round him, and would\nfain have learned his name, and the name of the country to which he\nbelonged, but he pretended not to understand what they said, and so they\nall came into the great hall of the castle.\n\nAt the end of this hall there was a dais, and on it were two thrones.\nThe King of Fairyland was sitting on one, and when he saw the Queen, he\nrose, and stretched out his hand, and led her to the other, and then a\nrich banquet was served by thirty knights, who offered the dishes on\ntheir bended knees. After that all the court ladies went up and did\nhomage to their Royal Mistress, while Thomas stood, and gazed, and\nwondered at all the strange things which he saw.\n\nAt one side of the hall there was a group of minstrels, playing on all\nmanner of strange instruments. There were harps, and fiddles, and\ngitterns, and psalteries, and lutes and rebecks, and many more that he\ncould not name. And when these minstrels played, the knights and the gay\ncourt ladies danced or played games, or made merry jokes amongst\nthemselves; while at the other side of the hall a very different scene\nwent on. There were thirty dead harts lying on the stone floor, and\nstable varlets carried in dead deer until there were thirty of them\nstretched beside the harts, and the dogs lay and licked their blood, and\nthe cooks came in with their long knives and cut up the animals, in the\nsight of all the court.\n\nIt was all so weird and horrible that Thomas wondered what manner of\nfolk he had come to dwell among, and if he would ever get back to his\nown country.\n\nFor three days things went on in the same manner, and still he looked\nand wondered, and still he spoke to no one, not even to the Queen.\n\nAt last she spoke to him. \"Dress thee, and get thee gone, Thomas,\" she\nsaid, \"for thou mayest not linger here any longer. Myself will convey\nthee on thy journey, and take thee back safe and sound to thine own\ncountry again.\"\n\nThomas looked at her in amazement. \"I have only been here three days,\"\nhe said, \"and methought thou spakest of seven years.\"\n\nThe lady smiled.\n\n\"Time passes quickly in this country, Thomas,\" she replied. \"It may not\nappear so long to thee, but it is seven long years and more, since thou\ncamest into Fairyland. I would fain have kept thee longer; but it may\nnot be, and I will show to thee the reason. Every seven years an evil\nspirit comes, and chooses someone out of our court, and carries him away\nto unknown regions, and, as thou art a stranger, and a goodly fellow\nwithal, I fear me his choice would fall on thee; and although I brought\nthee here, and have kept thee here for seven years, 'twill never be said\nthat I betrayed thee to an evil spirit. Therefore this very night we\nmust be gone.\"\n\nSo once more the gray palfrey was brought, and Thomas and the lady\nmounted it, and they went back by the road by which they had come, and\nonce more they came to the Eildon Tree.\n\nThe sun was shining when they arrived, and the birds singing, and the\nHuntly Burn tinkling just as it had always done, and it seemed to Thomas\nmore impossible than ever that he had been away from it all for more\nthan seven years.\n\nHe felt strangely sorry to say farewell to the beautiful lady, and he\nasked her to give him some token that would prove to people that he had\nreally been in Fairyland.\n\n\"Thou hast already the Gift of Truth,\" she replied, \"and I will add to\nthat the Gift of Prophecy, and of writing wondrous verses; and here is a\nharp that was fashioned in Fairyland. With its music, set to thine own\nwords, no minstrel on earth shall be to thee a rival. So shall all the\nworld know for certain that thou learnedst the art from no earthly\nteacher; and some day, perchance, I will return.\"\n\nThen the lady vanished, and Thomas was left all alone.\n\nAfter this, he lived at his Castle of Ercildoune for many a long year,\nand well he deserved the names of Thomas the Rhymer, and True Thomas,\nwhich the country people gave him; for the verses which he wrote were\nthe sweetest that they had ever heard, while all the things which he\nprophesied came most surely to pass.\n\nIt is remembered still how he met Cospatrick, Earl of March, one sunny\nday, and foretold that, ere the next noon passed, a terrible tempest\nwould devastate Scotland. The stout Earl laughed, but his laughter was\nshort, for by next day at noon the tidings came that Alexander III.,\nthat much loved King, was lying stiff and stark on the sands of\nKinghorn. He also foretold the battles of Flodden and Pinkie, and the\ndule and woe which would follow the defeat of the Scottish arms; but he\nalso foretold Bannockburn, where\n\n    \"The burn of breid\n    Shall run fow reid,\"\n\nand the English be repulsed with great loss. He spoke of the Union of\nthe Crowns of England and Scotland, under a prince who was the son of a\nFrench Queen, and who yet had the blood of Bruce in his veins. Which\nthing came true in 1603, when King James, son of the ill-fated Mary, who\nhad been Queen of France as well as Queen of Scots, began to rule over\nboth countries.\n\nIn view of these things, it was no wonder that the fame of Thomas of\nErcildoune spread through the length and breadth of Scotland, or that\nmen came from far and near to listen to his wonderful words.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTwice seven years came and went, and Scotland was plunged in war. The\nEnglish King, Edward I., after defeating John Baliol at Dunbar, had\ntaken possession of the country, and the doughty William Wallace had\narisen to try to wrest it from his hand. The tide of war ebbed and\nflowed, now on this side of the Border, now on that, and it chanced that\none day the Scottish army rested not far from the Tower of Ercildoune.\n\nBeacons blazed red on Ruberslaw, tents were pitched at Coldingknowe, and\nthe Tweed, as it rolled down to the sea, carried with it the echoes of\nthe neighing of steeds, and of trumpet calls.\n\nThen True Thomas determined to give a feast to the gallant squires and\nknights who were camped in the neighbourhood--such a feast as had never\nbeen held before in the old Tower of Ercildoune. It was spread in the\ngreat hall, and nobles were there in their coats of mail, and high-born\nladies in robes of shimmering silk. There was wine in abundance, and\nwooden cups filled with homebrewed ale.\n\nThere were musicians who played sweet music, and wonderful stories of\nwar and adventure went round.\n\nAnd, best of all, when the feast was over, True Thomas, the host, called\nfor the magic harp which he had received from the hands of the Elfin\nQueen. When it was brought to him a great silence fell on all the\ncompany, and everyone sat listening breathlessly while he sang to them\nsong after song of long ago.\n\nHe sang of King Arthur and his Table, and his Knights, and told how they\nlay sleeping under the Eildon Hills, waiting to be awakened at the Crack\nof Doom. He sang of Gawaine, and Merlin, Tristrem and Isolde; and those\nwho listened to the wondrous story felt somehow that they would never\nhear such minstrelsy again.\n\nNor did they. For that very night, when all the guests had departed, and\nthe evening mists had settled down over the river, a soldier, in the\ncamp on the hillside, was awakened by a strange pattering of little feet\non the dry bent[20] of the moorland.\n\n  [Footnote 20: Withered grass.]\n\nLooking out of his tent, he saw a strange sight.\n\nThere, in the bright August moonlight, a snow-white hart and hind were\npacing along side by side. They moved in slow and stately measure,\npaying little heed to the ever-increasing crowd who gathered round their\npath.\n\n\"Let us send for Thomas of Ercildoune,\" said someone at last; \"mayhap he\ncan tell us what this strange sight bodes.\"\n\n\"Yea, verily, let us send for True Thomas,\" cried everyone at once, and\na little page was hastily despatched to the old tower.\n\nIts master started from his bed when he heard the message, and dressed\nhimself in haste. His face was pale, and his hands shook.\n\n\"This sign concerns me,\" he said to the wondering lad. \"It shows me that\nI have spun my thread of life, and finished my race here.\"\n\nSo saying, he slung his magic harp on his shoulder, and went forth in\nthe moonlight. The men who were waiting for him saw him at a distance,\nand 'twas noted how often he turned and looked back at his old tower,\nwhose gray stones were touched by the soft autumn moonbeams, as though\nhe were bidding it a long farewell.\n\nHe walked along the moor until he met the snow-white hart and hind;\nthen, to everyone's terror and amazement, he turned with them, and all\nthree went down the steep bank, which at that place borders the Leader,\nand plunged into the river, which was running at high flood.\n\n\"He is bewitched! To the rescue! To the rescue, ere it be too late!\"\ncried the crowd with one voice.\n\nBut although a knight leaped on his horse in haste, and spurred him at\nonce through the raging torrent, he could see nothing of the Rhymer or\nhis strange companions. They had vanished, leaving neither sign nor\ntrace behind them; and to this day it is believed that the hart and the\nhind were messengers from the Queen of the Fairies, and that True Thomas\nwent back with them to dwell in her country for ever.\n\n\n\n\nLORD SOULIS\n\n    \"Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage Castle,\n      And beside him Old Redcap sly;--\n    'Now, tell me, thou sprite, who art meikle of might,\n      The death that I must die.'\n\n    They roll'd him in a sheet of lead,\n      A sheet of lead for a funeral pall;\n    They plunged him in the cauldron red,\n      And melted him, lead, and bones, and all.\"\n\n\nAnd so thou hast seen the great cauldron at Skelf-hill, little Annie,\nstanding high up on the hillside, and thou wouldst fain hear its story.\n\n'Tis a weird tale, Sweetheart, and one to make the blood run cold, for\n'tis the story of a cruel and a wicked man, and how he came by a violent\nand a fearsome death. But Grannie will tell it thee, and when thou\nthinkest of it, thou must always try to remember how true it is what the\nGood Book says, that \"all they that take the sword, shall perish with\nthe sword,\" which means, I take it, that they who show no mercy need\nexpect none at the hands of others.\n\n'Tis a tale of spirits and of witchcraft, child, things that in our days\nwe do not believe in; but I had it from my grandfather, who had heard it\nwhen he was a laddie from the old shepherds out on the hills, and they\nbelieved it all and feared to pass that way in the dark.\n\nBut to come to the story itself. Long, long ago, in far bygone days,\nWilliam de Soulis, Lord of Liddesdale, kept high state in his Castle of\nHermitage. The royal blood of Scotland flowed in his veins, for he was\nsixth in descent from Alexander II., and could an ancestress of his have\nproved her right, he might have sat on the throne of Scotland.\n\nBesides owning Liddesdale, he had lands in Dumfriesshire, and in the\nLothians, and he might have been like the \"Bold Buccleuch,\" a succourer\nof widows, and a defender of the oppressed and the destitute.\n\nBut instead of this he worked all manner of wickedness, till his very\nname was dreaded far and near. He oppressed his vassals; he troubled his\nneighbours; he was even at enmity with the King himself. And because he\nfeared that his Majesty might come against him with an army, he had\nfortified his castle with much care. In order to do this thoroughly, he\nforced his vassals to work like beasts of burden, putting bores[21] on\ntheir shoulders, and yoking them to sledges, on which they drew all\nkinds of building material to the castle.\n\n  [Footnote 21: Yokes.]\n\nNo wonder, then, that he was hated by rich and poor alike, and no wonder\nthat his heart would quail at times, reckless and hardened though he\nwas, for it is an ill thing not to have a friend in this world. Servants\nmay be hired for money, but 'tis love, and love only, that can buy true\nfriendship. Aye remember that, little Annie, aye remember that.\n\nI say that he had no friends, but I am mistaken. 'Twas said he had one,\nand mayhap he would have been as well without him. For men would have it\nthat Hermitage Castle was haunted by a familiar spirit.\n\nAs a rule he dwelt in a wooden chest, bound with rusty bars of iron; but\noccasionally, when Lord Soulis was alone, he would come out and talk\nwith him. \"Old Redcap,\" the country folk used to call him, and they said\nthat he was a wee, wee man, with a red pirnie[22] and twisted legs; but\nwhether that be true or no, 'tis not for me to say.\n\n  [Footnote 22: Nightcap.]\n\n'Twas also said that, one day, when Soulis and his uncanny friend were\nalone, Soulis asked him what his end would be; if he would die at home\nin his bed, or out on the hillside in fair fight with his foes? And\nRedcap made answer that he would throw his spell over him, and that that\nspell would keep him from all common dangers, from all weapons of war,\nand from all devices of peace; from arrows, and lances, and knives; from\nchains, and even from hempen ropes. He would be safe from all these, but\nthere was one thing, and one thing alone, which the charm could not do,\nand that was to save him if ever men could take him and bind him with\nropes of sifted sand.\n\nMethinks I can hear Lord Soulis' laugh as Redcap told him this. \"Ropes\nof sand, forsooth!\" he would say. \"Did ever man hear of ropes of sand?\"\n\nBut he had forgotten that the Wizard of the North, Sir Michael Scott of\nBalwearie--the same who studied the wisdom of the East under the Moors\nat Toledo, in Spain, who could read the stars, and command familiar\nspirits to come and go at his bidding--had found out the way to forge\nropes out of sand, and that, though Michael was dead, his Spae-book yet\nremained, in which he had written down all his magic.\n\n\"Moreover,\" added Redcap, \"if ever danger threatens thee, knock thrice\non this old chest, and the lid will rise, and I will speak; but beware\nlest thou lookest into it. When the lid begins to rise, turn thine eyes\naway, or the spell will be broken.\"\n\nNow it chanced soon after this, that one morning, just as the day was\nbreaking, Lord Soulis, as was his wont, sent one of his little pages up\nto the top of the tower, to look out over the country far and near, to\nsee if there were any travellers who took the road to Hermitage. At\nfirst the boy saw nothing, but, as it grew lighter, the figure of a\nhorseman, clad in the royal livery, appeared, riding down the hillside.\n\n\"Now what may thine errand be?\" cried the page.\n\n\"I carry a message to Soulis of Hermitage from the King of Scotland,\"\nreplied the stranger; \"and he bids me tell that cruel Knight, that the\nreport of his ill deeds has come to his Majesty's ears at Holyrood\nHouse, and that if ever again such stories reach him, he will send his\nsoldiers to burn the castle, and put its lord to death.\"\n\nThen the page hasted, and ran, and delivered this message to his master,\nwhose face grew white with rage when he heard it. For he was an awful\nman, little Annie, an awful man, who in general feared neither God nor\nthe King, and who could not brook to be reproved.\n\nUnder the castle there was a deep dungeon, cut out of the solid rock,\nand the entrance to it was by a hole in the courtyard, which was covered\nby a great flat stone. The stone rested on beams of oak, and Lord Soulis\ngave orders that the guards were to keep the King's messenger waiting\noutside the gate, and pretend to be very kind to him, giving him a\ntankard of ale, and a hunch of bread, until some of the men inside the\ncastle had cut away those great oak beams.\n\nThen they opened the gate, and told the poor man that Lord Soulis would\nspeak with him if he would ride into the courtyard; and he rode in, and\nas soon as his horse stepped on the big flat stone that covered the\nmouth of the dungeon, it gave way beneath its weight, and both man and\nhorse fell down, and were crushed to pieces on the hard stone floor,\nfull thirty feet below.\n\nThe King was right wroth when he heard how his messenger had been\ntreated, but before he could set off for Liddesdale to punish Lord\nSoulis, the punishment came from nearer home.\n\nIt chanced that the young Lord of Buccleuch wooed a lovely lady called\nMay o' Gorranberry. 'Twas said that she was the bonniest lass in all\nTeviotdale, and in all Liddesdale, and the wedding day was fixed. But\nthe wicked Lord Soulis, puffed up with pride at the way in which he had\ngot rid of the King's messenger, and relying, doubtless, on Redcap's\ncharm to protect him from danger, took it into his sinful head that he\nwould like May o' Gorranberry for his wife.\n\nAnd he sent, and took her, as she was walking on the hillside above her\nfather's house, and brought her to his grim old Castle of Hermitage.\n\nThe poor lassie was almost mad with terror, and tore her hair, and cried\ncontinually for her lover, until the cruel man threatened that if she\ndid not hold her tongue he would send men to burn down Branksome Tower,\nand kill all its inmates.\n\nAnd next morning, because she would not stop weeping, he called his\nchief man-at-arms, a brave, fearless fellow called Red Ringan, and told\nhim to gather a band of spearmen, and ride over the hills to Teviotdale,\nand attack the old castle which was the home of the Lords of Buccleuch.\n\nNow it chanced that that very morning, young Buccleuch set out alone to\nhunt the roe-buck and the dun deer which roamed in the woods that\nsurrounded his castle. He had fine sport, and he went on, and on, and\nnever noticed how far up among the hills he was getting, or how fast the\nday was passing, until it began to get dark.\n\nSuddenly he looked up, and, to his astonishment, he saw, riding down the\nglen to meet him, a company of spearmen. He thought they were his own\nretainers, and walked boldly up to them, and never knew his mistake\nuntil he was seized, and bound hand and foot. They were really Lord\nSoulis' men, with Red Ringan at their head, and Red Ringan had thrown a\nglamour over his eyes, so that he could not distinguish between friends\nand foes. Of course Red Ringan was delighted at this piece of good luck,\nand he set the poor young man on a horse, and sent him over the hills to\nHermitage, guarded by a handful of spearmen, while he rode on with the\nrest of his troop to Branksome, to see what mischief he could work\nthere.\n\nThou canst think with what triumph my Lord Soulis would greet his\nprisoner, and with what bitter tears May o' Gorranberry would see him\nbrought in, for she would know about the dungeon, and shudder to think\nwhat his fate would be.\n\n'Twas said that the cruel lord mocked at young Buccleuch as he rode\nunder the archway, and cried out to him, as if in jest--\n\n\"Thrice welcome, Buccleuch, thrice welcome to my castle. Nathless 'tis\nas a wedding guest thou comest. Certs, my bonnie May well deserves such\na gallant groomsman.\"\n\nNext morning the sun rose blood red, and just as its rays touched the\ngray stones of the grim old keep, the page came running to say that Red\nRingan was riding down the hillside all alone. Methinks the wicked\nlord's heart gave a throb of fear, as he hurried out to the gate to meet\nhis henchman.\n\n\"Where have ye stabled my gallant steeds?\" he cried, \"and wherefore do\nthy comrades tarry, whilst thou ridest home all alone?\"\n\nRed Ringan shook his head mournfully. \"I bring thee heavy tidings,\nMaster,\" he said. \"The steeds are stabled, sure enough, but 'tis in a\nstable where they will rest till the Crack of Doom, and their riders lie\nbeside them. Thou knowest Tarras Moss, and how fair and pleasant it\nlies, and how deep and cruel it is? My men mistook the path in the dark,\nand rode right into it, and, had it not been for my good brown mare, not\none of us had been left to tell the tale. She struggled to firm footing\nright nobly, and brought me out alive on her back; but when I looked\naround me, I was all alone, Master, I was all alone.\"\n\nLord Soulis made no reply. With heavy steps he sought the low dark room\nwhere the great chest stood, with its iron bands, and its three rusty\nlocks.\n\nHe shut the door behind him, and then, with clenched fist, he knocked\nthrice on the heavy lid. The first time he knocked, and the second time,\nsuch a groan came from the chest that his very blood ran cold; but at\nthe third knock the locks opened, and the lid began to rise.\n\nLord Soulis turned away his head as Redcap had told him to do, and stood\nlistening with all his might. A strange sullen muttering came from the\nchest, of which he could only distinguish these mysterious words,\n\"Beware of a coming tree,\" and then the lid shut as slowly as it had\nopened, and the locks were locked with a jerk, as if by unseen hands.\n\nMeanwhile, over the hills in Teviotdale there had been confusion and\ndismay when the young Lord of Buccleuch failed to return, and when news\ncame by the country folk that he had been seen, bound hand and foot,\nbeing taken to Hermitage by Lord Soulis' men, the anger of the whole\nclan knew no bounds. For, as it is to-day, little Annie, so it was then.\nThe Scotts of Buccleuch were strong and powerful, and held in honour far\nand near.\n\nThe young lord had one brother, Bold Walter by name. He was a mighty\nfighter and a right strong man, who carried a bow that no other man\ncould bend, and who loved nothing better than to ride on a foray with\nall his father's moss-troopers at his back. Methinks Lord Soulis had\nforgotten Bold Walter when he meddled with his brother and his bride.\n\nIt did not take this brave knight long, when he heard the news, to send\nhis riders out to North, and South, and East, and West, to call on his\nfriends and clansmen to ride with him to the fray. And because he had\nheard of Old Redcap, and knew that Lord Soulis would be protected by his\ncharms, he sent all the way to the Tower of Ercildoune for True Thomas,\nthat wondrous Rhymer, who had been for seven years in Fairyland, and\nwho, on his return to earth, had gone to the Abbey Church of St Mary, at\nMelrose, and had taken Sir Michael Scott's Spae-book from its dread\nhiding-place, for its writer had been buried with it in his arms.\n\nSo, before the next sun had set, Bold Walter had raised as fair an army\nas that which the King in Edinburgh had thought to send to Hermitage.\nThe news of this army spread like wildfire over the country, ay, and\nover the hills to Hermitage, and I ween Lord Soulis' heart sank still\nlower when he heard of it, and once more he went for counsel to the\nmagic chest. Again he knocked, and again the hollow groan rang out; but\nas the lid lifted, he forgot in his haste to turn his eyes away, and in\na moment the charm was broken. The spirit spoke indeed, but it spoke\nsullenly and angrily.\n\n\"Alas,\" it said, \"thou art undone. Thou hast forgotten my warning, and,\ninstead of turning away thy head, thou hast raised thine eyes to look on\nme. Therefore thou must lock the door of this chamber, and give the key\ninto my keeping, and for seven long years thou must not return, and I\nmust remain silent.\"\n\nThe wicked may flourish like the green bay tree, little Annie, but\nvengeance will always overtake them at last; and I trow that Lord Soulis\nfelt that vengeance was close on his heels, as he left that mysterious\nchamber, and locked the door, and drew the key from the lock, where it\nhad always rested, in his life-time at least, and threw it over his left\nshoulder, which is, men say, the right way to give things to wizards and\nwitches, and such-like beings.\n\nThe key sank in the ground, and there it remains for aught I know, and\n'tis said that even to this day, at the end of every seven years, if\nanyone cares to listen, they may hear strange and awful sounds coming\nfrom that long-locked chamber.[23]\n\n  [Footnote 23: \"Somewhere about the autumn of 1806, the Earl of\n  Dalkeith, being encamped near the Hermitage Castle, for the\n  amusement of shooting, directed some workmen to clear away the\n  rubbish from the door of the dungeon in order to ascertain its\n  ancient dimensions and architecture. To the great astonishment of\n  the labourers, a rusty iron key of considerable size was found among\n  the ruins a little way from the dungeon door. The well-known\n  tradition passed from one to another, and it was generally agreed\n  that the malevolent demon who had so long retained possession of the\n  key of the castle dungeon now found himself obliged to resign it to\n  the heir-apparent of the domain.\"--Note on \"Lord Soulis\" in _Leyden's\n  Life and Works_.]\n\nYet Lord Soulis' heart was not humbled, and he made up his mind, that,\ncome what might, young Buccleuch should die. And in the wickedness and\ncruelty of his heart he determined that he himself should choose the\nmanner of it.\n\nSo he had him brought before him. \"What wouldst thou do, young Scott, if\nthou hadst me as I have thee?\" he asked, in his cruel mocking voice.\n\n\"I would take thee to the good greenwood,\" answered Buccleuch haughtily,\n\"and I would hang thee there, and I would make thine own hand wale[24]\nthe tree.\"\n\n  [Footnote 24: Choose.]\n\n\"Good,\" answered Lord Soulis; \"then thou shalt do as thou hast said, and\nif bonnie May refuse to marry me, then she shall hang on a bush beside\nthee.\"\n\nSo they led him out to a wood full of tall trees, far up on whose upper\nbranches sat hooded crows, looking down on them in solemn silence.\n\nThe first tree that Lord Soulis made his men halt under was a fir.\n\n\"Say, wilt thou hang on a fir tree, and let the hooded crows pick thy\nbones?\" he asked roughly.\n\nYoung Buccleuch shook his head. \"Nay, not so, my Lord of Soulis,\" he\nanswered in mock humility, \"for on windy nights at Branksome, the fir\ntrees rock by the old towers, and the fir cones come pattering to the\nground like rain. I heard them when I was a bairn, as I lay awake at\nnight in my cot. Thou surely wouldst not have the heart to hang me on a\ntree which I have loved all my life.\"\n\nThen Soulis told his men to pass on, and as they went through the wood\ntheir prisoner kept peeping and peering from side to side, and muttering\nto himself, as if he were looking for something. The men-at-arms could\nnot hear what he was saying, and methinks they would have been much\nastonished if they had. For he knew the spirit that his brother was of,\nand he knew that he would not let him hang without an attempt at rescue,\nand he was saying over and over again to himself, \"This death is no' for\nme, this death is no' for me.\"\n\nAt last they halted again under an aspen tree, whose leaves were\nquivering mournfully in the wind. Lord Soulis was growing impatient.\n\n\"Choose, and choose quickly,\" he cried, \"or methinks I must choose for\nthee.\"\n\nBut again Buccleuch shook his head. \"Not on an aspen tree, my lord, not\non an aspen tree. I love its gray leaves better than any other, for it\nwas under their shade that May o' Gorranberry and I first plighted our\ntroth.\"\n\nSo on they went, and still the young man peered and looked, first in\nthis direction, then in that, until at last he saw what seemed to be a\nbank of hazel branches pressing through the trees towards them. Then he\ngave a great shout, and leaped high in the air. \"Methinks I spy a coming\ntree,\" he cried, and at the words Lord Soulis' face grew pale, for they\nrecalled to him Redcap's warning, and he feared that his hour had come.\n\nEveryone soon saw what the strange thing was which was coming towards\nthem. It was Bold Walter of Buccleuch and his men, and each of them had\nstuck a branch of witch's hazel in his basnet, for 'tis said that a twig\nof hazel protects its wearer from the arts of magic, and they had no\nmind to be bewitched by the Lord of Hermitage.\n\nSo this was the coming tree that Redcap had warned Lord Soulis to beware\nof, and it had come in right earnest.\n\nBut Soulis remembered the charmed life that he bore, and he tried to\nshake fear from his heart.\n\n\"Ay, many may come, but few shall go back,\" he cried defiantly;\n\"besides, ye come on a bootless errand. There is not a man in broad\nScotland who hath the power to wound me.\"\n\n\"By my troth,\" replied Bold Walter, \"but we shall soon prove that,\" and,\ndrawing his bow, he sent an arrow straight in Lord Soulis' face.\n\nSure enough it fell harmless to the ground, and there was not even a\nscratch on the wicked lord's skin, and for a moment Buccleuch was\nbaffled.\n\nBut Thomas of Ercildoune stepped forward. \"He is bewitched, Sire,\" he\nsaid, \"and protected by the charms of Redcap. No steel can break that\ncharm, but mayhap if thy men bore him down with their lances, he might\nbe taken.\"\n\nIn vain the spearmen crowded round, and struck him to the earth. The\nlances glanced harmlessly off his body, and never left so much as a mark\non him.\n\nThen they bound him hand and foot with hempen ropes, but, to their\namazement, he burst them as if they had been threads of wool. Then\nsomeone brought chains of forged steel, and they bound those round his\nlimbs, thinking that now they surely had him in their power; but he\nburst them as easily as if they had been made of tow.\n\nAt this everyone was daunted, and would have let him go, but Thomas of\nErcildoune cried cheerily, \"We'll bind him yet, lads, whatever betide.\"\n\nAs he spoke, he drew out from his bosom a little black leather-covered\nbook, and at the sight of it all the spearmen fell back in awe. For it\nwas Sir Michael Scott's \"Book of Might,\" and, as I have said, Sir\nMichael was a wizard himself, and knew all about warlocks and witches,\nwith their charms and spells, and he could undo everyone of them, and he\nhad written all this knowledge down in his black Spae-book. When he\ndied, the book had been buried deep in his grave in the Abbey at\nMelrose, and True Thomas had gone there, and recovered it, and he had\nbrought it with him to aid Bold Walter of Buccleuch in rescuing his\nbrother.\n\nHe turned over the leaves, and at last he found the place where Sir\nMichael had told how it was possible to bind a charmed man.\n\n\"Ye cannot bind a wizard with ropes,\" he read, \"unless they be ropes of\nsifted sand.\"\n\n\"Where can we get some sifted sand?\" he asked, and everyone looked round\nin dismay, for there was no sand there, under the trees.\n\n\"Come to the Nine-stane Rig,\" cried a man; \"there is a burn[25] runs\npast the bottom of it, and we will find plenty of sand there.\"\n\n  [Footnote 25: Stream.]\n\nThou knowest the Nine-stane Rig, little Annie, the hill that slopes down\nto Hermitage Water, with the circle of great stones standing on it,\nwhich, 'tis said, were placed there by wild and heathen men, hundreds of\nyears ago. Well, they carried Lord Soulis there, and hurried him down to\nthe burn, and they shaped ropes out of the sand that lies smooth and\nclean by the water-side.\n\nBut, shape the ropes as they might, they would neither twist nor twine;\nthe dry sand just ran through their fingers, and once again they were\nbaffled. Once more True Thomas turned to the spae-book, and this time he\nfound that the sand would twist more easily if it were mixed with barley\nchaff, and the men of Teviotdale ran down the valley until they came to\na field of growing barley. They pulled the ripe grain and beat it in\ntheir hands, and it was not long ere they returned with a napkin full of\nchaff. They mixed nine handfuls of it with the sand, for it was thus the\n\"Book of Might\" directed, and once more they tried to twist the ropes,\nbut once more they failed.\n\n\"This is some of the wee man's work,\" muttered the country folk, who\nwere standing looking on; and they were right. Old Redcap had not\ndeserted his master, although the spell which caused the magic chest to\nopen was broken, and he was at hand, doing his utmost to save him,\nthough unseen by mortal eyes.\n\nAgain True Thomas turned over the leaves of Sir Michael's book, in the\nhope of finding something which would break even the most powerful\nspell, and at last he came to a page where it told how, if all else\nfailed, the wizard must be boiled in lead.\n\nAy, thou mayst well shudder, little Annie, and hide thy face in my gown.\n\n'Twas a terrible thing to do, but they did it.\n\nThey kindled a fire on the Nine-stane Rig, in the middle of the old\nDruid stones, and there they placed the great brass cauldron. They\nheated it red hot, and some of them hasted to Hermitage Castle, and\nstripped a sheet of lead from the roof, and they wrapped the wicked lord\nin it, and plunged him in, and stood round in solemn silence till the\ncontents of that awful pot melted--lead, and bones, and all--and nought\nremained but a seething sea of molten metal.\n\nSo came the sinful man by his end, and to this day the cauldron remains,\nas thou knowest, child. It was brought over to the Skelf-hill, and there\nit stands, a fearful warning to evil-doers, while, on the spot where it\nwas boiled, within the circle of stones on the Nine-stane Rig, the\nground lies bare and fallow, for the very grass refuses to grow where\nsuch a terrible deed was done.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BROWNIE OF BLEDNOCK\n\n    \"There came a strange wight to our town en',\n      An' the fient a body did him ken;\n    He twirled na' lang, but he glided ben,\n      Wi' a weary, dreary hum.\n\n    His face did glow like the glow o' the West,\n      When the drumly cloud had it half o'ercast;\n    Or the struggling moon when she's sair distrest.\n      O, Sirs! it was Aiken-Drum.\"\n\n\nDid you ever hear how a Brownie came to our village of Blednock, and was\nfrightened away again by a silly young wife, who thought she was\ncleverer than anyone else, but who did us the worst turn that she ever\ndid anybody in her life, when she made the queer, funny, useful little\nman disappear?\n\nWell, it was one November evening, in the gloaming, just when the\nmilking was done, and before the bairns were put to bed, and everyone\nwas standing on their doorsteps, having a crack about the bad harvest,\nand the turnips, and what chances there were of good prices for the\nstirks[26] at the Martinmas Fair, when the queerest humming noise\nstarted down by the river.\n\n  [Footnote 26: Bullocks.]\n\nIt came nearer and nearer, and everyone stopped their clavers[27] and\nbegan to look down the road. And, 'deed, it was no wonder that they\nstared, for there, coming up the middle of the highway, was the\nstrangest, most frightsome-looking creature that human eyes had ever\nseen.\n\n  [Footnote 27: Idle talk.]\n\nHe looked like a little wee, wee man, and yet he looked almost like a\nbeast, for he was covered with hair from head to foot, and he wore no\nclothing except a little kilt of green rashes which hung round his\nwaist. His hair was matted, and his head hung forward on his breast, and\nhe had a long blue beard, which almost touched the ground.\n\nHis legs were twisted, and knocked together as he walked, and his arms\nwere so long that his hands trailed in the mud.\n\nHe seemed to be humming something over and over again, and, as he came\nnear us we could just make out the words, \"Hae ye wark for Aiken-Drum?\"\n\nEh, but I can tell you the folk were scared. If it had been the Evil One\nhimself who had come to our quiet little village, I doubt if he would\nhave caused more stir.[28] The bairns screamed, and hid their faces in\ntheir mothers' gown-tails; while the lassies, idle huzzies that they\nwere, threw down the pails of milk, which should have been in the\nmilkhouse long ago, if they had not been so busy gossiping; and the very\ndogs crept in behind their masters, whining, and hiding their tails\nbetween their legs. The grown men, who should have known better, and who\nwere not frightened to look the wee man in the face, laughed and hooted\nat him.\n\n  [Footnote 28: Excitement.]\n\n\"Did ye ever see such eyes?\" cried one.\n\n\"His mouth is so big, he could swallow the moon,\" said another.\n\n\"Hech, sirs, but did ye ever see such a creature?\" cried a third.\n\nAnd still the poor little man went slowly up the street, crying\nwistfully, \"Hae ye wark for Aiken-Drum? Any wark for Aiken-Drum?\"\n\nSome of us tried to speak to him, but our tongues seemed to be tied, and\nthe words died away on our lips, and we could only stand and watch him\nwith frightened glances, as if we were bewitched.\n\nOld Grannie Duncan, the oldest, and the kindest woman in the village,\nwas the first to come to her senses. \"He may be a ghost, or a bogle, or\na wraith,\" she said; \"or he may only be a harmless Brownie. It is beyond\nme to say; but this I know, that if he be an evil spirit, he will not\ndare to look on the Holy Book.\" And with that she ran into her cottage,\nand brought out the great leather-bound Bible which aye lay on her\nlittle table by the window.\n\nShe stood on the road, and held it out, right in front of the creature,\nbut he took no more heed of it than if it had been an old song-book, and\nwent slowly on, with his weary cry for work.\n\n\"He's just a Brownie,\" cried Grannie Duncan in triumph, \"a simple,\nkindly Brownie. I've heard tell of such folk before, and many a long\nday's work will they do for the people who treat them well.\"\n\nGathering courage from her words, we all crowded round the wee man, and\nnow that we were close to him, we saw that his hairy face was kind and\ngentle, and his tiny eyes had a merry twinkle in them.\n\n\"Save us, and help us, creature!\" said an old man reprovingly, \"but can\nye no speak, and tell us what ye want, and where ye come from?\"\n\nFor answer the Brownie looked all round him, and gave such a groan, that\nwe scattered and ran in all directions, and it was full five minutes\nbefore we could pluck up our courage and go close to him again.\n\nBut Grannie Duncan stood her ground, like a brave old woman that she\nwas, and it was to her that the creature spoke.\n\n\"I cannot tell thee from whence I come,\" he said. \"'Tis a nameless land,\nand 'tis very different from this land of thine. For there we all learn\nto serve, while here everyone wishes to be served. And when there is no\nwork for us to do at home, then we sometimes set out to visit thy land,\nto see if there is any work which we may do there. I must seem strange\nto human eyes, that I know; but if thou wilt, I will stay in this place\nawhile. I need not that any should wait on me, for I seek neither wages,\nnor clothes, nor bedding. All I ask for is the corner of a barn to sleep\nin, and a cogful of brose set down on the floor at bedtime; and if no\none meddles with me, I will be ready to help anyone who needs me. I'll\ngather your sheep betimes on the hill; I'll take in your harvest by\nmoonlight. I'll sing the bairns to sleep in their cradles, and, though I\ndoubt you'll not believe it, you'll find that the babes will love me.\nI'll kirn your kirns[29] for you, goodwives, and I'll bake your bread on\na busy day; while, as for the men folk, they may find me useful when\nthere is corn to thrash, or untamed colts in the stables, or when the\nwaters are out in flood.\"\n\n  [Footnote 29: A churn.]\n\nNo one quite knew what to say in answer to the creature's strange\nrequest. It was an unheard-of thing for anyone to come and offer their\nservices for nothing, and the men began to whisper among themselves, and\nto say that it was not canny, and 'twere better to have nothing to do\nwith him.\n\nBut up spoke old Grannie Duncan again. \"'Tis but a Brownie, I tell you,\"\nshe repeated, \"a poor, harmless Brownie, and many a story have I heard\nin my young days about the work that a Brownie can do, if he be well\ntreated and let alone. Have we not been complaining all summer about bad\ntimes, and scant wages, and a lack of workmen to work the work? And now,\nwhen a workman comes ready to your hand, ye will have none of him, just\nbecause he is not bonnie to look on.\"\n\nStill the men hesitated, and the silly young wenches screwed their\nfaces, and pulled their mouths. \"But, Grannie,\" cried they, \"that is all\nvery well, but if we keep such a creature in our village, no one will\ncome near it, and then what shall we do for sweethearts?\"\n\n\"Shame on ye,\" cried Grannie impatiently, \"and on all you men for\nencouraging the silly things in their whimsies. It's time that ye were\nthinking o' other things than bonnie faces and sweethearts. 'Handsome is\nthat handsome does,' is a good old saying; and what about the corn that\nstands rotting in the fields, an' it past Hallowe'en already? I've heard\nthat a Brownie can stack a whole ten-acre field in a single night.\"\n\nThat settled the matter. The miller offered the creature the corner of\nhis barn to sleep in, and Grannie promised to boil the cogful of brose,\nand send her grandchild, wee Jeannie, down with it every evening, and\nthen we all said good-night, and went into our houses, looking over our\nshoulders as we did so, for fear that the strange little man was\nfollowing us.\n\nBut if we were afraid of him that night, we had a very different song to\nsing before a week was over. Whatever he was, or wherever he came from,\nhe was the most wonderful worker that men had ever known. And the\nstrange thing was that he did most of it at night. He had the corn safe\ninto the stackyards, and the stacks thatched, in the clap of a hand, as\nthe old folk say.\n\nThe village became the talk of the countryside, and folk came from all\nparts to see if they could catch a glimpse of our queer, hairy little\nvisitor; but they were always unsuccessful, for he was never to be seen\nwhen one looked for him. One might go into the miller's barn twenty\ntimes a day, and twenty times a day find nothing but a heap of straw;\nand although the cog of brose was aye empty in the morning, no one knew\nwhen he came home, or when he supped it.\n\nBut wherever there was work to be done, whether it was a sickly bairn to\nbe sung to, or a house to be tidied up; a kirn that would not kirn, or a\nbatch of bread that would not rise; a flock of sheep to be gathered\ntogether on a stormy night, or a bundle to be carried home by some weary\nlabourer; Aiken-Drum, as we learned to call him, always got to know of\nit, and appeared in the nick of time. It looked as if we had all got\nwishing-caps, for we had just to wish, and the work was done.\n\nMany a time, some poor mother, who had been up with a crying babe all\nnight, would sit down with it in her lap, in front of the fire, in the\nmorning, and fall fast asleep, and when she awoke, she would find that\nAiken-Drum had paid her a visit, for the floor would be washed, and the\ndishes too, and the fire made up, and the kettle put on to boil; but the\nlittle man would have slipped away, as if he were frightened of being\nthanked.\n\nThe bairns were the only ones who ever saw him idle, and oh, how they\nloved him! In the gloaming, or when the school was out, one could see\nthem away down in some corner by the burn[30]-side, crowding round the\nlittle dark brown figure, with its kilt of rushes, and one would hear\nthe sound of wondrous low sweet singing, for he knew all the songs that\nthe little ones loved.\n\n  [Footnote 30: Stream.]\n\nSo by and by the name of Aiken-Drum came to be a household word amongst\nus, and although we so seldom saw him near at hand, we loved him like\none of our ain folk.\n\nAnd he might have been here still, had it not been for a silly,\nsenseless young wife who thought she knew better than everyone else, and\nwho took some idle notion into her empty head that it was not right to\nmake the little man work, and give him no wage.\n\nShe dinned[31] this into our heads, morning, noon, and night, and she\nwould not believe us when we told her that Aiken-Drum worked for love,\nand love only.\n\n  [Footnote 31: Impressed this upon us.]\n\nPoor thing, she could not understand anyone doing that, so she made up\nher mind that she, at least, would do what was right, and set us all an\nexample.\n\n\"She did not mean any harm,\" she said afterwards, when the miller took\nher to task for it; but although she might not mean to do any harm, she\ndid plenty, as senseless folk are apt to do when they cannot bear to\ntake other people's advice, for she took a pair of her husband's old,\nmouldy, worn-out breeches, and laid them down one night beside the\ncogful of brose.\n\nBy my faith, if the village folk had not remembered so well what\nAiken-Drum had said about wanting no wages, they would have found\nsomething better to give him than a pair of worn-out breeks.\n\nBe that as it may, the long and the short of it was, that the dear wee\nman's feelings were hurt because we would not take his services for\nnothing, and he vanished in the night, as Brownies are apt to do, so\nGrannie Duncan says, if anyone tries to pay them, and we have never seen\nhim from that day to this, although the bairns declare that they\nsometimes hear him singing down by the mill, as they pass it in the\ngloaming, on their way home from school.\n\n\n\n\nSIR PATRICK SPENS\n\n    \"The king sits in Dunfermline town,\n      Drinking the blude-red wine;\n    'O whare will I get a skeely skipper,\n      To sail this new ship o' mine?'\n\n     *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Half owre, half owre to Aberdour,\n      'Tis fifty fathoms deep,\n    And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,\n      Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.\"\n\n\nNow hearken to me, all ye who love old stories, and I will tell you how\none of the bravest and most gallant of Scottish seamen came by his\ndeath.\n\n'Tis the story of an event which brought mourning and dule to many a\nfair lady's heart, in the far-off days of long ago.\n\nNow all the world knows that his Majesty, King Alexander the Third, who\nafterwards came by his death on the rocks at Kinghorn, had one only\ndaughter, named Margaret, after her ancestress, the wife of Malcolm\nCanmore, whose life was so holy, and her example so blessed, that, to\nthis day, men call her Saint Margaret of Scotland.\n\nKing Alexander had had much trouble in his life, for he had already\nburied his wife, and his youngest son David, and 'twas no wonder that,\nas he sat in the great hall of his Palace at Dunfermline, close to the\nAbbey Church, where he loved best to hold his Court, that his heart was\nsore at the thought of parting with his motherless daughter.\n\nShe had lately been betrothed to Eric, the young King of Norway, and it\nwas now full time that she went to her new home. So a stately ship had\nbeen prepared to convey her across the sea; the amount of her dowry had\nbeen settled; her attendants chosen; and it only remained to appoint a\ncaptain to the charge of the vessel.\n\nBut here King Alexander was at a loss. It was now past midsummer, and in\nautumn the Northern Sea was wont to be wild and stormy, and on the\nskilful steering of the Royal bark many precious lives depended.\n\nHe thought first of one man skilled in the art of seamanship, and then\nhe thought of another, and at last he turned in his perplexity to his\nnobles who were sitting around him.\n\n\"Canst tell me,\" he said, fingering a glass of red French wine as he\nspoke, \"of a man well skilled in the knowledge of winds and tides, yet\nof gentle birth withal, who can be trusted to pilot this goodly ship of\nmine, with her precious burden, safely over the sea to Norway?\"\n\nThe nobles looked at one another in silence for a moment, and then one\nof them, an old gray-haired baron, rose from his seat by Alexander's\nside.\n\n\"Scotland lacks not seamen, both gentle and simple, my Liege,\" he said,\n\"who could be trusted with this precious charge. But there is one man of\nmy acquaintance, who, above all others, is worthy of such a trust. I\nspeak of young Sir Patrick Spens, who lives not far from here. Not so\nmany years have passed over his head, but from a boy he has loved the\nsea, and already he knows more about it, and its moods, than\nwhite-haired men who have sailed on it all their lives. 'Tis his bride,\nhe says, an' I trow he speaks the truth, for, although he is as fair a\ngallant as ever the eye of lady rested on, and although many tender\nhearts, both within the Court, and without, beat a quicker measure when\nhis name is spoken, he is as yet free of love fancies, and aye bides\ntrue to this changeful mistress of his. Truly he may well count it an\nhonour to have the keeping of so fair a flower entrusted to him.\"\n\n\"Now bring me paper and pen,\" cried the King, \"and I will write to him\nthis instant with mine own hand.\"\n\nSlowly and laboriously King Alexander penned the lines, for in these\ndays kings were readier with the sword than with the pen; then, folding\nthe letter and sealing it with the great signet ring which he wore on\nthe third finger of his right hand, he gave it to the old baron, and\ncommanded him to seek Sir Patrick Spens without loss of time.\n\nNow Sir Patrick dwelt near the sea, and when the baron arrived he found\nhim pacing up and down on the hard white sand by the sea-shore, watching\nthe waves, and studying the course of the tides. He was quite a young\nman, and 'twas little wonder if the story which the old baron had told\nwas true, and if all the ladies' hearts in Fife ached for love of him,\nfor I trow never did goodlier youth walk the earth, and men said of him\nthat he was as gentle and courteous as he was handsome.\n\nAt first when he began to read the King's letter, his face flushed with\npride, for who would not have felt proud to be chosen before all others\nin Scotland, to be the captain of the King's Royal bark? But the smile\npassed away almost as soon as it appeared, and a look of great sadness\ntook its place. In silence he gazed out over the sea. Did something warn\nhim at that moment that this would prove his last voyage;--that never\nagain would he set foot in his beloved land?\n\nIt may be so; who can tell? Certain it is--the old baron recalled it to\nhis mind in the sad days that were to come--that, when the young sailor\nhanded back the King's letter to him, his eyes were full of tears.\n\n\"'Tis certainly a great honour,\" he said, \"and I thank his Majesty for\ngranting it to me, but methinks it was no one who loved my life, or the\nlives of those who sail with me, who suggested our setting out for\nNorway at this time of year.\"\n\nThen, anxious lest the baron thought that he said this out of fear, or\ncowardice, he changed his tone, and hurried him up to his house to\npartake of some refreshment after his ride, while he gave orders to his\nseamen to get everything ready.\n\n\"Make haste, my men,\" he shouted in a cheerful, lusty voice, \"for a\ngreat honour hath fallen to our lot. His Majesty hath deigned to entrust\nto us his much loved daughter, the Princess Margaret, that we may convey\nher, in the stately ship which he hath prepared, to her husband's court\nin Norway. Wherefore, let every man look to himself, and let him meet me\nat Aberdour, where the ship lies, on Sunday by nightfall, for we sail\nnext day with the tide.\"\n\nSo on the Monday morning early, ere it struck eight of the clock, a\ngreat procession wound down from the King's Palace at Dunfermline to the\nlittle landing-stage at Aberdour, where the stately ship was lying, with\nher white sails set, like a gigantic swan.\n\nBetween the King and his son, the Prince of Scotland, rode the Princess\nMargaret, her eyes red with weeping, for in those days it was no light\nthing to set out for another land, and she felt that the parting might\nbe for ever. And so, in good sooth, it proved to be, in this world at\nleast, for before many years had passed all three were in their graves;\nbut that belongs not to my tale.\n\nNext rode the high and mighty persons who were to accompany the Princess\nto her husband's land, and be witnesses of the fulfilment of the\nmarriage contract. These were their Graces the Earl and Countess of\nMenteith, his Reverence the Abbot of Balmerino, the good Lord Bernard of\nMonte-Alto, and many others, including a crowd of young nobles, five and\nfifty in all, who had been asked to swell the Princess's retinue, and\nwho were only too glad to have a chance of getting a glimpse of other\nlands.\n\nNext came a long train of sumpter mules, with the Princess's baggage,\nand that of her attendants. And last of all, guarded well by\nmen-at-arms, came the huge iron-bound chests which contained her dowry:\nseven thousand merks in good white money; and there were other seven\nthousand merks laid out for her in land in Scotland.\n\nSir Patrick Spens was waiting to receive the Princess on board the ship.\nRight courteously, I ween, he handed her to her cabin, and saw that my\nLady of Menteith, in whose special care she was, was well lodged also,\nas befitted her rank and station. But I trow that his lip curled with\nscorn when he saw that the five and fifty young nobles had provided\nthemselves with five and fifty feather beds to sleep on.\n\nHe himself was a hardy man, as a sailor ought to be, and he loved not to\nsee men so careful of their comfort.\n\nAt last the baggage, and the dowry, and even the feather beds were\nstowed away; and the last farewells having been said, the great ship\nweighed anchor, and sailed slowly out of the Firth of Forth.\n\nAh me, how many eyes there were, which watched it sail away, with\nhusband, or brother, or sweetheart on board, which would wait in vain\nfor many a long day for its return!\n\nSir Patrick made a good voyage. The sea was calm, the wind was in his\nfavour, and by the evening of the third day he brought his ship with her\nprecious burden safe to the shores of Norway.\n\n\"Now the Saints be praised,\" he said to himself as he cast anchor, \"for\nthe Princess is safe, let happen what may on our return voyage.\"\n\nIn great state, and with much magnificence, Margaret of Scotland was\nwedded to Eric of Norway, and great feasting and merry-making marked the\nevent. For a whole month the rejoicing went on. The Norwegian nobles\nvied with each other who could pay most attention to the Scottish\nstrangers. From morning to night their halls rang with music, and\ngaiety, and dancing. No wonder that the young nobles;--nay, no wonder\nthat even Sir Patrick Spens himself, careful seaman though he was,\nforgot to think of the homeward journey, or to remember how soon the\nstorms of winter would be upon them.\n\nIn good sooth they might have remained where they were till the spring,\nand then this tale need never have been told, had not a thoughtless\ntaunt touched their Scottish pride to the quick.\n\nThe people of Norway are a frugal race, and to the older nobles all this\nfeasting and junketing seemed like wild, needless extravagance.\n\n\"Our young men have gone mad,\" they said to each other; \"if this goes\non, the country will be ruined. 'Tis those strangers who have done it.\nIt would be a good day for Norway if they would bethink themselves, and\nsail for home.\"\n\nThat very night there was a great banquet, an' I warrant that there was\ndire confusion in the hall when a fierce old noble of Royal blood, an\nuncle of the King, spoke aloud to Sir Patrick Spens in the hearing of\nall the company.\n\n\"Now little good will the young Queen's dowry do either to our King or\nto our country,\" he said, \"if it has all to be eaten up, feasting a\ncrowd of idle youngsters who ought to be at home attending to their own\nbusiness.\"\n\nSir Patrick turned red, and then he turned white. What the old man said\nwas very untrue; and he knew it. For, besides the young Queen's dowry, a\nlarge sum of money had been taken over in the ship, to pay for the\nexpenses of her attendants, and of the nobles in her train.\n\n\"'Tis false. Ye lie,\" he said bluntly; \"for I wot I brought as much\nwhite money with me as would more than pay for all that hath been spent\non our behalf. If these be the ways of Norway, then beshrew me, but I\nlike them not.\"\n\nWith these words he turned and left the hall followed by all the\nScottish nobles. Without speaking a word to any of them, he strode down\nto the harbour, where his ship was lying, and ordered the sailors to\nbegin to make ready at once, for he would sail for home in the morning.\n\nThe night was cold and dreary; there was plainly a storm brewing. It was\nsafe and snug in the harbour, and the sailors were loth to face the\ndangers of the voyage. But their captain looked so pale and stern, that\neveryone feared to speak.\n\n\"Master,\" said an old man at last--he was the oldest man on board, and\nhad seen nigh seventy years--\"I have never refused to do thy bidding,\nand I will not begin to-night. We will go, if go we must; but, if it be\nso, then may God's mercy rest on us. For late yestreen I saw the old\nmoon in the sky, and she was nursing the new moon in her arms. It needs\nnot me to tell thee, for thou art as weather-wise as I am, what that\nsign bodes.\"\n\n\"Say ye so?\" said Sir Patrick, startled in spite of his anger; \"then, by\nmy troth, we may prepare for a storm. But tide what may, come snow or\nsleet, come cold or wet, we head for Scotland in the morning.\"\n\nSo the stately ship set her sails once more, and for a time all went\nwell. But when they had sailed for nigh three days, and were thinking\nthat they must be near Scotland, the sky grew black and the wind arose,\nand all signs pointed to a coming storm.\n\nSir Patrick took the helm himself, and did his best to steer the ship\nthrough the tempest which soon broke over them, and which grew worse and\nworse every moment. The sailors worked with a will at the ropes, and\neven the foolish young nobles, awed by the danger which threatened them,\noffered their assistance. But they were of little use, and certs, one\nwould have laughed to have seen them, had the peril not been so great,\nwith their fine satin cloaks wrapped round them, and carrying their\nfeathered hats under their arms, trying to step daintily across the\ndeck, between the rushes of the water, in order that they might not wet\ntheir tiny, cork-heeled, pointed-toed shoes.\n\nAlack, alack, neither feathered hats, nor pointed shoon, availed to save\nthem! Darker and darker grew the sea, and every moment the huge waves\nthreatened to engulf the goodly vessel.\n\nSir Patrick Spens had sailed on many a stormy sea, but never in his life\nhad he faced a tempest like this. He knew that he and all his gallant\ncompany were doomed men unless the land were near. That was their only\nhope, to find some harbour and run into it for shelter.\n\nSoon the huge waves were breaking over the deck, and the bulwarks began\nto give way. Truly their case was desperate, and even the gay young\nnobles grew grave, and many hearts were turned towards the homes which\nthey would never see again.\n\n\"Send me a man to take the helm,\" shouted Sir Patrick hoarsely, \"while I\nclimb to the top of the mast, and try if I can see land.\"\n\nInstantly the old sailor who had warned him of the coming storm, the\nnight before, was at his side.\n\n\"I will guide the ship, captain,\" he said, \"if thou art bent on going\naloft; but I fear me thou wilt see no land. Sailors who are out on their\nlast voyage need not look for port.\"\n\nNow Sir Patrick was a brave man, and he meant to fight for life; so he\nclimbed up to the mast head, and clung on there, despite the driving\nspray and roaring wind, which were like to drive him from his foothold.\nIn vain he peered through the darkness, looking to the right hand and to\nthe left; there was no land to be seen, nothing but the great green\nwaves, crested with foam, which came springing up like angry wolves,\neager to swallow the gallant ship and her luckless crew.\n\nSuddenly his cheek grew pale, and his eyes dark with fear. \"We are dead\nmen now,\" he muttered; for, not many feet below him, seated on the crest\nof a massive wave, he saw the form of a beautiful woman, with a cruel\nface and long fair hair, which floated like a veil on the top of the\nwater. 'Twas a mermaid, and he knew what the sight portended.\n\nShe held up a silver bowl to him, with a little mocking laugh on her\nlips. \"Sail on, sail on, my guid Scots lords,\" she cried, and her sweet,\nfalse voice rose clear and shrill above the tumult of the waves, \"for I\nwarrant ye'll soon touch dry land.\"\n\n\"We may touch the land, but 'twill be the land that lies fathoms deep\nbelow the sea,\" replied Sir Patrick grimly, and then the weird creature\nlaughed again, and floated away in the darkness.\n\nWhen she had passed Sir Patrick glanced down at the deck, and the sight\nthat met him there only deepened his gloom.\n\nWorn with the beating of the waves, a bolt had sprung in the good ship's\nside, and a plank had given way, and the cruel green water was pouring\nin through the hole.\n\nVerily, they were facing death itself now; yet the strong man's heart\ndid not quail.\n\nHe had quailed at the sight of the mermaid's mocking eyes, but he looked\non the face of death calmly, as befitted a brave and a good man. Perhaps\nthe thought came to him, as it came to another famous seaman long years\nafterwards, that heaven is as near by sea as by land, and in the thought\nthere was great comfort.\n\nThere was but one more thing to be done; after that they were helpless.\n\n\"Now, my good Scots lords,\" he cried, and I trow a look of amusement\nplayed round his lips even at that solemn hour, \"now is the time for\nthose featherbeds of thine. There are five and fifty of them; odds take\nit, if they be not enough to stop up one little hole.\"\n\nAt the words the poor young nobles set to work right manfully,\nforgetting in their fear, that their white hands were bruised and\nbleeding, and their dainty clothes all wet with sea-water.\n\nAlack! alack! ere half the work was done, the good ship shivered from\nbow to stern, and went slowly down under the waves; and Sir Patrick\nSpens and his whole company met death, as, in their turn, all men must\nmeet him, and passed to where he had no more power over them.\n\nSo there, under the waters of the gray Northern Sea he rested, lying in\nstate, as it were, with the Scottish lords and his own faithful sailors\nround him; while there was dule and woe throughout the length and\nbreadth of Scotland, and fair women wept as they looked in vain for the\nhusbands, and the brothers, and the lovers who would return to them no\nmore.\n\nAnd, while the long centuries come and go, he is resting there still,\nwith the Scots lords and his faithful sailors by him, waiting for a Day,\nwhose coming may be long, but whose coming will be sure, when the sea\nshall give up its dead.\n\n\n\n\nYOUNG BEKIE\n\n    \"Young Bekie was as brave a knight\n      As ever sailed the sea;\n    And he's done him to the Court of France\n      To serve for meat and fee.\n\n    He hadna been in the Court of France\n      A twelvemonth, nor sae lang,\n    Till he fell in love with the King's daughter,\n      And was thrown in prison strang.\"\n\n\nIt was the Court of France: the gayest, and the brightest, and the\nmerriest court in the whole world. For there the sun seemed always to be\nshining, and the nobles, and the fair Court ladies did not know what\ncare meant.\n\nIn all the palace there was only one maiden who wore a sad and troubled\nlook, and that was Burd Isbel, the King's only daughter.\n\nA year before she had been the lightest-hearted maiden in France. Her\nface had been like sunshine, and her voice like rippling music; but now\nall was changed. She crept about in silence, with pale cheeks, and\nclouded eyes, and the King, her father, was in deep distress.\n\nHe summoned all the great doctors, and offered them all manner of\nrewards if only they would give him back, once more, his light-hearted\nlittle daughter. But they shook their heads gravely; for although\ndoctors can do many things, they have not yet found out the way to make\nheavy hearts light again.\n\nAll the same these doctors knew what ailed the Princess, but they dare\nnot say so. That would have been to mention a subject which nearly threw\nthe King into a fit whenever he thought of it.\n\nFor just a year before, a brave young Scottish Knight had come over to\nFrance to take service at the King's Court. His name was Young Bekie,\nand he was so strong and so noble that at first the King had loved him\nlike a son. But before long the young man had fallen in love with Burd\nIsbel, and of course Burd Isbel had fallen in love with him, and he had\ngone straight to the King, and asked him if he might marry her;--and\nthen the fat was in the fire.\n\nFor although the stranger seemed to be brave, and noble, and good, and\nfar superior to any Frenchman, he was not of royal birth, and the King\ndeclared that it was a piece of gross impertinence on his part ever to\nthink of marrying a king's daughter.\n\nIt was in vain that the older nobles, who had known Burd Isbel since she\nwas a child, begged for pity for the young man, and pointed out his good\nqualities; the King would not listen to them, but stamped, and stormed,\nand raged with anger. He gave orders that the poor young Knight should\nbe shut up in prison at once, and threatened to take his life; and he\ntold his daughter sharply that she was to think no more about him.\n\nBut Burd Isbel could not do that, and she used to creep to the back of\nthe prison door, when no one was near, and listen wistfully, in the hope\nthat she might hear her lover's voice. For a long time she was\nunsuccessful, but one day she heard him bemoaning his hard fate--to be\nkept a prisoner in a foreign land, with no chance of sending a message\nto Scotland of the straits that he was in.\n\n\"Oh,\" he murmured piteously to himself, \"if only I could send word home\nto Scotland to my father, he would not leave me long in this vile\nprison. He is rich, and he would spare nothing for my ransom. He would\nsend a trusty servant with a bag of good red gold, and another of bonnie\nwhite silver, to soften the cruel heart of the King of France.\"\n\nThen she heard him laugh bitterly to himself.\n\n\"There is little chance that I will escape,\" he muttered, \"for who is\nlikely to carry a message to Scotland for me? No, no, my bones will rot\nhere; that is clear enough. And yet how willingly I would be a slave, if\nI could escape. If only some great lady needed a servant, I would gladly\nrun at her horse's bridle if she could gain me my liberty. If only a\nwidow needed a man to help her, I would promise to be a son to her, if\nshe could obtain my freedom. Nay, if only some poor maiden would promise\nto wed me, and crave my pardon at the King's hand, I would in return\ncarry her to Scotland, and dower her with all my wealth; and that is not\nlittle, for am I not master of the forests, and the lands, and the\nCastle of Linnhe?\"\n\nMany a maiden would have been angry had she heard her lover speak these\nwords; but Burd Isbel loved him too much to be offended at anything\nwhich he said, so she crept away to her chamber with a determined look\non her girlish face.\n\n\"'Tis not for thy lands or thy Castle,\" she whispered, \"but for pure\nlove of thee. Love hath made maidens brave ere now, and it will make\nthem brave again.\"\n\nThat night, when all the palace was quiet, Burd Isbel wrapped herself in\na long gray cloak, and crept noiselessly from her room. She might have\nbeen taken for a dark shadow, had it not been for her long plait of\nlint-white hair and her little bare feet, which peeped out and in\nbeneath the folds of her cloak, as she stole down the great polished\nstaircase.\n\nSilently she crept across the hall, and peeped into the guard-room.\n\nAll the guards were asleep, and, on the wall above their heads hung the\nkeys of the palace, and beside them a great iron key. That was the key\nof the prison. She stole across the floor on tip-toe, making no more\nnoise than a mouse, and, stretching up her hand, she took down the heavy\nkey, and hid it under her cloak. Then she sped quickly out of the\nguard-room, and through a turret door, into a dark courtyard where the\nprison was. She fitted the key in the lock. It took all her strength to\nturn it, but she managed it at last, and, shutting the door behind her,\nshe went into the little cell where Young Bekie was imprisoned.\n\nA candle flickered in its socket on the wall, and by its light she saw\nhim lying asleep on the cold stone floor. She could not help giving a\nlittle scream when she saw him, for there were three mice and two great\nrats sitting on the straw at his head, and they had nibbled away nearly\nall his long yellow hair, which she had admired so much when first he\ncame to Court. His beard had grown long and rough too, for he had had no\nrazors to shave with, and altogether he looked so strange that she\nhardly knew him.\n\nAt the sound of her voice he woke and started up, and the mice and the\nrats scampered away to their holes. He knew her at once, and in a moment\nhe forgot his dreams of slaves, and widows, and poor maidens. He sprang\nacross the floor, and knelt at her feet, and kissed her little white\nhands.\n\n\"Ah,\" he said, \"now would I stay here for ever, if I might always have\nthee for a companion.\"\n\nBut Burd Isbel was a sensible maiden, and she knew that if her lover\nmeant to escape, he must make haste, and not waste time in making pretty\nspeeches. She knew also that if he went out of prison looking like a\nbeggar or a vagabond, he would soon be taken captive again, so she\nhurried back to the palace, and went hither and thither noiselessly with\nher little bare feet, and presently she returned with her hands full of\nparcels.\n\nShe had brought a comb to comb the hair which the rats had left on his\nhead, and a razor for him to shave himself with, and she had brought\nfive hundred pounds of good red money, so that he might travel like a\nreal Knight.\n\nThen, while he was making his toilet, she went into her father's stable,\nand led out a splendid horse, strong of limb, and fleet of foot, and on\nit she put a saddle and a bridle which had been made for the King's own\ncharger.\n\nFinally, she went to the kennels, and, stooping down, she called softly,\n\"Hector, Hector.\"\n\nA magnificent black hound answered her call and came and crouched at her\nfeet, fawning on them and licking them. After him came three companions,\nall the same size, and all of them big enough to kill a man.\n\nThese dogs belonged to Burd Isbel, and they were her special pets. A\ntear rolled down her face as she stooped and kissed their heads.\n\n\"I am giving you to a new master, darlings,\" she said. \"See and guard\nhim well.\"\n\nThen she led them to where the horse was standing, saddled and bridled;\nand there, beside him, stood Young Bekie. Now that his beard was\ntrimmed, and his hair arranged, he looked as gallant, and brave, and\nnoble as ever.\n\nWhen Burd Isbel told him that the money, and the hounds, and the horse\nwith its harness, were all his, he caught her in his arms, and swore\nthat there had never been such a brave and generous maiden born before,\nand that he would serve her in life and death.\n\nThen, as time was pressing, and the dawn was beginning to break, they\nhad to say farewell; but before they did so, they vowed a solemn vow\nthat they would be married to each other within three years. After this\nBurd Isbel opened the great gate, and her lover rode away, with money in\nhis pocket, and hounds by his side, like the well-born Knight that he\nwas; and nobody who met him ever imagined that he was an escaped\nprisoner, set free by the courage of the King's daughter.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAlas, alas, for the faithfulness of men! Young Bekie was brave, and\ngentle, and courteous, but his will was not very strong, and he liked to\nbe comfortable. And it came about that, after he had been back in\nScotland for a year, the Scotch King had a daughter for whom he wanted\nto find a husband, and he made up his mind that Young Bekie would be the\nvery man for her.\n\nSo he proposed that he should marry her, and was quite surprised and\nangry when the young man declined.\n\n\"It is an insult to my daughter,\" he said, and he determined to force\nBekie to do as he wanted, by using threats. So he told the Knight, that,\nif he agreed to marry his daughter, he would grow richer and richer,\nbut, if he refused, he would lose all his lands, and the Castle of\nLinnhe.\n\nPoor Young Bekie! I am afraid he was not a hero, for he chose to marry\nthe Princess and keep his lands, and he tried to put the thought of Burd\nIsbel and what she had done for him, and the solemn vow that he had made\nto her, out of his head.\n\nMeanwhile Burd Isbel lived on at her father's court, and because her\nheart was full of faith and love, it grew light and merry again, and she\nbegan to dance and to sing as gaily as ever.\n\nBut early one morning she woke up with a start, and there, at the foot\nof her bed, stood the queerest little manikin that she had ever seen. He\nwas only about a foot high, and he was dressed all in russet brown, and\nhis face was just like a wrinkled apple.\n\n\"Who art thou?\" she cried, starting up, \"and what dost thou want?\"\n\n\"My name is Billy Blin,\" said the funny old man. \"I am a Brownie, and I\ncome from Scotland. My family all live there, and we are all very\nkind-hearted, and we like to help people. But it is no time to be\ntalking of my affairs, for I have come to help thee. I have just been\nwondering how thou couldst lie there and sleep so peacefully when this\nis Young Bekie's wedding day. He is to be married at noon.\"\n\n\"Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?\" cried poor Burd Isbel in deep\ndistress. \"It is a long way from France to Scotland, and I can never be\nthere in time.\"\n\nBillie Blin waved his little hand. \"I will manage it for thee,\" he said,\n\"if thou wilt only do what I tell thee. Go into thy mother's chamber as\nfast as thou canst, and get two of thy mother's maids-of-honour. And,\nremember, thou must be careful to see that they are both called Mary.\nThen thou must dress thyself in thy most beautiful dress. Thou hast a\nscarlet dress, I know, which becomes thee well, for I have seen thee\nwear it. Nay, be not surprised; we Brownies can see people when they do\nnot see us. Put that dress on, and let thy Maries be dressed all in\ngreen. And in thy father's treasury there are three jewelled belts, each\nof them worth an earl's ransom. These thou must get, and clasp them\nround thy waists, and steal down to the sea-shore, and there, on the\nwater, thou wilt see a beautiful Dutch boat. It will come to the shore\nfor thee, and thou must step in, and greet the crew with a Mystic\nGreeting. Then thy part is done. I will do the rest.\"\n\nThe Brownie vanished, and Burd Isbel made haste to do exactly what he\nhad told her to do.\n\nShe ran to her mother's room, and called to two maids called Mary to\ncome and help her to dress. Then she put on her lovely scarlet robe, and\nbade them attire themselves in green, and she took the jewelled girdles\nout of the treasury, and gave one to each of them to put on; and when\nthey were dressed they all went down to the sea-shore.\n\nThere, on the sea, as the Brownie had promised, was a beautiful Dutch\nboat, with its sails spread. It came dancing over the water to them, and\nwhen Burd Isbel stepped on board, and greeted the sailors with a Mystic\nGreeting, they turned its prow towards Scotland, and Billy Blin appeared\nhimself, and took the helm.\n\nAway, away, sailed the ship, until it reached the Firth of Tay, and\nthere, high up among the hills, stood the Castle of Linnhe.\n\nWhen Burd Isbel and her maidens went to the gate they heard beautiful\nmusic coming from within, and their hearts sank. They rang the bell, and\nthe old porter appeared.\n\n\"What news, what news, old man?\" cried Burd Isbel. \"We have heard\nrumours of a wedding here, and would fain know if they be true or no?\"\n\n\"Certs, Madam, they are true,\" he answered; \"for this very day, at noon,\nthe Master of this place, Young Bekie, will be married to the King of\nScotland's daughter.\"\n\nThen Burd Isbel felt in her jewelled pouch, and drew out three merks.\n\"Take these, old man,\" she said, \"and bid thy master speak to me at\nonce.\"\n\nThe porter did as he was bid, and went upstairs to the great hall, where\nall the wedding guests were assembled. He bent low before the King, and\nbefore the Queen, and then he knelt before his young lord.\n\n\"I have served thee these thirty and three years, Sire,\" he said, \"but\nnever have I seen ladies come to the gate so richly attired as the three\nwho wait without at this moment. There is one of them clad in scarlet,\nsuch scarlet as I have never seen, and two are clad in green, and they\nhave girdles round their waists which might well pay an earl's ransom.\"\n\nWhen the Scottish Princess heard these words, she tossed her head\nhaughtily. She was tall and buxom, and she was dressed entirely in cloth\nof gold.\n\n\"Lack-a-day,\" she said, \"what a to-do about three strangers! This old\nfool may think them finely dressed, but I warrant some of us here are\nevery whit as fine as they.\"\n\nBut Young Bekie sprang to his feet. He knew who it was, and the thought\nof his ingratitude brought the tears to his eyes.\n\n\"I'll wager my life 'tis Burd Isbel,\" he cried, \"who has come over the\nsea to seek me.\"\n\nThen he ran downstairs, and sure enough it was Burd Isbel.\n\nHe clasped her in his arms, and kissed her, and now that he had her\nbeside him, it seemed to him as if he had never loved anyone else.\n\nBut the wedding guests came trooping out, and when they heard the story\nthey shook their heads.\n\n\"A likely tale,\" they cried. \"Who is to believe it? If she be really the\nKing of France's daughter, how came she here alone, save for those two\nmaidens?\"\n\nBut some of them looked at the jewelled girdles, and held their peace.\n\nThen Burd Isbel spoke out clearly and simply. \"I rescued my love out of\nprison,\" she said, \"and gave him horse and hounds. And if the hounds\nknow me not, then am I proved false.\" So saying she raised her voice.\n\"Hector, Hector,\" she cried, and lo! the great black hound came bounding\nout of its kennel, followed by its companions, and lay down fawning at\nher feet, and licked them.\n\nThen the wedding guests knew that she had told the truth, and they\nturned their eyes on Young Bekie, to see what he would do. He, on his\npart, was determined that he would marry Burd Isbel, let happen what\nmight.\n\n\"Take home your daughter again,\" he cried impatiently to the King, \"and\nmy blessing go with her; for she sought me ere I sought her. This is my\nown true love; I can wed no other.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" answered the King, in angry astonishment, \"but this thing cannot\nbe. Whoever heard of a maiden being sent home unwed, when the very\nwedding guests were assembled? I tell thee it cannot be.\"\n\nIn despair Young Bekie turned to the lady herself. \"Good lack, Madam,\"\nhe cried, \"is there no one else whom thou canst marry? There is many a\nbetter and manlier man than I, who goes seeking a wife. There, for\ninstance, stands my cousin John. He is taller and stronger than I, a\nbetter fighter, and a right good man. Couldst thou not accept him for a\nhusband? If thou couldst, I would pay him down five hundred pounds of\ngood red gold on his wedding day.\"\n\nA murmur of displeasure ran through the crowd of wedding guests at this\nbold proposal, and the King grasped his sword in a rage. But, to\neveryone's amazement, the Princess seemed neither displeased nor\ndaunted. She blushed rosy red, and smiled softly.\n\n\"Keep thy money to thyself, Bekie,\" she answered. \"Thy cousin John and I\nhave no need of it. Neither doth he require a bribe to make him willing\nto take me for his wife. To speak truth, we loved each other long ere I\nset eyes on thee, and 'twas but the King, my father, who would have none\nof him. Perchance by now he hath changed his mind.\"\n\nSo there were two weddings in the Castle of Linnhe instead of one. Young\nBekie married Burd Isbel, and his cousin John married the King's\ndaughter, and they \"lived happy, happy, ever after.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER\n\n    \"It was intil a pleasant time,\n      Upon a simmer's day,\n    The noble Earl of Mar's daughter\n      Went forth to sport and play.\"\n\n\nLong, long ago, in a country far away over the sea, there lived a Queen\nwho had an only son. She was very rich, and very great, and the only\nthing that troubled her was that her son did not want to get married in\nthe very least.\n\nIn vain his mother gave grand receptions and court balls, to which she\nasked all the young countesses and baronesses, in the hope that the\nPrince would take a fancy to one of them. He would talk to them, and\ndance with them, and be very polite, but, when his mother hinted that it\nwas time that he looked for a wife, he only shrugged his shoulders and\nsaid that there was not a pretty girl amongst them.\n\nAnd perhaps there was some truth in his answer, for the maidens of that\ncountry were all fat, and little, and squat, and everyone of them\nwaddled like a duck when she walked.\n\n\"If thou canst not find a wife to thy liking at home,\" the Queen would\nsay, \"go to other countries and see the maidens there; surely somewhere\nthou wouldst find one whom thou couldst love.\"\n\nBut Prince Florentine, for that was his name, only shook his head and\nlaughed.\n\n\"And marry a shrew,\" he would say mockingly; \"for when the maidens heard\nmy name, and knew for what purpose I had come, they would straightway\nsmile their sweetest, and look their loveliest, and I would have no\nchance of knowing what manner of maidens they really were.\"\n\nNow the Queen had a very wonderful gift. She could change a man's shape,\nso that he would appear to be a hare, or a cat, or a bird; and at last\nshe proposed to the Prince that she should turn him into a dove, and\nthen he could fly away to foreign countries, and go up and down until he\nsaw some maiden whom he thought he could really love, and then he could\ngo back to his real shape, and get to know her in the usual way.\n\nThis proposal pleased Prince Florentine very much. \"He would take good\ncare not to fall in love with anyone,\" he told himself; but, as he hated\nthe stiffness and ceremony of court life, it seemed to him that it would\nbe good fun to be free to go about as he liked and to see a great many\ndifferent countries.\n\nSo he agreed to his mother's wishes; and one day she waved a little\ngolden wand over his head, and gave him a very nasty draught to drink,\nmade from black beetles' wings, and wormwood, and snails' ears, and\nhedgehogs' spikes, and before he knew where he was, he was changed into\na beautiful gray dove, with a white ring round its neck.\n\nAt first when he saw himself in this changed guise he was frightened;\nbut his mother quickly tied a tiny charm round his neck, and hid it\nunder his soft gray feathers, and taught him how to press it against his\nheart until a fragrant odour came from it, and as soon as he did this,\nhe became once more a handsome young man.\n\nThen he was very pleased, and kissed her, and said farewell, promising\nto return some day with a beautiful young bride; and after that he\nspread his wings, and flew away in search of adventure.\n\nFor a year and a day he wandered about, now visiting this country, now\nthat, and he was so amused and interested in all the strange and\nwonderful things that he saw, that he never once wanted to turn himself\ninto a man, and he completely forgot that his mother expected that he\nwas looking out for a wife.\n\nAt last, one lovely summer's day, he found himself flying over broad\nScotland, and, as the sun was very hot, he looked round for somewhere to\nshelter from its rays. Just below him was a stately castle, surrounded\nby magnificent trees.\n\n\"This is just what I want,\" he said to himself; \"I will rest here until\nthe sun goes down.\"\n\nSo he folded his wings, and sank gently down into the very heart of a\nwide-spreading oak tree, near which, as good fortune would have it,\nthere was a field of ripening grain, which provided him with a hearty\nsupper. Here, for many days, the Prince took up his abode, partly\nbecause he was getting rather tired of flying about continually, and\npartly because he began to feel interested in a lovely young girl who\ncame out of the castle every day at noon, and amused herself with\nplaying at ball under the spreading branches of the great tree.\nGenerally she was quite alone, but once or twice an old lady, evidently\nher governess, came with her, and sat on a root, which formed a\ncomfortable seat, and worked at some fine embroidery, while her pupil\namused herself with her ball.\n\nPrince Florentine soon found out that the maiden's name was Grizel, and\nthat she was the only child of the Earl of Mar, a nobleman of great\nriches and renown. She was very beautiful, so beautiful, indeed, that\nthe Prince sat and feasted his eyes upon her all the time that she was\nat play, and then, when she had gone home, he could not sleep, but, sat\nwith wide-open eyes, staring into the warm twilight, and wondering how\nhe could get to know her. He could not quite make up his mind whether he\nshould use his mother's charm, and take his natural shape, and walk\nboldly up to the castle and crave her father's permission to woo her, or\nfly away home, and send an ambassador with a train of nobles, and all\nthe pomp that belonged to his rank, to ask for her hand.\n\nThe question was settled for him one day, however, and everything\nhappened quite differently from what he expected.\n\nOn a very hot afternoon, Lady Grizel came out, accompanied by her\ngoverness, and, as usual, the old lady sat down to her embroidery, and\nthe girl began to toss her ball. But the sun was so very hot that by and\nby the governess laid down her needle and fell fast asleep, while her\npupil grew tired of running backwards and forwards, and, sitting down,\nbegan to toss her ball right up among the branches. All at once it\ncaught in a leafy bough, and when she was gazing up, trying to see where\nit was, she caught sight of a beautiful gray dove, sitting watching her.\nNow, as I have said, Lady Grizel was an only child, and she had had few\nplaymates, and all her life she had been passionately fond of animals,\nand when she saw the bird, she stood up and called gently, \"Oh\nCoo-me-doo, come down to me, come down.\" Then she whistled so softly and\nsweetly, and stretched out her white hands above her head so\nentreatingly, that Prince Florentine left his branch, and flew down and\nalighted gently on her shoulder.\n\nThe delight of the maiden knew no bounds. She kissed and fondled her new\npet, which perched quite familiarly on her arm, and promised him a\nlatticed silver cage, with bars of solid gold.\n\nThe bird allowed the girl to carry him home, and soon the beautiful cage\nwas made, and hung up on the wall of her chamber, just inside the\nwindow, and Coo-me-doo, as the dove was named, placed inside.\n\nHe seemed perfectly happy, and grew so tame that soon he went with his\nmistress wherever she went, and all the people who lived near the castle\ngrew quite accustomed to seeing the Earl's daughter driving or riding\nwith her tame dove on her shoulder.\n\nWhen she went out to play at ball, Coo-me-doo would go with her, and\nperch up in his old place, and watch her with his bright dark eyes. One\nday when she was tossing the ball among the branches it rolled away, and\nfor a long time she could not find it, and at last a voice behind her\nsaid, \"Here it is,\" and, turning round, she saw to her astonishment a\nhandsome young man dressed all in dove-gray satin, who handed her the\nball with a stately bow.\n\nLady Grizel was frightened, for no strangers were allowed inside her\nfather's park, and she could not think where he had come from; but just\nas she was about to call out for help, the young man smiled and said,\n\"Lady, dost thou not know thine own Coo-me-doo?\"\n\nThen she glanced up into the branches, but the bird was gone, and as she\nhesitated (for the stranger spoke so kindly and courteously she did not\nfeel very much alarmed), he took her hand in his.\n\n\"'Tis true, my own love,\" he said; \"but if thou canst not recognise thy\nfavourite when his gray plumage is changed into gray samite, mayhap thou\nwilt know him when the gray samite is once more changed into softest\nfeathers; and, pressing a tiny gold locket which he wore, to his heart,\nhe vanished, and in his stead was her own gray dove, hovering down to\nhis resting-place on her shoulder.\n\n\"Oh, I cannot understand it, I cannot understand it,\" she cried, putting\nup her hand to stroke her pet; but the feathers seemed to slip from\nbetween her fingers, and once more the gallant stranger stood before\nher.\n\n\"Sit thee down and rest, Sweetheart,\" he said, leading her to the root\nwhere her governess was wont to sit, while he stretched himself on the\nturf at her feet, \"and I will explain the mystery to thee.\"\n\nThen he told her all. How his mother was a great Queen away in a far\ncountry, and how he was her only son. Lady Grizel's fears were all gone\nnow, and she laughed merrily as he described the girls who lived in his\nown country, and told her how little and fat they were, and how they\nwaddled when they walked; but when he told her how his mother had used\nher magic and turned him into a dove, in order that he might bring home\na wife, her face grew grave and pale.\n\n\"My father hath sworn a great oath,\" she said, \"that I shall never wed\nwith anyone who lives out of Scotland; so I fear we must part, and thou\nmust go elsewhere in search of a bride.\"\n\nBut Prince Florentine shook his head.\n\n\"Nay,\" he said, \"but rather than part from thee, I will live all my life\nas a dove in a cage, if I may only be near thee, and talk to thee when\nwe are alone.\"\n\n\"But what if my father should want me to wed with some Scottish lord?\"\nasked the maiden anxiously; \"couldst thou bear to sit in thy cage and\nsing my wedding song?\"\n\n\"That could I not,\" answered Prince Florentine, drawing her closer to\nhim; \"and in order to prevent such a terrible thing happening,\nSweetheart, we must find ways and means to be married at once, and then,\ncome what may, no one can take thee from me. This very evening I must go\nand speak to thy father.\"\n\nNow the Earl of Mar was a violent man, and his fear lay on all the\ncountry-side--even his only child was afraid of him--and when her lover\nmade this suggestion she clung to him and begged him with tears in her\neyes not to do this. She told him what a fiery temper the Earl had, and\nhow she feared that when he heard his story he would simply order him to\nbe hanged on the nearest tree, or thrown into the dungeon to starve to\ndeath. So for a long time they sat and talked, now thinking of one plan,\nnow of another, but none of them seemed of any use, and it seemed as\nthough Prince Florentine must either remain in the shape of her pet\ndove, or go away altogether.\n\nAll at once Lady Grizel clapped her hands. \"I have it, I have it,\" she\ncried; \"why cannot we be married secretly? Old Father John out at the\nchapel on the moor could marry us; he is so old and so blind, he would\nnever recognise me if I went bare-headed and bare-footed like a gipsy\ngirl; and thou must go dressed as a woodman, with muddy shoes, and an\naxe over thine arm. Then we can dwell together as we are doing now, and\nno one will suspect that the Earl of Mar's daughter is married to her\ntame pet dove, which sits on her shoulder, and goes with her wherever\nshe goes. And if the worst comes to the worst, and some gallant Scotch\nwooer appears, why, then we must confess what we have done, and bear the\nconsequences together.\"\n\nA few days later, in the early morning, when old Father John, the priest\nwho served the little chapel which stood on the heather-covered moor,\nwas preparing to say Mass, he saw a gipsy girl, bare-headed and\nbare-footed, steal into the chapel, followed by a stalwart young\nwoodman, clad all in sober gray, with a bright wood-axe gleaming on his\nshoulder.\n\nIn a few words they told him the purpose for which they had come, and\nafter he had said Mass the kindly old priest married them, and gave them\nhis blessing, never doubting but that they were a couple of simple\ncountry lovers who would go home to some tiny cottage in the woods near\nby. Little did he think that only half a mile away a page boy, wearing\nthe livery of the Earl of Mar, was patiently waiting with a white\npalfrey until his young mistress should return, accompanied by her gray\ndove, from visiting an old nurse, \"who,\" she told her governess, \"was\nteaching her how to spin.\"\n\nAnd little did her father, or her governess, or any of the servants at\nthe castle, think that Lady Grizel was leading a double life, and that\nthe gray dove which was always with her, and which she seemed to love\nmore than any other of her pets, was a gray dove only when anyone else\nwas by, but turned into a gallant young Prince, who ate, and laughed,\nand talked with her the moment they were alone.\n\nStrange to say, their secret was never found out for seven long years,\neven although every year a little son was born to them, and carried away\nunder the gray dove's wing to the country far over the sea. At these\ntimes Lady Grizel used to cry and be very sad, for she dare not keep her\nbabies beside her, but had to kiss them, and let them go, to be brought\nup by their Grandmother whom she had never seen.\n\nEvery time Prince Florentine carried home a new baby, he brought back\ntidings to his wife how tall, and strong, and brave her other sons were\ngrowing, and tender messages from the Queen, his mother, telling her how\nshe hoped that one day she would be able to come home with her husband,\nand then they would be all together.\n\nBut year after year went by, and still the fierce old Earl lived on, and\nthere seemed little hope that poor Lady Grizel would ever be able to go\nand live in her husband's land, and she grew pale and thin. And year\nafter year her father grew more and more angry with her, because he\nwanted her to marry one of the many wooers who came to crave her hand;\nbut she would not.\n\n\"I love to dwell alone with my sweet Coo-me-doo,\" she used to say, and\nthe old Earl would stamp his foot, and go out of her chamber muttering\nangry words in his vexation.\n\nAt last, one day, a very great and powerful nobleman arrived with his\ntrain to ask the Earl's daughter to marry him. He was very rich, and\nowned four beautiful castles, and the Earl said, \"Now, surely, my\ndaughter will consent.\"\n\nBut she only gave her old answer, \"I love best to live alone with my\nsweet Coo-me-doo.\"\n\nThen her father slammed the door in a rage, and went into the great\nhall, where all his men-at-arms were, and swore a mighty oath, that on\nthe morrow, before he broke his fast, he would wring the neck of the\nwretched bird, which seemed to have bewitched his daughter.\n\nNow just above his head, in the gallery, hung Coo-me-doo's cage with the\ngolden bars, and he happened to be sitting in it, and when he heard this\nthreat he flew away in haste to his wife's room and told her.\n\n\"I must fly home and crave help of my mother,\" he said; \"mayhap she may\nbe able to aid us, for I shall certainly be no help to thee here, if my\nneck be wrung to-morrow. Do thou fall in with thy father's wishes, and\npromise to marry this nobleman; only see to it that the wedding doth not\ntake place until three clear days be past.\"\n\nThen Lady Grizel opened the window, and he flew away, leaving her to act\nher part as best she might.\n\nNow it chanced that next evening, in the far distant land over the sea,\nthe Queen was walking up and down in front of her palace, watching her\ngrandsons playing at tennis, and thinking sadly of her only son and his\nbeautiful wife whom she had never seen. She was so deep in thought, that\nshe never noticed that a gray dove had come sailing over the trees, and\nperched itself on a turret of the palace, until it fluttered down, and\nher son, Prince Florentine, stood beside her.\n\nShe threw herself into his arms joyfully, and kissed him again and\nagain; then she would have called for a feast to be set, and for her\nminstrels to play, as she always did on the rare occasions when he came\nhome, but he held up his hand to stop her.\n\n\"I need neither feasting nor music, Mother,\" he said, \"but I need thy\nhelp sorely. If thy magic cannot help me, then my wife and I are undone,\nand in two days she will be forced to marry a man whom she hates,\" and\nhe told the whole story.\n\n\"And what wouldst thou that I should do?\" asked the Queen in great\ndistress.\n\n\"Give me a score of men-at-arms to fly over the sea with me,\" answered\nthe Prince, \"and my sons to help me in the fray.\"\n\nBut the Queen shook her head sadly.\n\n\"'Tis beyond my power,\" she said; \"but mayhap Astora, the old dame who\nlives by the sea-shore, might help me, for in good sooth thy need is\ngreat. She hath more skill in magic than I have.\"\n\nSo she hurried away to a little hut near the sea-shore where the wise\nold woman lived, while her son waited anxiously for her return.\n\nAt last she appeared again, and her face was radiant.\n\n\"Dame Astora hath given me a charm,\" she said, \"which will turn\nfour-and-twenty of my stout men-at-arms into storks, and thy seven sons\ninto white swans, and thou thyself into a gay gos-hawk, the proudest of\nall birds.\"\n\nNow the Earl of Mar, full of joy at the disappearance of the gray dove,\nwhich seemed to have bewitched his daughter, had bade all the nobles\nthroughout the length and breadth of fair Scotland to come and witness\nher wedding with the lover whom he had chosen for her, and there was\nfeasting, and dancing, and great revelry at the castle. There had not\nbeen such doings since the marriage of the Earl's great-grandfather a\nhundred years before. There were huge tables, covered with rich food,\nstanding constantly in the hall, and even the common people went in and\nout as they pleased, while outside on the green there was music, and\ndancing, and games.\n\nSuddenly, when the revelry was at its height, a flock of strange birds\nappeared on the horizon, and everyone stopped to look at them. On they\ncame, flying all together in regular order, first a gay gos-hawk, then\nbehind him seven snow-white swans, and behind the swans four-and-twenty\nlarge gray storks. When they drew near, they settled down among the\ntrees which surrounded the castle green, and sat there, each on his own\nbranch, like sentinels, watching the sport.\n\nAt first some of the people were frightened, and wondered what this\nstrange sight might mean, but the Earl of Mar only laughed.\n\n\"They come to do honour to my daughter,\" he said; \"'tis well that there\nis not a gray dove among them, else had he found an arrow in his heart,\nand that right speedily,\" and he ordered the musicians to strike up a\nmeasure.\n\nThe Lady Grizel was amongst the throng, dressed in her bridal gown, but\nno one noticed how anxiously she glanced at the great birds which sat so\nstill on the branches.\n\nThen a strange thing happened. No sooner had the musicians begun to\nplay, and the dancers begun to dance, than the twenty-four gray storks\nflew down, and each of them seized a nobleman, and tore him from his\npartner, and whirled him round and round as fast as he could, holding\nhim so tightly with his great gray wings that he could neither draw his\nsword nor struggle. Then the seven white swans flew down and seized the\nbridegroom, and tied him fast to a great oak tree. Then they flew to\nwhere the gay gos-hawk was hovering over Lady Grizel, and they pressed\ntheir bodies so closely to his that they formed a soft feathery couch,\non which the lady sat down, and in a moment the birds soared into the\nair, bearing their precious burden on their backs, while the storks,\nletting the nobles go, circled round them to form an escort; and so the\nstrange army of birds flew slowly out of sight, leaving the wedding\nguests staring at one another in astonishment, while the Earl of Mar\nswore so terribly that no one dare go near him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd although the story of this strange wedding is told in Scotland to\nthis day, no one has ever been able to guess where the birds came from,\nor to what land they carried the beautiful Lady Grizel.\n\n\n\n\nHYNDE HORN\n\n    \"'Oh, it's Hynde Horn fair, and it's Hynde Horn free;\n       Oh, where were you born, and in what countrie?'\n    'In a far distant countrie I was born;\n       But of home and friends I am quite forlorn.'\"\n\n\nOnce upon a time there was a King of Scotland, called King Aylmer, who\nhad one little daughter, whose name was Jean. She was his only daughter,\nand, as her mother was dead, he adored her. He gave her whatever she\nliked to ask for, and her nursery was so full of toys and games of all\nkinds, that it was a wonder that any little girl, even although she was\na Princess, could possibly find time to play with them all.\n\nShe had a beautiful white palfrey to ride on, and two piebald ponies to\ndraw her little carriage when she wanted to drive; but she had no one of\nher own age to play with, and often she felt very lonely, and she was\nalways asking her father to bring her someone to play with.\n\n\"By my troth,\" he would reply, \"but that were no easy matter, for thou\nart a royal Princess, and it befits not that such as thou shouldst play\nwith children of less noble blood.\"\n\nThen little Princess Jean would go back to her splendid nurseries with\nthe tears rolling down her cheeks, wishing with all her heart that she\nhad been born just an ordinary little girl.\n\nKing Aylmer had gone away on a hunting expedition one day, and Princess\nJean was playing alone as usual, in her nursery, when she heard the\nsound of her father's horn outside the castle walls, and the old porter\nhurried across the courtyard to open the gate. A moment later the King's\nvoice rang through the hall, calling loudly for old Elspeth, the nurse.\n\nThe old dame hurried down the broad staircase, followed by the little\nPrincess, who was surprised that her father had returned so early from\nhis hunting, and what was her astonishment to see him standing, with all\nhis nobles round him, holding a fair-haired boy in his arms.\n\nThe boy's face was very white, and his eyes were shut, and the little\nPrincess thought that he was dead, and ran up to a gray-haired baron,\nwhose name was Athelbras, and hid her face against his rough hunting\ncoat.\n\nBut old Elspeth ran forward and took the boy's hand in hers, and laid\nher ear against his heart, and then she asked that he might be carried\nup into her own chamber, and that the housekeeper might be sent after\nthem with plenty of blankets, and hot water, and red wine.\n\nWhen all this had been done, King Aylmer noticed his little daughter,\nand when he saw how pale her cheeks were, he patted her head and said,\n\"Cheer up, child, the young cock-sparrow is not dead; 'tis but a swoon\ncaused by the cold and wet, and methinks when old Elspeth hath put a\nlittle life into him, thou wilt mayhap have found a playfellow.\"\n\nThen he called for his horse and rode away to hunt again, and Princess\nJean was once more left alone. But this time she did not feel lonely.\n\nHer father's wonderful words, \"Thou wilt mayhap have found a\nplayfellow,\" rang in her ears, and she was so busy thinking about them,\nsitting by herself in the dark by the nursery fire, that she started\nwhen old Elspeth opened the door of her room and called out, \"Come,\nPrincess, the young gentleman hath had a sweet sleep, and would fain\ntalk with thee.\"\n\nThe little Princess went into the room on tip-toe, and there, lying on\nthe great oak settle by the fire, was the boy whom she had seen in her\nfather's arms. He seemed about four years older than she was, and he was\nvery handsome, with long yellow hair, which hung in curls round his\nshoulders, and merry blue eyes, and rosy cheeks.\n\nHe smiled at her as she stood shyly in the doorway, and held out his\nhand. \"I am thy humble servant, Princess,\" he said. \"If it had not been\nfor thy father's kindness, and for this old dame's skill, I would have\nbeen dead ere now.\"\n\nPrincess Jean did not know what to say; she had often wished for someone\nwho was young enough to play with her, but now that she had found a real\nplaymate, she felt as if someone had tied her tongue.\n\n\"What is thy name, and where dost thou come from?\" she asked at last.\n\nThe boy laughed, and pointed to a little stool which stood beside the\nsettle. \"Sit down there,\" he said, \"and I will tell thee. I have often\nwished to have a little sister of my own, and now I will pretend that\nthou art my little sister.\"\n\nPrincess Jean did as she was bid, and went and sat down on the stool,\nand the stranger began his tale.\n\n\"My name is Hynde Horn,\" he said, \"and I am a King's son.\"\n\n\"And I am a King's daughter,\" said the little Princess, and then they\nboth laughed.\n\nThen the boy's face grew grave again.\n\n\"They called my father King Allof,\" he said, \"and my mother's name was\nQueen Godyet, and they reigned over a beautiful country far away in the\nEast. I was their only son, and we were all as happy as the day was\nlong, until a wicked king, called Mury, came with his soldiers, and\nfought against my father, and killed him, and took his kingdom. My\nmother and I tried to escape, but the fright killed my mother--she died\nin a hut in the forest where we had hidden ourselves, and some soldiers\nfound me weeping beside her body, and took me prisoner, and carried me\nto the wicked King.\n\n\"He was too cruel to kill me outright--he wanted me to die a harder\ndeath--so he bade his men tie my hands and my feet, and carry me down to\nthe sea-shore, and put me in a boat, and push it out into the sea; and\nthere they left me to die of hunger and thirst.\n\n\"At first the sun beat down on my face, and burned my skin, but by and\nby it grew dark, and a great storm arose, and the boat drifted on and\non, and I grew so hungry, and then so thirsty--oh! I thought I would die\nof thirst--and at last I became unconscious, for I remember nothing more\nuntil I woke up to find yonder kind old dame bending over me.\"\n\n\"The boat was washed up on our shore, just as his Highness the King rode\npast,\" explained old Elspeth, who was stirring some posset over the\nfire, and listening to the story.\n\n\"And what did you say your name was?\" demanded the little Princess, who\nhad listened with eager attention to the story.\n\n\"Hynde Horn,\" repeated the boy, whose eyes were wet with tears at the\nthought of all that he had gone through.\n\n\"Prince Hynde Horn,\" corrected Princess Jean, who liked always to have\nher title given to her, and expected that other people liked the same.\n\n\"Well, I suppose I ought to be King Horn now, were it not for that\nwicked King who hath taken my Kingdom, as well as my father's life; but\nthe people in my own land always called me Hynde Horn, and I like the\nold name best.\"\n\n\"But what doth it mean?\" persisted the little Princess.\n\nThe boy blushed and looked down modestly. \"It is an old word which in\nour language means 'kind' or 'courteous,' but I am afraid that they\nflattered me, for I did not always deserve it.\"\n\nThe little Princess clapped her hands. \"We will call thee by it,\" she\nsaid, \"until thou provest thyself unworthy of it.\"\n\nAfter this a new life opened up for the little girl.\n\nKing Aylmer, finding that the young Prince who had been so unexpectedly\nthrown on his protection was both modest and manly, determined to\nbefriend him, and to give him a home at his Court until he was old\nenough to go and try to recover his kingdom, and avenge his parents'\ndeath, so he gave orders that a suite of rooms in the castle should be\ngiven to him, and arranged that Baron Athelbras, his steward, should\ntrain him in all knightly accomplishments, such as hawking and tilting\nat the ring. He soon found out too that Hynde Horn had a glorious voice,\nand sang like a bird, so he gave orders that old Thamile, the minstrel,\nshould teach him to play the harp; and soon he could play it so well,\nthat the whole Court would sit round him in the long winter evenings,\nand listen to his music.\n\nHe was so sweet-tempered, and lovable, that everyone liked him, and\nwould say to one another that the people in his own land had done well\nto name him Hynde Horn.\n\nTo the little Princess he was the most delightful companion, for he was\nnever too busy or too tired to play with her. He taught her to ride as\nshe had never ridden before, not merely to jog along the road on her fat\npalfrey, but to gallop alongside of him under the trees in the forest,\nand they used to be out all day, hunting and hawking, for he trained two\ndear little white falcons and gave them to her, and taught her to carry\nthem on her wrist; and she grew so fat and rosy that everyone said it\nwas a joyful day when Hynde Horn was washed up on the sea-shore in the\nboat.\n\nBut alas! people do not remain children for ever, and, as years went on,\nHynde Horn grew into as goodly a young man as anyone need wish to see,\nand of course he fell in love with Princess Jean, and of course she fell\nin love with him. Everyone was quite delighted, and said, \"What is to\nhinder them from being married at once, and then when Princess Jean\ncomes to be Queen, we will be quite content to have Hynde Horn for our\nKing?\"\n\nBut wise King Aylmer would not agree to this. He knew that it is not\ngood for any man to have no difficulties to overcome, and to get\neverything that he wants without any trouble.\n\n\"Nay,\" he said, \"but the lad hath to win his spurs first, and to show us\nof what stuff he is made. Besides, his father's Kingdom lies desolate,\nruled over by an alien. He shall be betrothed to my daughter, and we\nwill have a great feast to celebrate the event, and then I will give him\na ship, manned by thirty sailors, and he shall go away to his own land\nin search of adventure, and when he hath done great deeds of daring, and\navenged his father's death, he shall come again, and my daughter will be\nwaiting for him.\"\n\nSo there was a splendid feast held at the castle, and all the great\nlords and barons came to it, and Princess Jean and Hynde Horn were\nbetrothed amidst great rejoicing, for everyone was glad to think that\ntheir Princess would wed someone whom they knew, and not a stranger.\n\nBut the hearts of the two lovers were heavy, and when the feast was\nover, and all the guests had gone away, they went out on a little\nbalcony in front of the castle, which overlooked the sea. It was a\nlovely evening, the moon was full, and by its light they could see the\nwhite sails of the ship lying ready in the little bay, waiting to carry\nHynde Horn far away to other lands. The roses were nodding their heads\nover the balcony railings and the honeysuckle was falling in clusters\nfrom the castle walls, but it might have been December for all that poor\nPrincess Jean cared, and the tears rolled fast down her face as she\nthought of the parting.\n\n\"Alack, alack, Hynde Horn,\" she said, \"could I but go with thee! How\nshall I live all these years, with no one to talk to, or to ride with?\"\n\nThen he tried to comfort her with promises of how brave he would be, and\nhow soon he would conquer his father's enemies and come back to her; but\nthey both knew in their hearts that this was the last time that they\nwould be together for long years to come.\n\nAt last Hynde Horn drew a long case from his pocket, out of which he\ntook a beautifully wrought silver wand, with three little silver\nlaverocks[32] sitting on the end of it. \"This,\" he said, \"dear love, is\nfor thee; the sceptre is a token that thou rulest in my heart, as well\nas over broad Scotland, and the three singing laverocks are to remind\nthee of me, for thou hast oft-times told me that my poor singing reminds\nthee of a lark.\"\n\n  [Footnote 32: Larks.]\n\nThen Princess Jean drew from her finger a gold ring, set with three\npriceless diamonds. It was so small it would only go on the little\nfinger of her lover's left hand. \"This is a token of my love,\" she said\ngravely, \"therefore guard it well. When the diamonds are bright and\nshining, thou shalt know that my love for thee will be burning clear and\ntrue; but if ever they lose their lustre and grow pale and dim, then\nknow thou that some evil hath befallen me. Either I am dead, or else\nsomeone tempts me to be untrue.\"\n\nNext morning the fair white ship spread her sails, and carried Hynde\nHorn far away over the sea. Princess Jean stood on the little balcony\nuntil the tallest mast had disappeared below the horizon, and then she\nthrew herself on her bed, and wept as though her heart would break.\n\nAfter this, for many a long day, there was nothing heard of Hynde Horn,\nnot even a message came from him, and people began to say that he must\nbe dead, and that it was high time that their Princess forgot him, and\nlistened to the suit of one of the many noble princes who came to pay\ncourt to her from over the sea. She would not listen to them, however,\nand year after year went by.\n\nNow it happened, that, when seven years had passed, a poor beggar went\nup one day to the castle in the hope that one of the servants would see\nhim, and give him some of the broken bread and meat that was always left\nfrom the hall table. The porter knew him by sight and let him pass into\nthe courtyard, but although he loitered about for a whole hour, no one\nappeared to have time to speak to him. It seemed as if something unusual\nwere going on, for there were horses standing about in the courtyard,\nheld by grooms in strange liveries, and servants were hurrying along, as\nif they were so busy they hardly knew what to do first. The old beggar\nman spoke to one or two of them as they passed, but they did not pay any\nattention to him, so at last he thought it was no use waiting any\nlonger, and was about to turn away, when a little scullery-maid came out\nof the kitchen, and began to wash some pots under a running tap. He went\nup to her, and asked if she could spare him any broken victuals.\n\nShe looked at him crossly. \"A pretty day to come for broken victuals,\"\nshe cried, \"when we all have so much to do that we would need twenty\nfingers on every hand, and four pairs of hands at the very least. Knowst\nthou not that an embassage has come from over the sea, seeking the hand\nof our Princess Jean for the young Prince of Eastnesse, he that is so\nrich that he could dine off diamonds every day, an' it suited him, and\nthey are all in the great hall now, talking it over with King Aylmer?\nOnly 'tis said that the Princess doth not favour the thought; she is all\nfor an old lover called Hynde Horn, whom everyone else holds to be dead\nthis many a year. Be it as it may, I have no time to talk to the like of\nthee, for we have a banquet to cook for fifty guests, not counting the\nKing and all his nobles. The like of it hath not been seen since the day\nwhen Princess Jean and that Hynde Horn plighted their troth these seven\nyears ago. But hark'ee, old man, it might be well worth thy while to\ncome back to-morrow; there will be plenty of picking then.\" And, flapping\nher dish-clout in the wind, she ran into the kitchen again.\n\nThe old beggar went away, intending to take her advice and return on the\nmorrow; but as he was walking along the sands to a little cottage where\nhe sometimes got a night's lodging, he met a gallant Knight on\nhorseback, who was very finely dressed, and wore a lovely scarlet cloak.\n\nThe beggar thought that he must be one of the King's guests, who had\ncome out for a gallop on the smooth yellow sands, and he stood aside and\npulled off his cap; but the Knight drew rein, and spoke to him.\n\n\"God shield thee, old man,\" he said, \"and what may the news be in this\ncountry? I used to live here, but I have been in far-off lands these\nseven years, and I know not how things go on.\"\n\n\"Sire,\" answered the beggar, \"things have gone on much as usual for\nthese few years back, but it seems as if changes were in the air. I was\nbut this moment at the castle, and 'twas told me that the young Prince\nEitel, heir to the great Kingdom of Eastnesse, hath sent to crave the\nhand of our Princess; and although the young lady favours not his suit\n(she being true to an old love, one Hynde Horn, who is thought to be\ndead), the King her father is like to urge her to it, for the King of\nEastnesse is a valuable ally, and fabulously rich.\"\n\nThen a strange light came into the stranger's eyes, and, to the beggar's\nastonishment, he sprang from his horse, and held out the rein to him.\n\"Wilt do me a favour, friend?\" he said. \"Wilt give me thy beggar's\nwallet, and staff, and cloak, if I give thee my horse, and this cloak of\ncrimson sarsenet? I have a mind to turn beggar.\"\n\nThe beggar scratched his head, and looked at him in surprise. \"He hath\nbeen in the East, methinks,\" he muttered, \"and the sun hath touched his\nbrain, but anyhow 'tis a fair exchange; that crimson cloak will sell for\nten merks any day, and for the horse I can get twenty pounds,\" and\npresently he cantered off, well pleased with the bargain, while the\nother,--the beggar's wallet in his hand, his hat drawn down over his\neyes, and leaning on his staff,--began to ascend the steep hill leading\nto the castle.\n\nWhen he reached the great gate, he knocked boldly on the iron knocker,\nand the knock was so imperious that the porter hastened to open it at\nonce. He expected to see some lordly knight waiting there, and when he\nsaw no one but a weary-looking beggar man, he uttered an angry\nexclamation, and was about to shut the great gate in his face, but the\nbeggar's voice was wondrously sweet and low, and he could not help\nlistening to it.\n\n\"Good porter, for the sake of St Peter and St Paul, and for the sake of\nHim who died on the Holy Rood, give a cup of wine, and a little piece of\nbread, to a poor wayfarer.\"\n\nAs the porter hesitated between pity and impatience, the pleading voice\nwent on, \"And one more boon would I crave, kind man. Carry a message\nfrom me to the fair bride who is to be betrothed this day, and ask her\nif she will herself hand the bite and the sup to one who hath come from\nfar?\"\n\n\"Ask the Bride! ask the Princess Jean to come and feed thee with her own\nhands!\" cried the man in astonishment. \"Nay, thou art mad. Away with\nthee; we want no madmen here,\" and he would have thrust the beggar\naside; but the stranger laid his hand on his shoulder, and said calmly,\nas if he were giving an order to a servant, \"Go, tell her it is for the\nsake of Hynde Horn.\" And the old porter turned and went without a word.\n\nMeanwhile all the guests in the castle were gathered at the banquet in\nthe great banqueting hall. On a raised dais at the end of the room sat\nKing Aylmer and the great Ambassador who had come from Prince Eitel of\nEastnesse, and between them sat Princess Jean, dressed in a lovely white\nsatin dress, with a little circlet of gold on her head. The King and the\nAmbassador were in high spirits, for they had persuaded the Princess to\nmarry Prince Eitel in a month and a day from that time; but poor\nPrincess Jean looked pale and sad.\n\nAs all the lords and nobles who were feasting in the hall below stood up\nand filled their glasses, and drank to the health of Prince Eitel of\nEastnesse and his fair bride, she had much ado to keep the tears from\nfalling, as she thought of the old days when Hynde Horn and she went out\nhunting and hawking together.\n\nJust at that moment the door opened, and the porter entered, and,\nwithout looking to the right hand or to the left, marched straight up\nthe hall and along the dais, until he came to where Princess Jean sat;\nthen he stooped down and whispered something to her.\n\nIn a moment the Princess' pale face was like a damask rose, and, taking\na glass full of ruby-red wine in one hand, and a farl of cake in the\nother, she rose, and walked straight out of the hall.\n\n\"By my faith,\" said King Aylmer, who was startled by the look on his\ndaughter's face, \"something hath fallen out, I ween, which may change\nthe whole course of events,\" and he rose and followed her, accompanied\nby the Ambassador and all the great nobles.\n\nAt the head of the staircase they stopped and watched the Princess as\nshe went down the stairs and across the courtyard, her long white robe\ntrailing behind her, with the cup of ruby-red wine in one hand, and the\nfarl of cake in the other.\n\nWhen she came to the gateway, there was no one there but a poor old\nbeggar man, and all the foreign noblemen looked at each other and shook\ntheir heads, and said, \"Certs, but it misdoubts us if this bride will\nplease our young Prince, if she is wont to disturb a court banquet\nbecause she must needs serve beggars with her own hands.\"\n\nBut Princess Jean heard none of this. With trembling hands she held out\nthe food to the beggar. He raised the wine to his lips, and pledged the\nfair bride before he drank it, and when he handed the glass back to her,\nlo! in the bottom of it lay the gold ring which she had given to her\nlover Hynde Horn, seven long years before.\n\n\"Oh,\" she cried breathlessly, snatching it out of the glass, \"tell me\nquickly, I pray thee, where thou didst find this? Was't on the sea, or\nin a far-off land, and was the hand that it was taken from alive or\ndead?\"\n\n\"Nay, noble lady,\" answered the beggar, and at the sound of his voice\nPrincess Jean grew pale again, \"I did not get it on the sea, or in a\nfar-off land, but in this country, and from the hand of a fair lady. It\nwas a pledge of love, noble Princess, which I had given to me seven long\nyears ago, and the diamonds were to be tokens of the brightness and\nconstancy of that love. For seven long years they have gleamed and\nsparkled clearly, but now they are dim, and losing their brightness, so\nI fear me that my lady's love is waning and growing cold.\"\n\nThen Princess Jean knew all, and she tore the circlet of gold from her\nhead and knelt on the cold stones at his feet, and cried, \"Hynde Horn,\nmy own Hynde Horn, my love is not cold, neither is it dim; but thou wert\nso long in coming, and they said it was my duty to marry someone else.\nBut now, even if thou art a beggar, I will be a beggar's wife, and\nfollow thee from place to place, and we can harp and sing for our\nbread.\"\n\nHynde Horn laughed a laugh that was pleasant to hear, and he threw off\nthe beggar's cloak, and, behold, he was dressed as gaily as any gallant\nin the throng.\n\n\"There is no need of that, Sweetheart,\" he said. \"I did it but to try\nthee. I have not been idle these seven years; I have killed the wicked\nKing, and come into my own again, and I have fought and conquered the\nSaracens in the East, and I have gold enough and to spare.\"\n\nThen he drew her arm within his, and they crossed the courtyard together\nand began to ascend the stairs. Suddenly old Athelbras, the steward,\nraised his cap and shouted, \"It is Hynde Horn, our own Hynde Horn,\" and\nthen there was such a tumult of shouting and cheering that everyone was\nnearly deafened. Even the Ambassador from Eastnesse and all his train\njoined in it, although they knew that now Princess Jean would never\nmarry their Prince; but they could not help shouting, for everyone\nlooked so happy.\n\nAnd the next day there was another great banquet prepared, and riders\nwere sent all over the country to tell the people everywhere to rejoice,\nfor their Princess was being married, not to any stranger, but to her\nold lover, Hynde Horn, who had come back in time after all.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GAY GOS-HAWK\n\n    \"'Oh weel is me, my gay gos-hawk,\n       If your feathering be sheen!'\n    'Oh waly, waly, my master dear,\n       But ye look pale and lean!'\"\n\n\nIt was the beautiful month of June, and among the bevy of fair maidens\nwho acted as maids-of-honour to Queen Margaret at Windsor, there was\nnone so fair as the Lady Katherine, the youngest of them all.\n\nAs she joined in a game of bowls in one of the long alleys under the elm\ntrees, or rode out, hawk on wrist, in the great park near the castle,\nher merry face, with its rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, was a\npleasure to see. She had gay words for everyone, even for the\nsharp-tongued, grave-faced old Baroness who acted as governess to the\nQueen's maids, and kept a sharp lookout lest any of the young ladies\nunder her charge should steal too shy glances at the pages and\ngentlemen-at-arms who waited on the King.\n\nThe old lady loved her in return, and pretended to be blind when she\nnoticed, what every maid-of-honour had noticed for a fortnight, that\nthere was one Knight in particular who was always at hand to pick up\nLady Katherine's balls for her, or to hold her palfrey's rein if she\nwanted to alight, when she was riding in the forest.\n\nThis gallant Knight was not one of the King's gentlemen, but the son of\na Scottish earl, who had been sent to Windsor with a message from the\nKing of Scotland.\n\nLord William, for that was his name, was so tall, and strong, and brave,\nand manly, it was no wonder that little Lady Katherine fell in love with\nhim, and preferred him to all the young English lords who were longing\nto lay their hearts at her feet.\n\nSo things went merrily on, in the pleasant June weather, until one sunny\nafternoon, when Lady Katherine was riding slowly through the park, under\nthe shady beech trees, with Lord William, as usual, by her side. He was\ntelling her how much he loved her, a story which he had told her very\noften before, and describing the old ivy-covered gray castle, far away\nin the North, where he would take her to live some day, when a little\npage, clad all in Lincoln green, ran across the park and bowed as he\nstopped at the palfrey's side. \"Pardon, my lady,\" he said breathlessly,\n\"but the Baroness Anne sent me to carry tidings to thee that thy Duchess\nmother hath arrived, and would speak with thee at once.\"\n\nThen the bright red roses faded from the poor little lady's cheeks, for\nshe knew well that the Duchess, who was not her real mother, but only\nher step-mother, wished her no good. Sorrowfully she rode up to the\ncastle, Lord William at her side, and it seemed to both of them as if\nthe little birds had stopped singing, and the sun had suddenly grown\ndim.\n\nAnd it was indeed terrible tidings that the little maiden heard when she\nreached the room where her stern-faced step-mother awaited her. An old\nMarquis, a friend of her father's, who was quite old enough to be her\ngrandfather, had announced his wish to marry her, and, as she had five\nsisters at home, all waiting to get a chance to become maids-of-honour,\nand see a little of the world, her step-mother thought it was too good\nan opportunity to let slip, and she had come to fetch her home.\n\nIn vain poor Lady Katherine threw herself at the Duchess's feet, and\nbesought her to let her marry the gallant Scottish knight. Her ladyship\nonly curled her lip and laughed. \"Marry a beggarly Scot!\" she said. \"Not\nas long as I have any power in thy father's house. No, no, wench, thou\nknowest not what is for thy good. Where is thy waiting-maid? Let her\npack up thy things at once; thou hast tarried here long enough, I trow.\"\n\nSo Lady Katherine was carted off, bag and baggage, to the great turreted\nmansion on the borders of Wales, where her five sisters and her\ngrandfatherly old lover were waiting for her, without ever having a\nchance of bidding Lord William farewell.\n\nAs for that noble youth, he mounted his horse, and called his\nmen-at-arms together, and straightway rode away to Scotland, and never\nhalted till he reached the old gray castle, three days' ride over the\nBorder. When he arrived there he shut himself up in the great square\ntower where his own apartments were, and frightened his family by\ngrowing so pale and thin that they declared he must have caught some\nfever in England, and had come home to die. In vain the Earl, his\nfather, tried to persuade him to ride out with him to the chase; he\ncared for nothing but to be left alone to sit in the dim light of his\nown room, and dream of his lost love.\n\nNow Lord William was fond of all living things, horses, and dogs, and\nbirds; but one pet he had, which he loved above all the others, and that\nwas a gay gos-hawk which he had found caught in a snare, one day, and\nhad set free, and tamed, and which always sat on a perch by his window.\n\nOne evening, when he was sitting dreaming sadly of the days at Windsor,\nstroking his favourite's plumage meanwhile, he was startled to hear the\nbird begin to speak. \"What mischance hath befallen thee, my master?\" it\nsaid, \"that thou lookest so pale and unhappy. Hast been defeated in a\ntourney by some Southron loon, or dost still mourn for that fair maiden,\nthe lovely Lady Katherine? Can I not help thee?\"\n\nThen a strange light shone in Lord William's eye, and he looked at the\nbird thoughtfully as it nestled closer to his heart.\n\n\"Thou shalt help me, my gay gos-hawk,\" he whispered, \"for, for this\nreason, methinks, thou hast received the gift of speech. Thy wings are\nstrong, and thou canst go where I cannot, and bring no harm to my love.\nThou shalt carry a letter to my dear one, and bring back an answer,\" and\nin delight at the thought, the young man rose and walked up and down the\nroom, the gos-hawk preening its wings on his shoulder, and crooning\nsoftly to itself.\n\n\"But how shall I know thy love?\" it said at last.\n\n\"Ah, that is easy,\" answered Lord William. \"Thou must fly up and down\nmerrie England, especially where any great mansion is, and thou canst\nnot mistake her. She is the fairest flower of all the fair flowers that\nthat fair land contains. Her skin is white as milk, and the roses on her\ncheeks are red as blood. And, outside her chamber, by a little postern,\nthere grows a nodding birch tree, the leaves of which dance in the\nslightest breeze, and thou must perch thereon, and sing thy sweetest,\nwhen she goes with her sisters and maids to hear Mass in the little\nchapel.\"\n\nThat night, when all the country folk were asleep, a gay gos-hawk flew\nout from a window in the square tower, and sped swiftly through the\nquiet air, on and on, above lonely houses, and sleeping towns, and when\nthe sun rose it was still flying, hovering now and then over some great\ncastle, or lordly manor house, but never resting long, never satisfied.\nDay and night it travelled, up and down the country, till at last it\ncame one evening to a great mansion on the borders of Wales, in one side\nof which was a tiny postern, with a high latticed window near it, and by\nthe door grew a birch tree, whose branches nodded up and down against\nthe panes.\n\n\"Ah,\" said the gos-hawk to itself, \"I will rest here.\" And it perched on\na branch, and put its head under its wing, and slept till morning, for\nit was very tired. As soon as the sun rose, however, it was awake, with\nits bright eyes ready to see whatever was to be seen.\n\nNor had it long to wait.\n\nPresently the bell at the tiny chapel down by the lake began to ring,\nand immediately the postern opened, and a bevy of fair maidens came\nlaughing out, books in hand, on their way to the morning Mass. They were\nall beautiful, but the gay gos-hawk had no difficulty in telling which\nwas his master's love, for the Lady Katherine was the fairest of them\nall, and, as soon as he saw her, he began to sing as though his little\nthroat would burst, and all the maidens stood still for a moment and\nlistened to his song.\n\nWhen they returned from the little chapel he was still singing, and when\nLady Katherine went up into her chamber the song sounded more beautiful\nthan ever. It was a strange song too, quite unlike the song of any other\nbird, for first there came a long soft note, and then a clear distinct\none, and then some other notes which were always the same, \"Your love\ncannot come here; your love cannot come here.\" So they sounded over and\nover again, in Lady Katherine's ears, until the roses on her cheeks\ndisappeared, and she was white and trembling.\n\n\"To the dining-hall, maidens; tarry not for me,\" she said suddenly. \"I\nwould fain be alone to enjoy this lovely song.\" And, as the fresh\nmorning air had made them all hungry, they obeyed her without a moment's\nthought.\n\nAs soon as she was alone she ran to the window and opened it, and there,\njust outside, sat a gay gos-hawk, with the most beautiful plumage that\nshe had ever seen.\n\n\"Oh,\" she cried faintly, \"I cannot understand it; but something in my\nheart tells me that you have seen my own dear love.\"\n\nThen the gay gos-hawk put his head on one side, and whistled a merry\ntune; then he looked straight into her eyes and sang a low sweet one;\nthen he pecked and pecked at one of his wings until the tender-hearted\nlittle lady took hold of him gently to see if he were hurt, and who can\ndescribe her delight and astonishment when she found a tiny letter from\nLord William tied in a little roll under his wing.\n\nThe letter was very sad, and the tears came into her eyes as she read\nit. It told her how he had already sent her three letters which had\nnever reached her, and how he felt as if he must soon die, he was so\nsick with longing for her.\n\nWhen she had read it she sat for a long time thinking, with her face\nburied in her hands, while the gay gos-hawk preened his feathers, and\ncrooned to himself on the window sill. At last she sprang to her feet,\nher eyes flashing and her mouth set determinedly. Taking a beautiful\nring from her hand, she tied it with trembling fingers under the bird's\nwing where the letter had been.\n\n\"Tell him that with the ring I send him my heart,\" she whispered\npassionately, and the gay gos-hawk just gave one little nod with his\nhead, and then sat quite still to hear the rest of her message. \"Tell\nhim to set his bakers and his brewers to work,\" she went on firmly, \"to\nbake rich bridal cake, and brew the wedding ale, and while they are yet\nfresh I will meet him at the Kirk o' St Mary, the Kirk he hath so often\ntold me of.\"\n\nAt these words the gay gos-hawk opened his eyes a shade wider. \"Beshrew\nme, lady,\" he said to himself, \"but thou talkest as if thou hadst\nwings\"; but he knew his duty was to act and not to talk, so with one\nmerry whistle he spread his wings, and flew away to the North.\n\nThat night, when all the people in the great house were asleep, the\nlittle postern opened very gently, and a gray-cloaked figure crept\nsoftly out. It went slowly in the shadow of the trees until it came to\nthe little chapel by the lake; then it ran softly and lightly through\nthe long grass until it reached a tiny little cottage under a spreading\noak tree. It tapped three times on the window, and presently a quavering\nold voice asked who was there.\n\n\"'Tis I, Dame Ursula; 'tis thy nursling Katherine. Open to me, I pray\nthee; I am in sore need of thy help.\"\n\nA moment later the door was opened by a little old woman, with a white\ncap, and a rosy face like a wrinkled apple.\n\n\"And what need drives my little lady to me at this time of night?\" she\nasked.\n\nThen the maiden told her story, and made her request.\n\nThe old woman listened, shaking her head, and laughing to herself\nmeanwhile. \"I can do it, I can do it,\" she cried, \"and 'twere worth a\nyear's wages to see thy proud stepdame's face when thy brothers return\nto tell the tale.\" Then she drew Lady Katherine into her tiny room, and\nset her down on a three-legged stool by the smouldering fire, while she\npottered about, and made up a draught, taking a few drops of liquid from\none bottle, and a few drops from another; for this curious old woman\nseemed to keep quite a number of bottles, as well as various bunches of\nherbs, on a high shelf at one end of her kitchen.\n\nAt last she was finished, and, turning to the maiden, she handed her a\nlittle phial containing a deep red-coloured mixture.\n\n\"Swallow it all at once,\" she chuckled, \"when thou requirest the spell\nto work. 'Twill last three days, and then thou wilt wake up as fresh as\na lark.\"\n\nNext morning the Duke and his seven sons were going a-hunting, and the\ncourtyard rang with merry laughter as one after another came out to\nmount the horses which the pages held ready for them. The ladies were on\nthe terrace waiting to wave them good-bye, when, just as the Duke was\nabout to mount his horse, his eldest daughter, whom he loved dearly, ran\ninto the courtyard and knelt at his feet.\n\n\"A boon, a boon, dear father,\" she cried, and she looked so lovely with\nher golden hair waving in the wind, and her bright eyes looking up into\nhis, that he felt that he could not refuse her anything.\n\n\"Ask what thou wilt, my daughter,\" he said kindly, laying his hand on\nher head, \"and I will grant it thee. Except permission to marry that\nScottish squire,\" he added, laughing.\n\n\"That will I never ask, Sire,\" she said submissively; \"but though thou\nforbiddest me to think of him, my heart yearns for Scotland, the country\nthat he told me of, and if 'tis thy will that I marry and live in\nEngland, I would fain be buried in the North. And as I have always had\ndue reverence for Holy Church, I pray thee that when that day comes, as\ncome it must some day, that thou wilt cause a Mass to be sung at the\nfirst Scotch kirk we come to, and that the bells may toll for me at the\nsecond kirk, and that at the third, at the Kirk o' St Mary, thou wilt\ndeal out gold, and cause my body to rest there.\"\n\nThen the Duke raised her to her feet.\n\n\"Talk not so, my little Katherine,\" he said kindly. \"My Lord Marquis is\na goodly man, albeit not too young, and thou wilt be a happy wife and\nmother yet; but if 'twill ease thy heart, child, I will remember thy\nfancy.\" Then the kind old man rode away, and Katherine went back to her\nsisters.\n\n\"What wert thou asking, girl?\" asked her jealous step-mother with a\nfrown as she passed.\n\n\"That I may be buried in Scotland when my time comes to die,\" said\nKatherine, bowing low, with downcast eyes, for in those days maidens had\nto order themselves lowly to their elders, even although they were\nDuke's daughters.\n\n\"And did he grant thy strange request?\" went on the Duchess, looking\nsuspiciously at the girl's burning cheeks.\n\n\"Yes, an' it please thee, Madam,\" answered her step-daughter meekly, and\nthen with another low curtsey she hurried off to her own room, not\nwaiting to hear the lady's angry words: \"I wish, proud maiden, that I\nhad had the giving of the answer, for, by my troth, I would have turned\na deaf ear to thy request. Buried in Scotland, forsooth! Thou hast a\nlover in Scotland, and it is he thou art hankering after, and not a\ngrave.\"\n\nTwo hours afterwards, when the Duke and his sons came back from hunting,\nthey found the castle in an uproar. All the servants were running about,\nwringing their hands, and crying; and indeed it was little wonder, for\nhad not Lady Katherine's waiting-woman, when she went into her young\nlady's room at noon, found her lying cold and white on her couch, and no\none had been able to rouse her? When the poor old Duke heard this, he\nrushed up to her chamber, followed by all his seven sons; and when he\nsaw her lying there, so white, and still, he covered his face with his\nhands, and cried out that his little Katherine, his dearly loved\ndaughter, was dead.\n\nBut the cruel step-mother shook her head and said nothing. Somehow she\ndid not believe that Lady Katherine was really dead, and she determined\nto do a very cruel thing to find out the truth. When everyone had left\nthe room she ordered her waiting-maid, a woman who was as wicked as\nherself, to melt some lead, and bring it to her in an iron spoon, and\nwhen it was brought she dropped a drop on the young girl's breast; but\nshe neither started nor screamed, so the cruel Duchess had at last to\npretend to be satisfied that she was really dead, and she gave orders\nthat she should be buried at once in the little chapel by the lake.\n\nBut the old Duke remembered his promise, and vowed that it should be\nperformed.\n\nSo Lady Katherine's seven brothers went into the great park, and cut\ndown a giant oak tree, and out of the trunk of it they hewed a bier, and\nthey overlaid it with silver; while her sisters sat in the turret room\nand sewed a beautiful gown of white satin, which they put on Lady\nKatherine, and laid her on the silver bier; and then eight of her\nfather's men-at-arms took it on their shoulders, and her seven brothers\nfollowed behind, and so the procession set out for Scotland.\n\nAnd it all fell out as the old Duke had promised. At the first Scotch\nkirk which the procession came to, the priests sang a solemn Mass, and\nat the second, they caused the bells to toll mournfully, and at the\nthird kirk, the Kirk o' St Mary, they thought to lay the maiden to rest.\n\nBut, as they came slowly up to it, what was their astonishment to find\nthat it was surrounded by a row of spearmen, whose captain, a tall,\nhandsome young man, stepped up to them as they were about to enter the\nkirk, and requested them to lay down the bier. At first Lady Katherine's\nseven brothers objected to this being done. \"What business of the\nstranger's was it?\" they asked, and they haughtily ordered the\nmen-at-arms to proceed. But the young soldier gave a sign to his men,\nand in an instant they had crossed their spears across the doorway, and\nthe rest surrounded the men who carried the bier, and compelled them to\ndo as they were bid.\n\nThen the young captain stepped forward to where Lady Katherine was lying\nin her satin gown, and knelt down and took hold of her hand.\n\nImmediately the rosy colour began to come back to her cheeks, and she\nopened her eyes; and when they fell on Lord William--for it was he who\nhad come to meet her at the Kirk o' St Mary, as she had bidden him--she\nsmiled faintly and said, \"I pray thee, my lord, give me one morsel of\nbread and a mouthful of thy good red wine, for I have fasted for three\ndays, ever since the draught which my old nurse Ursula gave me, began to\ndo its work.\"\n\nWhen she had drunk the wine her strength came back, and she sprang up\nlightly, and a murmur of delight went round among Lord William's\nspearmen when they saw how lovely she was in the white satin gown which\nher sisters had made, and which would do beautifully for her wedding.\n\nBut her seven brothers were very angry at the trick which had been\nplayed on them, and if they had dared, they would have carried her back\nto England by force; but they dare not, because of all the spearmen who\nstood round.\n\n\"Thou wilt rue this yet, proud girl,\" said her eldest brother; \"thou\nmightest have been a Marchioness in England, with land, and castles, and\ngold enough and to spare, instead of coming to this beggarly land, and\nbreaking thy father's, and thy mother's heart.\"\n\nThen the little lady put her hand in that of her lover, and answered\nquietly, \"Nay, but I had no mind to wed with one who was already in his\ndotage; little good the lands, and castles, and gold would have done me,\nhad I been obliged to spend my time in nursing an old man; and, as for\nmy father, I know he will secretly rejoice when he hears, that, after\nall, I shall wed my own true love, who, I would have him know, is an\nEarl's son, although he may not be so rich as is my lord the Marquis;\nand, as for my cruel step-mother, 'tis no matter what she thinks.\"\n\nHer brother stamped his foot in useless anger. \"Then,\" said he, pointing\nto the silver bier lying forgotten on the grass, \"I swear that that bier\non which thou camest hither shall be the only wedding portion that thy\nhusband will ever see of thine; mayhap poverty will bring thee to thy\nsenses.\"\n\nBut his sister only laughed as she pressed closer to her bridegroom and\nsaid bravely, \"Happiness is more than gold, brother, and the contented\nheart better than the restless one which is ever seeking riches.\"\n\nSo the seven brothers went back to England in a rage, while Lord William\nmarried his brave little bride in the old Kirk o' St Mary; and then they\nrode home to the gray ivy-covered castle, where the gay gos-hawk was\nwaiting on the square tower to sing his very sweetest song to greet\nthem.\n\n\n\n\nTHE END\n\nPRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY NEILL AND CO., LTD., EDINBURGH.\n\n\n\n\nOTHER VOLUMES BY ELIZABETH GRIERSON\n\n\nTALES OF\n\n~SCOTTISH KEEPS & CASTLES~\n\nFOR YOUNG PEOPLE\n\n_With eight full-page illustrations in colour by_ ALLAN STEWART\n\n_Small sq. demy 8vo._ PRICE 6/-NET (_By post 6/6_)\n\n\"... 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RENTOUL\n\nContaining 16 full-page illustrations, 8 of them in colour, also\ndecorative title page, contents, endpapers, etc. In artistic cover.\n\n_Sq. demy 8vo._ PRICE 6/-NET (_By post 6/6_)\n\n\nPublished by A. & C. BLACK, LTD., 4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W. 1\n\n\n\n\nTranscribers Notes:\n\nBold text is marked with ~ characters.","title":"Tales From Scottish Ballads","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":74571}