{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_39872/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_39872","id":"gutenberg_39872","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39872","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Humour","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Category: Romance","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Historical fiction","Scotland -- History -- Robert II, 1371-1390 -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Henry Flower, Carlo Traverso and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nbook was produced from scanned images of public domain\nmaterial from the Google Print project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    THE\n\n    THREE PERILS OF MAN:\n\n    _A BORDER ROMANCE_.\n\n\n\n\n    THE\n    THREE PERILS OF MAN;\n\n    OR,\n    War, Women, and Witchcraft.\n\n    _A BORDER ROMANCE._\n\n\n    BY JAMES HOGG,\n    AUTHOR OF \"WINTER-EVENING TALES,\" \"BROWNIE OF\n    BODSBECK,\" \"QUEEN'S WAKE,\" _&c._ _&c._\n\n\n    IN THREE VOLUMES.\n\n    VOL. II.\n\n    Beshrew me if I dare open it.\n        FLETCHER.\n\n\n    LONDON:\n    LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN,\n    PATERNOSTER-ROW.\n\n    1822.\n\n\n\n\nJOHN MOIR, Printer, Edinburgh, 1822.\n\n\n\n\nTHE\n\nTHREE PERILS OF MAN.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n    He was a base and a cruel knight,\n      As ever my two eyes did see;\n    And all that he did, and all that he said,\n      It was by the might of glamourye.\n\n    But yet his gear was o' the goude\n      As it waved and wampished in the wind;\n    And the coal-black steed he rode upon,\n      It was fleeter than the bonny hind.\n\n        _Ballad of Sir Colin Brand._\n\n\nThe distance from Melrose to the castle of Aikwood being only about nine\nEnglish miles, our party came in view of it before sun-set. It was one\nof those dead calm winter evenings, not uncommon at that season, when\nthe slightest noise is heard at a distance, and the echoes are all\nabroad.\n\nAs they drew near to the huge dark-looking pile, silence prevailed among\nthem more and more. All was so still that even that beautiful valley\nseemed a waste. There was no hind whistling at the plough; no cattle\nnor sheep grazing on the holms of Aikwood; no bustle of servants,\nkinsmen, or their grooms, as at the castles of other knights. It seemed\nas if the breath of the enchanter, or his eye, had been infectious, and\nhad withered all within its influence, whether of vegetable, animal, or\nhuman life. The castle itself scarcely seemed to be the abode of man;\nthe massy gates were all locked; no porter was in attendance; and there\nwas only one small piping smoke issuing from one of the turrets.\n\n\"Gude faith! callans,\" said Charlie, \"that's a douth and an awsome\nlooking bigging. I wish we were fairly in, and safely out again.\"\n\n\"Is that now to be my residence, Yardbire?\" said the beautiful Delany.\n\"Will you go away, and leave Elias and me in that frightsome and\ndesolate looking mansion?\"\n\n\"If the great Master gie us a civil answer,\" said Charlie, not well\nwotting what to say,--\"and desire to have you for his handmaiden, or\nrather the mistress of his castle, to overlook the other maids, and the\nspinning and weaving concerns like, then we have orders to leave you.\nBut, if he should be cross, and crabbit, and paughty wi' us, ye're in\ngude hands, and we'll no quat wi' you sae easily.\"\n\n\"Thou art in good hands indeed,\" said the friar: \"But, alas! what is\nman! a flower of the field that the hand of the mower cutteth down and\nleaveth to decay: A shadow; a sound that passeth away and is not. But,\nmaiden, thou art in better hands than ours; in hands that will not leave\nthe innocent and guiltless to perish. There is an arm around thee that\nthou seest not: there is a guardian with a sword behind thee and before\nthee, of whom thou art not aware. Therefore have thou no fear, for no\nevil shall befal thee.\"\n\n\"Methinks I could live any where, and be void of fear, if but suffered\nto be in your presence,\" said Delany: \"There is something in what you\nhave told me that goes to my heart, and on it I think I can rely.\"\n\n\"Blessed be thou, my daughter!\" said he; \"yea, and blessed shalt thou be\nin thy generation\"--\n\n\"Hear to that!\" said the poet aside: \"Still on one subject! It is all\nover with some body!\"\n\n--\"But thou art perhaps going into a place of danger, and evil things\nmay await thee. Here, take thou this, and keep it in thy bosom; and, by\nthe blessing of the Holy Virgin, it shall shield thee from all\nmalevolent spirits, all enchantments, and all dangers of the wicked one;\nthe time may come when thou shalt more thoroughly understand the great\nthings contained in this book.\"\n\nAs he said this, he put into her hand a small gilded copy of the Four\nEvangelists, which she kissed and put into her bosom. All the rest saw\nthis, and took it for a book of the Black Art.\n\nBy this time they were drawing near to the gate at Aikwood, where all\ncontinued silent and still as formerly. Notwithstanding of this,\nCharlie's horse, Corby, began to cock his ears and snort in a terrible\nmanner. Stout-hearted as Charlie war, his countenance began to alter;\nbut he uttered not a word farther than coaxing Corby to proceed. The\nmule leading the way altogether regardless, the horses jogged on after\nhim, example going farther than precept, whether with man or beast. All\nthe horses were, however, become restive, though none of them was half\nso fierce as Corby. He continued to force down his head, as if smelling\nthe ground; anon capering and snuffing the air, snorting aloud, and\nmoving with an elasticity rather like a thing of spirit than of joints\nand bones. \"Gude faith, Corby, my man,\" said Charlie, as he patted his\nmane, \"a' isna right here! Wend on, ye camstairy thief: what the deil\nails ye? But, gude sauf us! ane should take care wha they name here.\nThey say, an speak o' the deil he'll appear.\"\n\nThe old proverb had scarcely left Charlie's lips, when, all at once,\nthey beheld three pages in black livery standing ranged before the gate,\nalthough the moment before there was no living creature there. They\nseemed to have arisen out of the ground, and as they rose they bowed\ntheir heads in a sarcastic way to the embassy. The appearance of the\npages, and the motion that they made were both accomplished in the same\nmoment of time, and at the motion every one of the horses broke away,\nlike so many scared wildfowl, some one way, and some another. Charlie\ntried to restrain Corby with the whole might of his capacious arm; but\nthe impatient animal plunged and bounded into the air with such\nviolence, that his rider was obliged to give him head, and away he\nsprung like a roe over field and river, straining every nerve to be out\nof sight of Aikwood, while Charlie's warrior cloak, that hung only by\nthe shoulder clasp, flapped so far behind him that he appeared like a\nblack cloud skimming the valley. Though none of the other horses made\nequal speed with Corby, every one ran as fast as it could, and all to\nthe eastward, though far asunder.\n\nThe mule, on the contrary, never moved nor concerned himself about the\nmatter. He indeed held forward his long ears, and took a serious look of\nthe pages, as of some sort of beings he did not more than generally\nunderstand. Nevertheless he despised them, and looked about with\napparent astonishment and derision at the madness and folly of his\nassociates. The friar, finding himself left with his mule and the three\npages thus unaccountably, began to address the latter; but they only\nimitated his motions, and made wry faces, without returning him any\nanswer. The mule had by this time taken another serious look at them,\nand disliking them exceedingly, he sidled towards them with all his\nmettle, and tried to hit them with his heels. The urchins then raised\nsuch an eldritch laugh that they made the arches of the castle to ring,\nand, skipping about and about, provoked the mule to farther violence.\nHe, on his part, was nothing loth to attack; he ran open-mouthed at one,\nkicked at another, and tried to crush another up against the gate, all\nto the great annoyance of the friar, who, with the utmost difficulty\nkept his seat for a good while, in spite of the mad evolutions of his\nprovoked and provoking beast. But the game once begun was not suffered\nto subside. The giggling elves, with the swiftness of lightning, skipped\nabout, and, in whatever direction the mule darted, one of them was\nalways pricking him behind. The worthy friar waxed very wroth, and\nswore by the life of Pharaoh that he would execute vengeance on them.\nBut the noise of mirth and mischief waxed louder and louder, until the\naustere inmates of the castle heard; and the great Master said to his\nonly attendant, \"Gourlay, what is the meaning of all this uproar?\"\n\n\"It is only Prig, Prim, and Pricker,\" said he, \"making sport with a\nmendicant friar and his ass.\"\n\n\"Are they killing him?\" enquired his Master, with the greatest\ncomposure, and without lifting his eyes from a large book that lay\nbefore him.\n\n\"I wot not, sire,\" said Gourlay, with the same indifference.\n\n\"Ay, it is no matter,\" returned the Master; \"It will keep them in\nemployment a little while.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Gourlay,--and retired back to the casement with sullen\nstep.\n\nBy this time the mule had become so outrageous, that he wheeled, kicked,\nand plunged, like one of the furies; and, at the last, in spite of all\nthe friar could do, laid him fairly on his back, amid the frantic\nshrieks and gibberish of his tormentors. Gourlay beheld the incident\nfrom the crevice of the turret, and, not daring to discompose the great\nMaster, he walked down to the gate to witness the sport at a shorter\ndistance; though with a callous indifference about the matter, and\nwithout the least hope to enjoy it.\n\nWhen he came nigh to the scene of action, he looked as if he expected\nthe friar to have been dead, and was rather astonished when he saw him\nraise his head, and utter a solemn anathema against the pages, who fled\nback as if awed and overcome. The seneschal not comprehending this,\nturned his pale glazed cheek toward the friar, elevated his brow as if\nlooking at the verge of the high hill beyond the river, and stood\nmotionless, stealing a side glance, now and then, of the stranger.\n\nThe latter raised up his gruff face, inflamed with passion, and, seeing\nthe tall ungainly figure of Gourlay standing like a statue, with a red\nturban on his head, and a grey frock or mantle, that in ample folds\ncovered him from the neck to the sandals, took him at once for the\nmighty enchanter, and addressed him with as little respect as might be.\n\n\"If thou art the lord of this mansion, draw near unto me, that I may\ntell thee of the deeds of thy servants, which eat thy bread, and stand\nat thy gate. Lo, have they not lifted up the hand against my life, who\nam a stranger, and a servant of him against whom thou hast rebelled and\nlifted up the heel? Go to; thou art a churl, and a derision, and a\nbye-word among thy kindred and people, and not worthy to be called by\ntheir name. I came unto thy gate in peace, on a message of peace, and\nthe words of peace were in my mouth; and why hast thou suffered these\nchildren of the wicked one to maltreat and abuse me? Why dost thou not\nopen thy mouth?\"\n\nThe pages chattered with a malicious laugh at a distance, and the\nseneschal came stalking near, in a sort of confused astonishment, to\ntake a nearer view of this talking phenomenon. He came and looked over\nhim without altering a muscle of his face; and the friar, irritated by\npain and the contempt shewn toward his sufferings, went on. At any other\ntime he would haply have been chilled by the pale frigid countenance,\nshagged beard, and glazed unearthly eye that were now bent over him; but\nin the present state of his feelings he disregarded them; and, though\nconvinced that he spoke to the mighty enchanter himself, continued his\nharangue:--\n\n\"Come thou near unto me that I may curse thee. Thou child of all\nunrighteousness, art thou not already cursed among the children of men?\nWhere are the wealth and the cheerfulness, where are the welcome, and\nthe faces of joy and mirth, that are to be met with at the houses of thy\nkinsmen whose bread I eat? Where the full basket and the welcome store?\nthe wine that giveth its colour in the glass? the sounds of mirth and\ngladness? the sounds of the song, the viol, and the harp? And where is\nthy tongue, that thou canst not speak?\" cried the friar, elevating his\nvoice to its highest and most impatient tones.\n\n\"Humph,\" said Gourlay.\n\n\"Humph!\" returned the friar; \"What dost thou mean by humph? Tell me, in\none word, Art thou the lord of this castle?\"\n\n\"No; but his seneschal,\" said Gourlay; \"What hast thou to say?\"\n\n\"Then lead me to thy master, that I may see him face to face, and tell\nhim the words of him that sent me. I will not be afraid of these dogs of\nthine and thy master's. What is become of thy tongue that thou dost not\nspeak? Tell me, I say, can I see thy master?\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Gourlay; and, seizing the friar by the shoulder with a\nrude but powerful grasp, he dragged him in at the gate.\n\n\"With-hold thine hand, and thy unmannerly grasp,\" said the friar,--\"else\nI will smite thee with the sword.\"\n\nThe seneschal regarded this threat only with a grim unmeaning smile; and\nas he held the friar by the right arm so firmly that he even lost the\npower of it, it was impossible for him to draw his sword.\n\n\"Nay but hearken unto me,\" continued he; \"surely it is better for thee\nto live than to die. Therefore bring in my beast that he may have\nprovender; and let me also bring my goods and my changes of raiment\nalong with me in peace, else how shall I set up my face before thy\nmaster?\"\n\nThe seneschal then paused, and motioned with his hand to the pages to\nbring the panniers; they ran to obey, but as soon as any of them touched\nthe huge wallet, he hastened back and fell to the ground.\n\n\"Vermin! cannot you bring the furniture?\" cried Gourlay.\n\nThey shook their heads, and stood at a distance.\n\n\"Humph!\" said he, \"I do not comprehend this,\" and leading the friar\nback, still holding him fast by the arm, he suffered him to lift the\npanniers himself, which he did with good will, and then allowed himself\nto be led away by the uncourteous seneschal, who said to the pages as he\ndeparted, \"See to the vile animal!\"\n\nWithout more ado he led the friar in, and pushing him rudely into a\nsmall vaulted apartment, he locked first a ponderous iron door, and\nthen a massy wooden one, full of nails, upon him; and, without regarding\nhis complaints or anathemas, or deigning a word in reply to his queries,\nhe left him to his own bitter reflections.\n\nThe apartment at first appeared to be dark, but on looking about he\nfound that there were two grated loop-holes in it, and by the light from\nthese he soon perceived that there was nothing in the place save the\nskeleton of a man of uncommon stature and dimensions. The bones were\nlying flat on the floor, every one in its place exactly as the man had\ndied, and the flesh wasted away from them. No disarrangement had taken\nplace, nor was the smallest joint wanting. This was a petrifying sight\nto the poor friar, who, crossing himself, and turning from the horrible\nspectacle, set his nose through the grating and looked out on the\nfields.\n\nThe first thing he beheld confounded him more than all he had ever seen\nin his life. The three devilish pages were tampering with his mule to\nbring him within the outer gate; but he, in his usual manner, proved as\nrefractory as ever, and laid about him with all his might. On this, the\nboys in one moment whipped him up in their arms, and ere the friar could\ndraw his breath, far less utter a Pater-Noster, they set him down in the\nmiddle of the court, straight before the friar's grating, and tied him\nto the shaft of a well with a strong rope. The friar said a Benedicite;\nand, ere he had done, the devilish and provoking imps began to torment\nthe poor mule beyond all sufferance, whipping him round and round the\npost, and making him fling and jump till the blood and sweat were\npouring together from his branded sides, and he was no more able to\nresent the injuries committed on him. The friar fumed, and threatened,\nand cursed them in the name of the blessed saints; but they only laughed\nhim to scorn: And when the mule could no longer resent the lash, they\nbrought red-hot spindles and pushed them between his hind-legs, which\nmade him fling and rear till he fell down at the post, and lay\ngroaning, unable any more to move.\n\nThe thing that provoked the friar worst of all was the sight of the tall\nseneschal standing looking on, and seeming, by his motions, to be\ndirecting the game. Never was such a flood of eastern eloquence heard at\nAikwood, as was poured from the small crevice in the bottom of the\neastern turret that evening. No one, however, regarded it, or, if they\ndid, it was only to mock or mimic the sublime deprecator.\n\nTo all that he said, the seneschal grinned a smile of grim disdain, and\nmotioned to the pages to redouble their sport, which they did, till, as\nsaid, the poor animal could furnish them with no more.\n\nThe friar now beheld a joyful sight through the twilight, the rest of\nhis companions coming on foot towards the gate. They had gathered\ntogether at the mill, about a mile to the eastward of the castle, and\nmade another attempt to approach it on horseback; but their efforts were\nvain; not a steed would come one step farther than just in view of it;\nso they agreed to put their horses up at the mill, leaving them in\ncharge of the miller and his two sons, and to proceed on foot to the\ncastle, to join their mysterious associate the friar, whose magical\nmight some of them began to dread, and others to trust.\n\nGourlay beheld them approaching as well as did the friar, and again\nwaited on the great Master with awe and trembling.\n\n\"I pray thee, mighty Master, to forgive me,\" said he, \"but too true is\nit that the wretched pedagogue has said,--for here come a body of the\nwarden's friends, with swords in their hands, and one beautiful human\nthing in their company.\"\n\n\"And what then?\" said Michael, in a stern, hollow voice.\n\nThe seneschal trembled. \"I--I--only want to know how they are to be\nreceived,\" said he.\n\n\"Received?\" cried the Master, raising his voice to a pitch that made the\nold wretch shrink as it were within himself. \"Received? As spies should,\nto be sure. Begone!\"\n\nGourlay ran cowering toward the door.\n\n\"Stop.--Come back here. What forces are in the castle?\"\n\n\"What forces? Hem! Great Master, you only know.\"\n\n\"Any things of flesh, I inquire?\"\n\n\"No, not one; if you except the old witch Henbane. Oh! I beg your\npardon, great and honoured master! I meant your worthy and respectable\nhousekeeper.\"\n\nMichael gave three gentle tramps with his heel, and in one moment the\nthree pages in black livery, Prig, Prim, and Pricker, were at his knee.\n\n\"Work, Master, work. What work now?\" said they all in one breath.\n\n\"Give your master there a toasting for his insolence,\" said Michael.\n\nThe pages giggled for joy; the seneschal kneeled and roared out for\nmercy, and, as a motive for granting it to him, said the strangers were\nat the gate. The pages had already laid their fangs on him; but the\nMaster, on the arrival of the strangers being brought to his mind,\nordered the imps to desist. This they did on the instant; but, without\ndelay, rushed on Michael himself, as if they would tear him to pieces.\nHe threatened, cursed, and dared them to touch him; but they seemed\nnothing daunted by all he said, but danced around him with demoniac\ngestures, crying still out with one voice:--\n\n    \"Work, Master, work; work we need;\n    Work for the living, or for the dead:\n    Since we are called, work we will have,\n    For the master, or for the slave.\n    Work, Master, work. What work now?\"\n\n\"Miserable wight that I am!\" cried the mighty Master. \"Then, d--d\ndwarfs, since it must be so, bring the slave back, and let him have\nthree varieties, and no more.\"\n\nGourlay had made his escape with all expedition, but it was not long ere\nthey overtook him, and brought him back, leading him in the most\ngrotesque manner that can well be conceived. They then began to twirl\nhim about, first with his face one way and then another; and,\nlatest adventures making the strongest impressions on their wicked\nimaginations, by some devilish slight they transformed him into the\nshape of a mule, and practised on him all the wanton cruelties they had\nso lately done on the friar's, seeming to enjoy the sport all the while\nwith redoubled zest. They next changed him into a dog; and, tying a\ncannister, containing some small stones to his tail, they pursued him\nround and round the room, and finally out into the yard, with long\nwhips, every one breaking at him, and giving him a lash as he came by.\nThis caused him always now and then to exert himself with such speed\nthat the cannister was sometimes hitting him on the head with a loud\nrattling yerk, sometimes on the back, and all over the body, while the\npoor steward was running, yelping in the uttermost desperation. The\nfriar beheld part of the sport from his grate, but little wist that it\nwas the hated seneschal that was suffering, else he would have doubtless\nenjoyed the scene in no ordinary degree. The rest of the embassy also\nsaw it from the outer gate, where they now stood rapping and calling\nwithout being regarded, the pages being too intent on their game to pay\nthe least attention to such as they.\n\n\"Let alane the poor tike, like good lads,\" cried muckle Charlie, \"and\ncome and open the yett. What ill has the silly beast done to you?\"\n\n\"They bring me in mind o' Jock Harper's terriers,\" said Gibbie, \"that\nwad rather do ill for the sake o' doing it, than do ought that was good\nor right for a' the warld.\"\n\n\"I hate to see a colley-shangie,\" said the poet; \"there is nothing\nsublime or romantic in it.\"\n\n\"They're nae canny couts thae three chaps,\" said Charlie; \"Corby wadna\nlook at them, and he kens things gayan weel. We maun just hae a wee\npatience till they be done wi' their chace. It's a queer kind o' place\nthis.\"\n\nThe poor metamorphosed steward, finding no rest for the sole of his\nfoot, betook him again to the staircase, and crept down at his master's\nfeet, deeming the chastisement to have been over. But he was no sooner\nthere than the pages were after him, and by the time they had whirled\nhim three times about, he started up a hare, and the three pages,\nturning themselves into colley dogs set all upon him.\n\nWith the form of every quadruped into the shape of which he was turned,\nhe seemed to acquire its nature and antipathies, and in none was it so\nstriking as in the hare. When the collies began to snap at him, his\nterror is not to be imagined; he darted round and round the hall like\nlightning, breaking out and in to Michael's study, to the great\ndisarrangement of his conjuring apparatus, books, and papers; while\nevery time that a colley sprung with open mouth at him, he uttered a\ndesperate scream.\n\nThis was the only one of their frolics that appeared to amuse the great\nMaster, his partiality for the sports of the chase being proverbial to\nthis day. When he saw the old seneschal laying back his long ears, and\nexerting his powers of speed in such manifest terror, and the malignant\ncollies whinking after him, and waylaying him in every strait, making\nhim often spring aloft, he could not help laughing outright, and\nbaiting the dogs on him. The tears stood in the old hare's eyes when he\nheard this, nevertheless his fright made him agile; he bolted from the\nhalls and alleys of the castle into the extensive yard; and there was\nsuch a hunt! Michael and the friar both ran to their respective windows\nto see the sport, and our party at the outer gate shouted and hallooed\nwith great energy. Many a time did the dogs get a snap at the steward,\nand make him scream out, while all the onlookers laughed aloud. At\nlength, thinking he would actually be worried, he cleared the wall, and\nmade a bold effort to gain the wood. But these were a trio of dogs from\nwhich there was no possibility of escape. Ran he fast or ran he slow,\nthere were they after him, snatching at his hips and panting sides, and\nyelping so keenly all the while that the seneschal had no doubt of being\ntorn in pieces should they fairly seize him. They turned him, and made\nhim trace many an acute angle on the hill, while our party were running\nafter him, throwing always sticks or stones at the steward, as he\nhasted by them, and baiting the dogs on him. Finding, as formerly, no\nother resource, he returned with main speed to the castle, and crept\ndown at the Master's feet, who, with one touch of his divining rod,\nchanged him into his own native forbidding form.\n\nHe started up in great wrath; and, though panting so that he could\nscarcely speak, swore a horrible oath, that he would no longer be kept\nin bondage and maltreated in that manner; and that, since it was\nimpossible for him to escape in any other way, he would cut his own\nthroat, and run his chance of an after life.\n\n\"Poor dastardly braggart!\" said Michael; \"not for the soul that inhabits\nthat old malicious frame, dare you do such a thing. I would seize on it,\nand make sport of it for ages. I have you wholly in my power, and, dead\nor alive, it is the same thing to me. Were you to do as you say, and\ntake away your life by a ghastly wound, I could even make one of these\nfiendish spirits enter into your body, re-animate it, and cause you to\ngo about with your gaping wound, unclosed and unpurified, as when death\nentered thereat. Think of what an existence that would be, and then go\nand put your miserable threat into execution.\"\n\n\"Hah! There it is!\" said Gourlay: \"Turn me as I will, I see nothing but\nwretchedness. Cursed be the day that I saw you, and ten times cursed the\nconfession I made, that has thus subjected me to your tyranny! However,\nuse me another day as you have used me on this, and you do it at your\nperil, if you were the devil himself. I have warned you.\"\n\nMichael only smiled contemptuously at the threat; and again asked what\nliving creatures were in the castle, as he wanted a retinue to receive\nthe message of his kinsmen.\n\n\"I have told you already,\" said Gourlay, in the same passionate and\nirritated mood; \"and I again repeat it, that there is no mortal thing in\nthe castle, but the old witch, and perhaps two or three hundred rats.\"\n\n\"Take that in the first place then,\" said Michael, \"for your\nimpertinence,\"--at the same time laying him flat on the floor by a\ntremendous blow, although he only moved his hand toward the steward;\n\"and in the next place go call out these three hundred rats you talk of,\nmarshal them up in the court, and receive the mighty warden's people\nwith all manner of pomp and respect, and use them according to their\ndemerits.\"\n\nThe steward roared out with pain; and gnashing his teeth with rage, he\narose growling, and was hasting away, when the Master asked him if he\nwas going to accomplish what he had bidden him do.\n\n\"Without doubt;\" said he, \"Is it not very likely that I shall be able?\"\n\n\"Take that then,\" said the Master, \"and put it above the lock-hole of\nthe door; it shall serve you as a summons, and Prig, Prim, and Pricker\nshall marshal your array.\" With that he gave him a small piece of\nparchment written in red characters, which the steward snatched angrily\nout of his hand, and going down the stair did as the Master had ordered\nhim.\n\nThe charm was effective, and its effects momentary. The bustling and the\nscreaming of rats were heard in every corner of the castle, and\nforthwith a whole column of men marched out into the court in three\nfiles, led by the three pages, and headed by the incensed seneschal in\nhis grey mantle and cap.\n\nOur messengers looked mightily astonished when they beheld such a\nretinue, and Charlie observed that \"it was a confounded shame for Mr\nMichael no to join the warden, and had sae mony idle men lying tholing\nstarvation beside him.\" But then looking wildly around on both sides to\nhis friends, he added, \"God's grace be about us! wha kens but a' thae\nmay be spirits or elves in the shapes o'men? I think they hae unco queer\nmusty-like looks. An I had Corby here he wad soon tell me wi' a\nvengeance.\"\n\nOld Gourlay, now at the head of his corps, demanded what the strangers\nwanted; and on being informed who they were, and that they came on a\nspecial commission to the Master, they were admitted, and walked up a\nlane between two ranks of armed men in full caparison.\n\nThe Master beheld them from his casement, and was mightily diverted by\nthe whimsical appearance of the various individuals that formed the\ngroup, two of whom he conceived to be the most beautiful creatures he\nhad ever seen. Whoever reads this will at once guess who these two\nlovely beings were; but if he does, he will at once guess wrong. It\nwould seem that a wizard sees every thing in this fair and beautiful\ncreation through an inverted medium, and that all the common and fine\nfeelings of nature are in him changed and distorted. The beauty of the\ntwo young captives appeared, in Michael's eyes, hateful, and even\naffected him with loathing; but two more lovely and engaging creatures\nthan Jordan and the Deil's Tam he had never seen on earth. The hooked\nnose, wrinkled face, and mouth from ear to ear of the laird, he thought\nexquisite; but Tam's long coulter nose, turned up in front, his small\ngrey eyes, and shapeless physiognomy, were beyond all expression\nengaging. So, from the time that the Master got the first look of them,\nhe determined, contrary to his usual custom, to see and converse with\nhis guests.\n\nThey were soon conducted to the door of the vault, in which their friend\nthe friar was immured; and, as soon as the door opened, he exclaimed,\nwith a loud voice, \"I charge you, O my brethren, and my companions, that\nye come not into this place, nor set a foot within its boundaries; for\nthe place is a place of death, and the bones of the dead men are in it.\"\n\nThere is no deciding what these words might have produced, had they been\npronounced in time; but as soon as Charlie and the laird, who were\nforemost, heard the friar's voice, they rushed towards him without\nthought or fear of the consequences, and, ere he had done, the hindmost\nwere pushed in by the relentless arm of the seneschal, and the iron door\nclosed behind them. Perceiving how matters stood, the friar straight\nlifted up his hands, and continued to declaim in a still more fervent\nstile.\n\n\"Hout! Gude Lord, friar man, haud your tongue,\" said Charlie\ninterrupting him: \"What signifies making sic a frase as a' this? or what\ngood will it do? I hae run mysel into mony a priminary in my life, but I\nnever fand that mony words did muckle good. I trowed that ye had mair\nart about ye than to be feared for a stane an' lime wa,' an' twa or\nthree airn staincheons. Pith can do muckle, but art can do mair.\"\n\nCharlie meant the black art; but the friar taking him up in another\nmeaning, shook him by the hand and blessed him.\n\nIt may not have occurred to the reader and it is not likely it should,\nthat this same friar was an English monk, the most celebrated man of\nthat age, then exiled from his country, and obliged to skulk in\ndisguise, for fear of being apprehended and burnt as a wizard and\nnecromancer. He was the greatest philosopher and chemist of the age, the\nreal inventor of gun-powder, and many other wonderful discoveries, and,\nwithal, a pious and good man,--although one whose character was\ntinctured with peculiarities so striking, that some took him for a man\ncrazed in his mind, but far more for a powerful necromancer. His name is\nfamiliar to every man in the least acquainted with the literature or the\nscience of that age; but while he remained in Scotland being always\ndenominated the gospel friar, we have judged it best to call him by that\nname. If the reader has not discovered this, it is time he should know\nit; and whether the friar was a necromancer or not, will appear in the\nsequel.\n\nWhen the party got leisure to converse together, their first words were\nexpressive of the astonishment they laboured under at sight of the\nwarlike force kept up by the Master. Charlie only testified his regret\nthat there was not a right and mutual understanding between him and the\nwarden; but the maid Delany was the first to remark that she did not\nthink they were right men, because their faces were all alike, and their\neyes were not like the eyes of any human being she had ever before\nlooked on. In this every one present acquiesced, and great was their\nwonder how or whence that mighty armed force had sprung; but they agreed\nthat there was no contending with such numbers, of whatsoever nature\nthey might be, and that there was nothing for it but submitting to the\nMaster's will.\n\nThe day light was by this time quite extinguished, but the moon was up;\nand it being a hard frost, with a slight covering of snow, or rime, it\nwas nearly as light as some winter days. Their damp, mouldy vault with\nthe grisly skeleton lying at the one side of it, shewed horridly dismal\nin the wan and shadowy light, and threw a chillness over their hearts.\nThey hoped and looked long for dinner, and then for supper, but neither\nof them came; nor did they hear or see any living thing all that night,\nsave the friar's mule, that had again got to his feet, and stood at the\npost groaning and trembling of cold. This was a grievous sight to the\nfriar, for his heart was moved for the sufferings of his poor beast; and\nin the bitterness of his spirit he vented some anathemas against the\nunconscionable seneschal, saying,--\"Verily if ever that son of Belial\nfall into my hands, I will be unto him as Adramelech and as Sharezer,\nand do unto him as they did to the father that begat them.\"\n\nEvery time that Charlie looked out at the mule, he testified a sort of\ninward satisfaction that his own trusty steed was not brought into the\nsame scrape, and sundry times said, \"Gude faith, Corby kend better sense\nthan coming into sic a place as this is. He's as weel off down wi' the\nauld miller; He'll get some pluffins o' seeds or dust, poor fallow. An\nthey gie him but water, I'm no feared for him, for there's plenty o'\nmeat yonder,--but he'll never do if they let him want water.\"\n\nAbout two o'clock in the morning the seneschal entered with a light, but\nhad the precaution to lock the wooden door before he opened the iron\none. The prisoners had sat down on the floor, and were leaning on one\nanother; and, dismal as their lodging was, some of them had fallen sound\nasleep. Delany was leaning on the friar's breast, and the poet had laid\nhimself down behind her, and covered her with his mantle. The rest were\nhuddled together, so that they appeared to be lying above one another;\nbut all, or most of them, set up their heads at the entrance of the\nsteward.\n\nTam was the first to address him. \"What's come o' our supper, goodman,\nthat you are coming toom-handed? Do you no think it is time your guests\nhad something to eat, or hae ye naething either to eat or drink in this\ngreat gousty castle? I dinna care what ye may think, or what you may\nsay; but in my opinion you and your master baith are naething but twa\nill-bred unmannerly niggards.\"\n\nThe seneschal grinned disdain, and clenched his teeth in wrath. He was\nabout to reply, but all their tongues were loosed on him at once,\nsome complaining of one thing some of another, and the friar more\nparticularly of the treatment of his beast. All, however, ended with a\nrequest for meat.\n\n\"No,\" said Gourlay; \"we have no meat for spies and forayers. A halter is\nthe only guerdon we bestow on such dogs. I want this fair maiden, and\nfor the rest of you\"--He finished the sentence with a sneer and a point\nwith his finger to the bones; and seizing the maid by the shoulder, he\ndragged her toward the door.\n\n\"Softly sir, and if you please,\" said the poet, speaking in pure\niambics, and seizing the bars of the iron door before the steward and\nhis prize. \"We have indeed this maiden brought, from distant camp and\nknight renowned, unto the master of this house; and to none else we give\nher up: No, not to thee, nor arm of flesh.\"\n\nAs the poet said these words, he bristled up, and faced the steward at\nthe door, to keep him back; but the carl gave him such a blow on the\ntemples that he staggered and fell. The friar then interposed, and\nthough he was a strong and powerful man, the irascible steward plied his\nblows so fast and so hard about his bare pate, that he was also\noverthrown. The maiden screamed; and the old incendiary was within a\nhairbreadth of having her outside of the iron door, when she would have\nbeen wholly out of the power of her friends and protectors. But at that\ncritical instant Charlie Scott seized the steward by the arm, never\ndoubting but that he would twist him like a willow; but he was\nmistaken. The churl seized him by the throat with his left hand, with\nsuch prodigious force that Charlie deemed him to have the strength of\nsix common men, and lending him a blow on the face, he made his mouth\nand nose to gush blood. Charlie returned the salute with interest, yet\nthe steward stood his ground, and a most desperate struggle ensued, in\nwhich victory appeared doubtful. Gibby perceiving his friend and\nchampion's jeopardy, drew out his sword, and was going deliberately to\nstick the old ragamuffin behind, had not Charlie called out furiously to\nhim to forbear.\n\n\"Keep back your whittle, you cowardly dog,\" cried he, \"else I'll cut you\ninto a thousand pieces. I never yet took odds against a man, nor shall I\nnow, unless I am fighting wi' the devil. In that case I may measure my\nbackbreadth on the floor. But be he the devil, be he dicken, I shall gie\nhim ae squeeze.\"\n\nCharlie with that closed with his dangerous opponent, and gave him such\na squeeze that he made his back and ribs to crash. The steward twisted\nhis face into the most hideous contortions, and exerted his whole force\nto extricate himself, but Charlie brought him to the ground, falling\nupon him with all his ponderous weight. It was among the bones of the\ngigantic skeleton that the two combatants fell; and Charlie, deeming\nthat he had given his foe enough for once, and a little startled to find\nhimself among the rattling bones, began to unloose his grasp, and said\nin a hurried way, \"Billy, I'll learn you how to strike fo'k on the gab\nand the brigg o' the nose sae rashly!\" and was getting up as fast as he\ncould, when the steward gave him such a blow with the thigh-bone of the\ndead man, that he had very nigh brought him down again. If Charlie's\nbonnet had not had a bar or two of steel, that blow would have shattered\nhis skull. As it was it stunned him a little, and made the water start\ninto his eyes; and he had just recollection and strength sufficient to\nsecure his adversary's arms, by holding them down, so that he might not\nrepeat the blow. Yet, with all this Charlie's temper was not to be\nruffled. He cared not how often or how much he fought, but he never\nfought in wrath.\n\n\"Gude faith, my man,\" said he, \"but ye're no nice o' your chapping\nsticks! and foul fa' me gin ye dinna lay them gayan freely on. But I\ndinna blame ye. A wight man never wants a weapon; only come that gate\nagain an ye dare.\"\n\nThe steward growled and cursed, trying all that he could to throw\nCharlie from above him, and master him by sheer strength. He had no idea\nof being overpowered by a single arm, nor was he wont to fear half a\ndozen, but he had never met with the like of Charlie Scott before. He\nmight as well have tried to remove the hill of Aikwood; so he\nwas obliged to succumb, which he did with a very bad grace; nor\nwould he either abate one inch in his demand of having the damsel\nunconditionally, or grant one request that they desired of him.\n\n\"Why, then, there's nae help for it, honest man,\" said Charlie; \"I hae\nye firm and fast, and what ye winna gie us we maun e'en tak at our ain\nhand. Honest friar, come you here, and tak' a' the keys o' the castle\naff this camstary hallanshaker, and we'll e'en help oursels to sic as we\ncan get. I sal tak care that he sanna move a spauld against you, and as\nfor his tongue we maun just let it wag.\"\n\nThe rage of the seneschal, when he saw himself robbed of the keys of the\ncastle, is not to be described: he cursed and raged in such a manner,\nthat, even after the friar had both doors fairly open, Charlie durst not\nmove from off him, or let him go, for fear of some deadly scaith.\n\n\"I dinna ken what I'm to do wi' this deil's buckie,\" said he; \"he's like\nthe tod's whelps, that grow aye the langer the waur.\"\n\n\"I wad gie him a settler,\" said Tam.\n\n\"He brings me in mind o' a barrel o' beer, fuming and fuffing. He'll no\nsettle till he be pierced,\" said Gibbie.\n\nThe friar then took up his bulky baggage, and walked out with that and\nthe light, meaning to bring his mule's halter wherewith to bind the\nseneschal; but Charlie, making his escape from him, locked him in,--and\nthus were our messengers left in the full and free possession of the\ncastle of Aikwood.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n    The lady looked o'er the castle wa',\n      She looked both pale and wan;\n    For the door was locked, and the lord within,\n      He was no Christian man.\n\n        _Song of May Marley._\n\n\nWhen the steward saw that he was fairly mastered, and that neither\nstrength nor words could avail him ought, he remained where he was in\nsullen silence. He had got no orders from the Master to bring him the\nmaid, but it had come into his head to go and take her to himself, and\nhe had nearly effected his purpose. What might have been the consequence\nof his success, it is painful even to calculate; but he was thus\nprevented, though not without blood and wounds.\n\nThe guests now traversed all the lower apartments of the castle, there\nbeing neither bolt nor bar to interrupt them; but for all the retinue\nthat they had seen at their arrival, there was neither the appearance\nof man nor beast remaining. The large hall did not seem to have been\noccupied for a long period. The shelves were empty, and there were\nneither dishes nor fragments of meat of any description; and every thing\nwithin as well as without the castle had the appearance of desolation.\n\nAt length they came to a door, from the bottom of which they perceived\nsome light issuing, of which they were glad, as they were afraid the\nsteward's lamp would fail them and leave them in darkness. Deeming\nthemselves on ticklish ground, they consulted in a whisper before\nventuring in. Charlie Scott was quite a fearless man among his fellow\ncreatures, but all kinds of supernatural agency pressed heavily on his\nconscience. Therefore, in the present instance, he dissuaded his\ncomrades from entering, with all his eloquence.\n\n\"Gude faith, callans, keep back off that place. It is may-be the\nwarlock's room; and gin he should be in the mids o' some o' his cantrips\nat this eiry time o' the morning, gude sauf us! it is a question what\nmight be the upshot. Na, na, friar; I tell ye, bide back, it is best to\nlet sleeping dogs lye, for fear they get up and bite you.\"\n\nBut the friar's creed differed from that of Charlie, and he went\ndauntlessly forward, putting him aside with his hand, and saying at the\nsame time, that he would \"surely go in unto him as with a front of brass\nor of iron;\" that sooner or later the time and the season of their\nmeeting must come, and why should he be dismayed?\n\nThe friar then opened the door with caution, and entered, followed by\nall his associates, Charlie Scott bringing up the rear, and whispering\nto those next him in a tremulous voice,--\"Od that body's mad! He'll lead\nus into some ill-faur'd snapper. Dinna be ower rash, callans. Just look\nafore ye.\"\n\nInstead of the great enchanter, however, they found only an old woman,\nso busily engaged with something on the fire, that she scarcely deigned\nto regard them as they entered. She had a wooden tube, like the barrel\nof a gun, with which she blew up her fire; and she kept blowing at it\ntill the flame came above the lip of her caldron, and let her see into\nit; for she had no lamp, nor any other light save that which came from\nthe fire.\n\nWhen she had made it blaze thus high, she spoke to herself, and without\ntaking her mouth from the tube; saying some words to the following\npurport:--\n\n    \"Sotter, sotter, my wee pan,\n    To the spirit gin ye can;\n    When the scum turns blue,\n    And the blood bells through,\n    There's something aneath that will change the man.\"\n\nWhen Charlie saw her unchristian-like face, and heard her mumbling these\nhorrid words through her long hollow tube, he turned his back and fled,\ntaking shelter in a void entrance, to which he was led by some light\nthat fell into it from the rays of the moon. Full hardly was he then\nbested, for he still deemed that he heard the witch's rites at a\ndistance; and the faint ray of the moon through a narrow aperture made\nthe rest of the space appear so shadowy and dim, that Charlie saw he was\nin a dangerous situation, and actually began to fancy he beheld a face\nin the dark staring at him, and still coming nearer. It was no time to\nstand there; so he fled with all his might. But in his dismay he lost\nevery kind of aim, or consideration whither he was going, and at once\nstumbled on the undermost step of a stone stair. Thinking the apparition\nhe had seen was by that time hard upon him, and no other way that he\nknew of open for flight, he rose and pursued his course straight up\nstairs, in a state of perturbation hardly to be accounted for. The first\nlanding place that he came to he ran himself against a door, and not\nfinding farther entrance he faced about, and, leaning over the\nballuster, he set up such a yell as never was before breathed from\nlungs. It is true he neither heard nor saw aught of the apparition; but\nCharlie was a sensible man, and he was certain it might be there for any\nthing that he knew; so he set up the same kind of cry that he was wont\nto do when he lost his neighbours in a mist, or in a night foray, only\nabout ten times or so louder.\n\n\"Hilloa! Tam Craik! friar! hilloa! d--n ye a'; what for winna ye come\nwi' a light?\"\n\nCharlie was now at such a distance from his comrades, who were still in\nthe witch's small apartment, and the echoes of the huge void castle so\nconfused the sounds, that they took the cries of their captain for the\nrushing of a whirlwind roaring through the crannies of the castle, and\npaid no regard to them. No state could be more deplorable than that in\nwhich muckle Charlie Scott was now placed. To have returned down the\nstair would have been meeting the devil face to face; or, as Charlie\nmuch better expressed it, \"to hae dabbed nebs wi' the deil.\"\n\nHe had therefore no other resource than to bellow out for assistance;\nand seeing none approach, he said aloud in great agony of spirit, \"Lord,\ngin I were but on Corby's back again! ay, though it were in the wildest\nglen o' a' the Cheviots, and the Eskdale souple o'er my shoulder,\" (that\nwas the cant name of Charlie's tremendous sword;) \"I might then work my\nway: But sic a place as this I saw never! Od, an there be lugs within\nthe wa's o' the house I shall either gar them hear or crack them.\nHilloa!\"\n\nNot satisfied with giving yelloch after yelloch, as he termed his loud\ncries, he flew to every door on the landing place, laid on it with his\nfists, and kicked it with his foot, calling at each of them in the same\nkey as before, \"Is there ony body here?\" He at last prevailed: one door\nwas opened, and he was admitted inside. But, alas for our gallant\nyeoman! he only by this transition got out of one exceedingly bad scrape\ninto a worse.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThese casual separations of _dramatis person\u00e6_ are exceedingly\nunfortunate for the story-teller who aims at conciseness and brevity;\nbecause it is impracticable to bring them all on at the same time. A\nstory is like a waggoner and his horses travelling out the king's\nhighway, his machine loaden with various bales of rich merchandise. He\ngoes smoothly and regularly on, till he comes to the bottom of a steep\nascent, where he is obliged to leave a great proportion of his loading,\nand first carry one part of it to the top of the hill, then another,\nand then another, which retards him grievously on his way. So is it with\nthe writer of a true history such as this; and the separation of parties\nis as a hill on his onward path.\n\nIt is otherwise with dramatic representations, and in these the authors\nhave a great advantage. Let their characters separate as they will, or\nbe engaged as they will, they can at any time, with the greatest ease,\nbe brought together on the stage. The one enters from the one side, and\nthe other from the other, and we do not much concern ourselves how or\nwhence they come, taking it for granted that they are there, and that is\nenough. It is rather delightful to see a hero, in whom one had begun to\ntake some interest, and whom he supposed to be far distant, exposed to\ndangers abroad and perfidy at home, all at once stalk majestically in\nfrom the side scene, and take his place before our eyes. It gives the\nheart a great deal of relief to see and know that he is there in person\nto stand up for his own injured rights. But in our own case there is no\nsuch expedient. Like the waggoner, we must return from the top of the\nhill, and bring up those of our characters that are left behind. At\npresent we must return from the top of the great stair-case in Aikwood\ncastle, into the housekeeper's cell on the ground floor.\n\nCharlie had made his escape almost unobserved; those next to him weening\nthat he had only drawn a little back to keep a due distance between the\nwitch and him, so that they pressed forward to the scene without\nregarding him.\n\nThe crone continued her orgies, blowing her fire one while, and again\nstirring the liquid in the caldron; then making it run from the end of a\nstick, that she might note its state of gelidity. The friar addressed\nher in his usual stile of sonorous eastern eloquence; but she only\nregarded him by a slight stare, and a motion with her hand, as if she\nwished him and his group to disappear. She had taken them for spirits\nthat she had conjured up, and perhaps thought they were come before the\ntime; for in mumbling to herself, they at one time heard her saying,\n\"So you are all there, are you? Well, I shall find you work. Sotter,\nsotter my wee pan.\"\n\nThis scene went on for a considerable time without any variety, the\nwitch attending solely to her caldron and her fire; the friar standing\nbefore the flame, and Tam and Gibbie, with their long kipper noses,\npeeping over his shoulder. The other three were behind these; the poet\nwith his arm round Delany's waist, and the beautiful face of the boy\nElias, the very picture of amazement personified, appeared below the\nfriar's right arm. Scarcely could such another group be formed for the\npainter's eye. Here sat the witch, haggard and wild, close at the one\ncheek of the fire, watching over her caldron and infernal morsel with\nthe utmost eagerness. There stood the gruff friar, with the keys of the\ncastle in his right hand, and the dim lamp in his left, raised above his\nhead; so that, from the two groups of light, the marked features of\namazement could be distinctly traced; which, with the faint and\nyellowish hue of their complexions, made the whole highly picturesque.\n\nThe witch continued her occupation; till, at length holding up her stick\nto note the consistence of her jelly, that appeared like boiling blood\nand water mixed, there was something in its appearance that confounded\nher. She dropt both her tube and her stirring stick among the ashes, and\nturned about staring wildly at our group. She appeared as if examining\ntheir features one by one in search of some one whose presence she\nmissed; and perceiving the boy's face below the friar's arm, she fixed\nher eyes on that, cowering down at the same time like a cat that is\nabout to spring on its prey. Then, rising half up, she moved toward him\nin a stooping posture, turning always her face first to the one side and\nthen to the other, until her nose came almost in contact with the boy's,\non which he slipped his face out of her sight behind the friar's back.\nObserving next the two droll faces over the friar's two shoulders, she\nappeared delighted with the view; and letting her jaws fall down, she\nsmiled at it, but it was rather a gape than a smile. She then tottered\nagain towards the fire, rocking her body and wagging her head as before,\nrepeating the while this unmeaning phrase:\n\n    \"Niddy, noddy, niddy, noddy.\n    Three heads on ae body.\"\n\nHaply she deemed all the three faces she had seen belonged to the friar,\nand was happy at witnessing such a monstrous appearance.\n\nSitting down on her hams as before, she seized on her two implements,\nand began to blow and stir for about the space of a minute, testifying\ngreat impatience to see how her spell proceeded. But the moment that she\nheld up a part of her morsel on the stick, and let it drip off, she\nperceived that all was wrong, and that her guests were the reverse of\nthose she expected. As soon as she looked at the liquor, she uttered a\nhorrible scream, while every joint of her body shook with fury; and,\nlifting a wooden ladle that lay by her side with devilish nimbleness,\nshe splashed the boiling liquid on the faces and bodies of our amazed\ncompeers.\n\n\"Deil be in the auld jaud's fingers!\" cried Tam: \"Gin she hasna jaupit\nout baith my een!\"\n\n\"I have indeed given my cheek to the firebrand!\" said the friar; \"and\nthe skin of my forehead hath departed from me!\"\n\n\"She brings me a-mind o' my mither,\" said Gibbie--but he got not time to\nproceed; for after she had exhausted the contents of her caldron on the\nintruders, she attacked them with burning coals and pieces of wood.\nThese she dashed among them with such desperate force, that part of them\nsought refuge in retreat. Not so our redoubted friar. He gave the lamp\nout of his hand to the laird, bidding him take care of it, and turning\nhis back toward her, and running backward for fear of farther injury to\nhis face and eyes, he seized the witch by the frock, and putting his arm\nround both hers to restrain them, he held her fast to his side. In doing\nso, he uncovered the cross that hung at his girdle. When she saw this,\nand that her body was pressed against it, she uttered the most horrified\nhowlings, and appeared to be falling into convulsions. Nevertheless, the\nfriar kept his hold. He let her scream on, and, dragging her toward the\ndoor, said unto her, \"Thou wicked one! as thy works have been, so shall\nbe thy reward; and as thou hast sown, so also shalt thou reap. Come with\nme, and I will put thee into a place where thou shalt cease from\ntroubling.\"\n\nWithout more ado, he bore her away to the vault where lay her surly and\nunyielding associate, beside his mass of dry human bones; and forcing\nher in, he locked them up together, saying, as he turned the massy bolt,\n\"Lo, the gates of iron and of brass close upon thee! the bolts of steel\nare drawn around thy dwelling! There shalt thou remain, and there shall\nthy flesh be consumed, unless thou repentest thee of the evil that thou\nhast done.\"\n\nThere was a shrewd smile on the friar's face as he said this, as of one\nwho either did not mean to put his threat in execution, or marvelled how\nit was that he should thus be lording it in the castle of Aikwood, and\nimprisoning whom he would.\n\nNever till that instant did any of the party miss their friend and\nchampion, Charlie Scott; but when they turned from the door of the\nprison to consult what was to be done next, behold he was wanting This\ncaused them great dismay, but the friar most of all.\n\n\"Wo is me!\" cried he: \"How is the mighty departed, and the pillar of our\nstrength moved out of its place! As well may they take my head from my\nbody, and say unto me live, as bid us go on and prosper without that\nmighty man.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe poor waggoner must again return from the top of the hill, and bring\nup the most important and weighty part of his cargo; no less a load than\nmuckle Charlie Scott, laird of Yardbire, and the far famed warlock and\nnecromancer, Master Michael Scott.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe mighty uproar that Charlie made at the head of the stair, when he\nbelieved the devil to be on the steps, aroused the great necromancer\nfrom his nocturnal experiments, all of which were of an infernal kind.\nAt such hours as these his capacious mind was abstracted from all\nworldly concerns, such as other mortals busy themselves about. If any\nthing sublunary engaged his studies and calculations, it was how to make\nthe living die and the dead to live,--how to remove mountains out of\ntheir places, to turn the sea into dry land, and the fields into a\nbillowy and briny ocean,--or in any way counteract nature in her goings\non. In some of these great enterprises was he doubtlessly engaged\nthat morning, when the voice of Charlie Scott astounded his ears.\n\nOften had hosts of demons mustered at his call in the castle of Aikwood,\nand the yelling sounds of the infernals were no strangers to his ears;\nbut never had he heard such a potent voice before as that sent forth by\nCharlie, when he conceived himself cooped up between the devil and a\nbolted door. Conceived did I say? No: Charlie saw distinctly, by this\ntime, an indefinable being coming slowly up to him. Saint Peter! as he\ndid thresh the warlock's door. \"Is there any body here? Hilloa! Open the\ndoor I say.\" Thump, thump, thump!\n\nThe bolt inside was drawn, and, owing to the strong pressure without,\nthe door flew wide open at once. Charlie perceiving the light, and\nfearless of ought but the figure behind him, rushed into the room, and\nmade toward the fire. The door was instantly shut behind him with a loud\nand furious clash; and Charlie then turning around, got the first look\nof the inmate. He was a boardly muscular man, somewhat emaciated in his\nappearance, with a strong bushy beard that flowed to his girdle, of a\nhue that had once been jet black, but was now slightly tinted with grey.\nHis eyes were uncommonly bright and piercing, but they had some\nresemblance to the eyes of a serpent. He wore on his head a turban of\ncrimson velvet, ornamented with mystic figures in gold, and on the front\nof it was a star of many dazzling colours. The rest of his body was\nwrapped in a mantle or gown, striped with all the hues of the rainbow,\nand many more.\n\nCharlie's eye had lately been lighted up with terror, but as it fell on\nthe majestic figure of Master Michael Scott, its wild gleam softened\ninto respect, and he saluted him with his quick, abrupt, border bow,\nwhich rather resembled the motion made by a raven beckoning from his\nrock as he wakes the surrounding echoes, than the slow and graceful\ncourtesy then so well understood among the great. Michael still kept his\nerect posture at the back of the door, fixing on our yeoman an indignant\nand angry glance. That look conjured up a little more of Charlie's\nbreeding; he doffed his steel bonnet with the one hand, stroked down the\nhair of his forehead with the other, and gave the master another bow, or\nrather a nod.\n\n\"Gude e'en t'ye, Sir; I fancy you're the lord o' this castle?\" said\nCharlie.\n\n\"You fancy so, do you?\" said the Master with a sneer; and giving three\ntramps with his heel on the floor, in one moment the three pages, Prig,\nPrim, and Pricker, stood beside him.\n\n\"Work, Master, work,--what work now?\"\n\n\"Take that burly thief and housebreaker, bind him, and put him to the\ntest.\"\n\n\"Stop short there, my good masters, till I speak t'ye, said Charlie,\n\"I'm neither a housebreaker nor a thief, but a leel man, our warden's\nkinsman, and your ain, Master Michael Scott. I came here on fair and\nhonourable service, and I have been guidit waur than a tike; and I'll\njust tell you plainly, for I'm rather an e'en-down chap, that if ane o'\nthae brats dare but to touch me, I'll tak my hand aff his haffet in sic\na way that he sanna grene to lay foul finger on a gentleman again.\"\n\nThe three pages fell a giggling at this speech, and one of them brushed\nforward and seized Charlie with a force of which he had no conception.\nBut he was one that never suffered any personal attack with impunity. He\ndrew a stroke with his clenched fist, and aimed such a blow at the\npage's head, that, if he had had a head like other pages, would have\nsmashed it to pieces. Charlie hit no head at all. He struck a thing of\nnought. But the force of his arm was such, that, about two yards farther\non, he hit an apparatus of curious construction, which he called \"a\nmachine for setting the wind on fire,\" and which he made to fly all in\nflinders against the wall. The Master's eye kindled with rage; but the\nthree urchins, who delighted in nothing but mischief, laughed still the\nlouder, and pressed all forward on Charlie. He had been a little\nastounded at missing the page's head; but, being somewhat flustered, he\nhad not leisure to reflect, and his conceptions were naturally none of\nthe most acute; so, for the present, he took it for a miss. But seeing\nthey purposed to lay violent hands on him, he sprung back into the\nmiddle of the room, in order to command weapon space; and drawing out\nthe Eskdale souple, he stood on the defensive in a most determined\nposture.\n\nThe pertinacious elves wheeled also backward, taking a circle round\nbehind the Master, and advanced on him all abreast. Good Lord, with\nwhat might Charlie struck at them! He came on them with a hew that he\nmeant should cut them all three through the middle at once. But he, a\nsecond time, struck on vacancy. The sword whistled through the void,\ntaking Charlie round with it, and demolishing almost every thing that\nwas in the room. The pages screamed with delight, but Michael foamed\nwith fury. Charlie paid no regard either to him or the devastation he\nhad made among his utensils; but, springing round the board to the other\nside of the room, said, in a loud perturbed voice: \"Tell me just this ae\nthing, Michael,--are thae three creatures deils? Because an they be\ndeils, I hae nae mair chance wi' them than a cat. But as for yoursel,\ngoodman, I ken ye are flesh and blood, and o' my ain kith and kin,\" (and\nwith that he seized Michael by the throat,) \"therefore, either gar thae\nhellicats gang about their business, or, by Him that made us, I'll thraw\nyour neck about.\"\n\nWhether it was the might of the enchanter himself, or that of his bond\nspirits, Charlie wist not; but in one moment after that his feet were\ntripped from beneath him, and he was laid on his back on the floor.\nThere he was held by a might against which his great strength could not\nprevail, bound with cords, and stretched on the board. The Master and\nhis familiars then conversed in Latin, a language of which Charlie knew\nbut little, having never been at court; but he heard they were\nconversing about his baptism. Charlie had not got much time in his life\nto think about these sacred rites, yet he had always held them in proper\nrespect and veneration; and at that time he blessed the hour he had been\npresented in holy church, having strong hopes that on that account the\npowers of hell would not prevail against him. The elves loosed his\nbuff-belt, and unclasped his steel-doublet, laying his manly bosom quite\nbare. The Master gave them directions in Latin, and each of them went\nand brought a long knife with two edges, sharp as a razor, and having a\npoint like a lance.\n\n\"I didna trow that there had been ought sae misleared in nature as\nthis,\" said Charlie. \"It's no that I'm ony feared for death. I hae\nlooked him ower often i' the face to blench at his ca': but I wad just\nhae liket to hae fa'en i' the field wi' my sword i' my hand, and no to\nbe cut up like a Christmas pye, and carved a' into collops by a wheen\ndamned deils.\"\n\nOne of them prepared to cut open his breast, and another his belly; but\na moment's dispute taking place between them in some unknown tongue,\nabout the mode, as Charlie believed, he crossed himself as well as he\ncould with his bound hands, and pronounced a sacred name into himself.\nThat instant he perceived the pages fall a-trembling, and stand back;\ntheir faces blenched with dread, and the weapons fell from their hands.\nThe Master was wroth, and ordered them to proceed, as Charlie weened by\nhis motions; but, instead of that, they retired trembling into a corner.\nHe snatched a knife from one of them, as if determined to do the deed\nhimself. Charlie then deemed himself gone; for he had a sort of\nconfused idea, that, by certain laws of nature, and the use of holy\nrites, wicked spirits were restrained, else mankind would be destroyed:\n\"But what law of nature, or what holy word or sign,\" thought he, \"can\nrestrain the arm of a wicked man? It is my duty to try, however,\"\nthought he again; and with that he whispered a prayer to the Son of the\nVirgin, that He would save a warrior from a death like this.\n\nCharlie's prayer was heard, short as it was; for at that very moment,\nwhile yet the syllables hung on his lips, entered the gruff figure of\nthe friar, with the keys of the castle over his arm, and followed by his\nassociates.\n\n\"What seek you here, you dogs?\" cried the Master, turning about with the\ngreat knife in his hand: \"Am I thus to have my privacy disturbed, and my\nabode ravaged by a pack of carrion hounds from the hills? Brave pages\nmine, bind them all, and cut me them into a thousand pieces.\"\n\nScarcely was the order given ere they had the poet on the floor, and\nbound with strong cords. The rest prepared to escape; but the great\nenchanter placed his back to the door, brandished his great knife, and\ndared them to approach him. The mettledness of these pages cannot be\nconceived, far less described; they seemed but to will a thing and it\nwas done. Ere ever one of the intruders had time to rally his thoughts,\nor almost to think at all, three of them and the boy were all lying\nbound in fetters. But when the imps came to seize on the friar, they\ncould not. They skipped about and about him, but they had not power even\nto touch his frock. The virgin stood behind him trembling; and on their\nfeeling their want of power over the friar, they turned to lay hold on\nher. But the moment they touched her robe, they retired back in dismay.\n\nMichael looked as if he dreaded there was something about these two that\nboded him no good; but he wist not what it was, for he had never seen\nthe prowess of his bond spirits counteracted before; therefore he\nawaited the event for a space, when he perceived them vanquished.\n\nThe friar had time to rally his thoughts, and remembered that the maid\nhad the blessed gospel concealed in her bosom; and judging that these\nwere perhaps fiends with whom they had to do, who durst not stand\nagainst the word of truth, he drew his cross from below his frock,--that\ncross which had been consecrated at the shrine of Saint Peter, bathed in\nholy water, and blessed with many blessings from the mouths of ancient\nmartyrs--had done wonderous miracles in the hands of saints of former\ndays,--and lifting that reverendly up on high, he pronounced the words\nfrom holy writ against which no demon or false spirit's power could\nprevail. In one moment all the three imps fled yelling from the\napartment. The countenance of the enchanter fell, and he quaked where he\nstood; but the eye of the friar was kindled up with exultation and joy.\n\n\"There worketh the hand of my master!\" exclaimed he: \"There have I\ntrusted, and I am not, like thee, ashamed of my trust. I have a\nstrong-hold of hope, and it is founded on a rock, but thy habitation\ntrembleth beneath thee; and dost thou know, or hast thou considered,\nwhat is underneath?\"\n\nThe friar then went up and loosed the bonds of his friend Charlie, and\nof all the rest, one by one, exulting in his creed, and pouring forth\nsuch sentences of sublime adoration as are not suited for an idle tale.\n\nThe Master at length took courage and rebuked him, saying, \"It is vain\nfor thee, foolish dupe of a foolish creed, to multiply such great\nswelling words of vanity. What though thy might hath, for once,\nprevailed above my might, and thy spell proved more powerful than mine?\nI will engage, nevertheless, that in nine times out of ten, mine, on\nfair trial, shall prevail over thine. And at all events I can at this\ntime call in the arm of flesh to my assistance, and do with you whatever\nseemeth to me good.\"\n\n\"Ay, gude faith, and that's very true, Master Michael Scott,\" said\nCharlie: \"and that we saw wi' our ain een. It is great nonsense to\nquarrel with the lord of a castle aneath his ain roof, although, I\nconfess, I was the first to do it mysel'. But there's an auld saying,\nwha wad sit i' Rome and strive wi' the pope? or misca' a Macdonald in\nthe raws o' Lochaber? We came wi' nae sic intent, but in fair\nfriendship, and on courteous errand. And now when we are a' rather on\nequal footing again, let me beg o' you, great and powerful Master, to be\na reasonable man for aince. Answer the warden's request, and let us gae;\nfor really, great Sir, our master canna well want us; and mair nor that,\nI'm feared yon chaps at the mill dinna gie Corby ony water.\"\n\nThough the Master did not understand the latter part of this speech, yet\nthe honest simplicity of Charlie somewhat interested him. His stern and\nsullen brow cleared to something like a smile; and on looking at the\nsingular and original group before him, he half resolved within himself\nto have some intercourse with humanity once more. \"If it were but for a\nday, or even an hour,\" thought he, \"would it not form some variety in a\nlife thus dedicated to searching after hidden mysteries--a life of\nturmoil and distraction, in which there is no allay?\"\n\nSuch were some of the thoughts that glanced on the dark mind of the\nnecromancer, as he turned his eye on the broad weather-beaten face of\nhonest Yardbire, \"And what may your master's request be, yeoman?\" said\nhe.\n\nCharlie had great hopes that he would now bring matters to a bearing at\nonce; and, coming a step nearer to the Master, he laid the one\nfore-finger across the other, and answered him thus:--\"Why, gude faith,\nSir, it is neither mair nor less than just this:--Ye ken the last time\nye war at the castle of Mountcomyn, ye gae our master, your kinsman, the\nwarden, some little insight anent things that were to come about:--of\nsome bits o' glebes, and hopes, and glens, ye ken, that war to fa' to\nhis house. Now, Sir Knight, or Master, as I should say, he's a man that,\naboon a' ithers that ever war born, looks to the honour and the\nadvantage o' his house. He's as loyal as the day's light, as generous as\na corn mill, and as brave as a blast o' snaw or a floody river. Od, you\nwill turn either the ane or the ither sooner than you will turn him wi'\nhis muirland callans at his back.--Ay, I hae seen him.--But it's\nneedless to tell what he'll do for his ain. So you see, Sir Master, that\nwas the preceese thing he sent us for.\"\n\n\"To send troops to his assistance, I perceive?\" said the Master.\n\n\"Why, Sir Master, to say the truth, we hadna that in charge; though it\nwad be far mair mack like, and far mair feasible, and far mair\nhonourable into the bargain, to send yon great clan o' ratten-nosed\nchaps to help our master, than to hae them lying idle, eating you out o'\nhouse and hauld here. Ye wad aye be getting part o' the spulzie. Half a\ndozen o' kye at a time now and then disna do amiss. Sae, if you will\ncome to terms, I will engage for ane to see you get fair share, to the\nhoof and the horn, the barn an' the beef boat, the barrel and the bed\nblanket. But, ye ken, Sir, in matters like this, we maun do ae thing\nafore another, like business men; and ye maun be sae good, and sae kind,\nand sae obliging, as to answer our first request first.\"\n\n\"As far as I can recollect,\" said Michael, \"I never heard any request\nmade.\"\n\n\"Why, gude faith, Sir, ye ken, I believe I forgot that part o't,\" said\nCharlie: \"But ye see, that's neither here nor there; for the thing\nrequires some explanation. Do you ken a' this mad story about the siege\no' Roxburgh?\"\n\n\"I trouble myself about no worldly things,\" said the Master, \"nor do I\nwish to hear about them. Is there no one present who can tell me this\ngreat business at one breath?\"\n\nCharlie stepped back. \"There's nae garring him hae patience,--and good\ntroth my tongue I fear has outrun my logic,\" said he: \"Friar, speak\nyou.\"\n\n\"Great and magnificent Master of Arts,\" said the friar, stepping\nforward, \"whom I have longed to see above all men! Lo, thou seest, and\nthou hearest, that this man, although he be a man of might, and a\nwarrior from his youth, is yet uncouth of speech, and altogether\ndiffuse; therefore listen thou diligently unto the voice of thy servant.\nBehold we are come to thee from the man that ruleth over the borders of\nthe land, and leadeth forth his troops to battle. He sendeth unto thee\ngreeting, and beseecheth to know of thee what shall befal unto his\npeople, and to his house, in the latter days. It is thy counsel alone\nthat he asketh, for thou art renowned for wisdom and foresight to the\nfarthest corners of the earth. The two nations are engaged in great and\nbloody contest, and high are the stakes for which they play. The man who\nsent us intreateth of thee to disclose unto thy servants who shall\nfinally prevail, and whether it behoveth him to join himself to the\ncaptain of his people. He hath, moreover, sent unto thee, by our hand,\nthese two beautiful captives, the one to be thine handmaiden, and the\nother to be thy servant and run at thy bidding; and whatsoever thou\nrequirest of our captain, that will he do, even to the half of all that\nhe hath.\"\n\nThere was but one thing on earth by which the wizard could be flattered,\nand that was a deference to his profound art. He therefore listened with\npatience to the friar, and answered, that the request his kinsman had\nmade would take many days to consider of: \"For,\" said he, \"I have those\nto deal with that are more capricious than the changing seasons, and\nmore perverse than opposing tides and winds; therefore remain with me a\nfew days, that I may prove you.\"\n\n\"Od bless ye! Sir Master, the thing is impossible!\" said Charlie: \"I\ncoudna bide frae my captain and chief, and him in jeopardy; neither\ncould I endure to think that my poor beast should want water sae lang. A\nman's life often depends on his beast.\"\n\n\"Thou givest us no meat,\" said the friar, \"nor wine nor strong drink\ngivest thou unto us. How, therefore, can we remain in thine house?\nNevertheless would I love to abide a short time with thee, to witness\nthy great might, before which the masters of divinations in other lands\nhave trembled. Verily, I would also show unto thee what thy servant can\ndo.\"\n\n\"If I were to cope with such as thee, it would only be to show thee thy\nlittleness!\" said Michael. \"But thy creed is an abomination to me, and\nI abhor it. In the meantime call up my steward, and I will order him to\nprovide you with meat and drink.\"\n\nThe poet now, for the first time, spoke up in the Master's hearing; and,\nindignant at the steward's design on Delany, he delivered himself with\ngreat vehemence.\n\n\"Nay, say not so, great Master. The devil hath possession of that man,\nsure as the stars burn on the morning's brow. He give us meat or drink!\nSooner he will draw forth the crimson current from our veins, and lay us\nwith the dead: Sooner he will rob beauty of her treasure, and deface the\nimage of his Maker. Let us go forth to hill, or dale, or wood, strive\nwith the crow for carrion, or contend with owlets for a mouse; but to be\nbearded by that same surly beast, the heart of man not brooks it. As for\nme, I lift my voice, my absolute protest, against the degradation and\neffect.\"\n\n\"He is indeed a son of Belial,\" said the friar; \"but I have put him in\nward, that he trouble us not. Lo, here be the keys of thy castle, which\nI intend to keep as our surety. Therefore show me the place where thy\ngood things are disposed, and I myself will be steward for a time; for\nindeed that man of thine is such a son of Belial that a man cannot speak\nto him.\"\n\nThe Master's brow lowered with dissatisfaction. His subordinate spirits\nin whom he trusted had no power over the friar, and other man had he\nnone within the castle, save Gourlay, who was almost as much fiend as\nman. He therefore intreated the friar to set his steward at liberty, and\nrestore to him the keys, else no meat or drink could be had; and, at the\nsame time, he gave them all warrandice that they should be kindly used.\n\n\"My seneschal,\" said he, \"is as stubborn and froward as any demon of the\npit, nor will he do one kind or fair action save by compulsion. But he\ndares not disobey me. If he should presume to dispute my orders in the\nslightest instance, one word from you shall be sufficient, and I will\nshew you how he shall be requited.\"\n\nIt was forthwith agreed that the Master should accompany them down to\nthe dungeon, in order to restrain the fury and violence of his servant.\nMatters were therefore arranged, and the two prisoners set at liberty.\nThe steward was sullen and intractable, lying still on the dungeon\nfloor, disregardful of the words spoken to him by the friar; but when he\nheard the Master's threatening accents he sprung to his feet and came\nforth, looking at Charlie in such a manner as plainly said, \"I shall be\nrevenged on you.\"\n\nThe Master then took him to task, demanding by whose orders he had shut\nup his kinsman's friends in the vault. But he only snarled and gnashed\nhis teeth in reply.\n\n\"And then to suffer yourself to be mured up there!\" said the Master.\n\n\"Ay,\" said Gourlay; \"some have won a tilt on the king of the field who\nnever saw the day to win it on another.\"\n\n\"For the viper blood that venoms thy heart do thou ought amiss to these\ngentlemen,\" said the Master, \"or to this obnoxious thing that is their\nward! Wherefore, let me ask, were they compelled to shut you up there?\"\n\nThe steward only grunted in reply; but the poet came again boldly\nforward, having been exasperated beyond measure at the steward for his\nattempt on Delany; and he said,--\"Sir knight, in that I'll truly counsel\nyou. At dead hour of night, when all was still, save the snell piping of\nthe frosty wind; even we were all at peace, and quiet lay as did the\ndead man's bones, but that, between, the friar at equal intervals sent\nforth his nasal roar, so vehement that the mice, yea, and the starveling\nrats, ceased from their prowling, listened the dire sound from fleshy\ntrumpet of our mother church, then sought, with stretched forth tail,\nand nimble foot, the depth profound! There quaking did they lie, like\nfiends driven from the height to the abyss,--lank make, chilled heart,\nand grievous length of tail. At that ill hour, in comes this boding owl,\nthis ill-starred man of sin, and straight demands that peerless maiden\nfor your honour's couch. Him we refused--the maiden shrieked for\nhelp--he dragged her forth, and on this laurelled head, crowned by the\nmuses with celestial bays, inflicted ruthless wound. The bedesman also\nfell; but he our friend, the Hector of the hills, wrought his o'erthrow,\nand circum-mured him. Thus my say is ended.\"\n\nThe Master, as the poet spoke, seemed several times so much amused that\nthey expected he would have burst into laughter. But one look of his eye\nspoke sentences. When he heard that Gourlay had demanded the maid for\nhim, he gave him such a glance as made the wretch almost cower to the\nearth; and when the poet ended he turned his eyes on Charlie, measuring\nhim from head to foot, and seeming as if he doubted the fact that he or\nany man could master his redoubted seneschal. However, the Master had\nseen so much of the group, that he determined, contrary to his custom,\nto have some amusement with them. He therefore ordered his seneschal\nforthwith to provide all good things for their entertainment.\n\nThe stubborn wight made no movement betokening obedience. He stood\nupright with his dull white face a little elevated, and his eyes turned\nup below his brows, while those who were next him heard him saying to\nhimself, in accents that creaked in his throat, \"Hell must be moved for\nthis repast!\" The Master heard not this sentence, but noting his\nsteward's indecision, he stamped with his foot, and pointing with his\nfinger, the latter led the way into an antichamber of the same cold and\nnaked appearance with the rest of the apartments of the castle, where,\nleaving them with a light, the two went away into the great Master's\ndormitory, \"To cast their cantrips, and bring up the deil.\"\n\n\"He keeps an unco cauld house this carl,\" said Tam, when they were left\nby themselves: \"I fancy he'll ken brawly he'll hae ane bien eneugh at\nthe hinder-end, and downa bide to see fire in this!\"\n\n\"He brings me a-mind o' daft Jock Amos i' the Goosegreen,\" said\nGibbie,--\"wha never durst lie down on a bed because his mother died on\nane. Whenever he saw a bed wi' white sheets on it he fell a-trembling,\nand ran to the gate.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. III.\n\n    Goe fetche mee lofe of your wheitan breide\n      And ane other coppe of wyne;\n    For drynke I quhile myne doublet ryve,\n      For drynke I moste repine.\n    I fele not corauge in myne herte,\n      Nor mychte into myne honde,\n    If there is nott wytchcrafte forth abrode,\n      There neuir was crafte in londe.\n\n        _Ballade of \"Prince Henrie.\"_\n\n\nThe morning had by this time dawned on the gray hills of the forest, and\nthat with an aspect gloomy and foreboding. The white snowy clouds had\ncrept down into the bosoms of the hills; and above these clouds were\nhere and there to be seen the top of a mountain crested with its dark\ncairn, so that the heavens and the earth seemed to be mingled together.\n\n\"Gude sauf us!\" cried Charlie, as he peeped out at his small crannied\nwindow, \"but this is a grim, gousty-looking morning! I wish the prince\no' the air be nae fa'en a brewing some o' his hellish storms and\nhairikens on us. If there be spirits moving about on thae hills to-day,\nthey can be nae good anes, ye may see by their look out. Sant Mary be\nwith us! see their drumly heads appear to be raised to double their\nordinary height.\"\n\n\"Be not thou afraid, my son, of the prince of the power of the air, for\nthere is one that is greater than he,\" said the friar; \"and though the\nfiends may for a while muster their fogs, and foment the air with\nstorms, yet will he send forth his angels and scatter them; yea, he will\nsend them forth riding on the whirlwind, and the clouds of heaven shall\nbe their chariots, and the powers of darkness shall fly in dismay before\nthem.\"\n\nThe friar stepped forward to the window, and gazed for a minute in\nbreathless astonishment; then turning away, he added in a solemn tone,\n\"Verily, my children, I am afraid to look at the face of the sky, or to\nbehold the hues that are abroad on the firmament this day, though my\nstrength be the munition of rocks.\"\n\nThe steward now appeared with his rod of office in his hand, and, with\nall due ceremony, marshalled his guests up the great stair, and finally\nup a small winding stair, to an apartment at the very top of the upmost\ntower, above all the turrets and paved battlements. This room was in a\nblaze of light with flaming torches all around; and (joyful sight to our\nprecious embassy!) the table was covered with rich viands in great\nabundance. The friar, having got short of breath in his ascent, lagged\nconsiderably behind, while the foremost rushing in, every one began to\nhelp himself with the greatest avidity; so that, when the friar at\nlength came puffing into the apartment, all the rest had begun without\ngrace. The seat at the foot of the table was still unoccupied; and\nbefore that there stood a beautiful smoking sirloin of beef, with a\ngentle brown crust around it, and half swimming in gravy. Never was\nthere a more delicious sight presented to a hungry man.\n\nThe worthy friar, seeing all the rest engaged, would not risk a trespass\non good manners by interrupting them, although it was an established\ncustom with him to bless every meal before tasting it. In conformity\nwith this venerable custom among Christians, he lifted up his spread\nhands, closed his eyes, and leaning forward above the beef so closely\nthat he actually breathed upon it, and felt the flavour of health and\njoy ascending by his nostrils, in that fervent and respectful attitude\nhe blessed the beef in the name of Jesus. Never had blessing a more\ndolorous effect. When the friar opened his eyes, the beef was gone.\nThere was nothing left on the great wooden plate before him but a small\ninsignificant thing resembling the joint of a frog's leg, or that of a\nrat; and perhaps two or three drops of gravy.\n\nThe friar's associates were all busily engaged. The steward was moving\nabout behind them, and at that time happened to be passing by near where\nthe friar sat; of course, this latter worthy had no doubt whatever but\nthat the malicious old rascal had stolen the roast slyly from under his\nnose the moment that his eyes were closed, whereas the steward was as\nmuch astounded as he. It was a fine picture. The friar had placed\nhimself hastily to begin; but, missing his beef, and seeing nothing of\nit on the board, he was moved with great anger and indignation. There he\nsat, biting his lip, and having his deep dark eye fixed on the\nseneschal; and there stood the tall seneschal, with his mouth wide open,\nhis face half raised toward the cornice of the chamber, and his dull\nheavy eye fixed on the friar's plate. He was in utter dismay; for he\ndreaded that, on such a blessing being pronounced openly, the whole of\nhis provisions would in like manner vanish away; and he was a blithe man\nwhen, instead of blessing, the friar, on opening his mouth, was rather\ninclined to curse.\n\n\"Cursed be thy malice, for it is great,\" cried he: \"Thou Nabal! thou\nRabshakeh! thou Shimei, the son of Bichri! thou Er! thou Onan! thou vile\nJudas, the son of Simon! Magormissabub be thy name; and may it be\nblotted out after thee, and become a bye-word, and a proverb, and a\nhissing among people and children. Restore that which thou hast unjustly\ntaken away, before I thrust my sword into thee, and take away thy life.\nGive unto me the precious morsel thou hast taken away, or, lo! thou art\nin the jaws of destruction, and the pit openeth her mouth wide upon\nthee.\"\n\nThe steward answered neither good nor bad; for he was afraid of the\nvengeance of his master, and the evil spirits that wrought at his\nbidding, and delighted in nothing so much as in tormenting him, else had\nhe not taken the friar's curses without repaying them sevenfold. He\ntherefore shut his mouth, and closed his eyes, putting on a countenance\nof the utmost derision. But the friar's heart had been set upon the\nbeef, his soul had rejoiced over it, and he could not with patience give\nway to the idea of losing it; therefore, instead of joining the rest,\nwho were devouring their various fare with great eagerness, he continued\nhis anathemas on the steward.\n\n\"Blethering gouk!\" cried Charlie: \"Can nae ye tak part o' what's gaun,\nand haud your jaw? What signify a' thae strings o' gospel phrases at sic\na time as this? Will they fill a hungry stamock, or mak the worthy\nseneschal either better or waur than he is? Come pledge me in a cup o'\nwine to the health of our great landlord, Master Michael Scott.\"\n\nThey handed the stoup down to the friar, who filled for himself, and\ntook the pledge, though still with a gloomy and a discontented brow. He\nthen left his seat, and went up one side of the board, close to Gibbie\nJordan, where he began a-helping himself to a slice, from a mangled\nshoulder of venison apparently. But it relished not,--for still the lost\nbeef was uppermost in his mind, and his eye glanced hot displeasure at\nthe steward.\n\n\"Surely he is of all men the most accursed,\" added he: \"He drinketh up\nmalice as the ox drinketh up water; and as his name is so is he.\nWhereunto he hath conveyed the morsel that I loved, is a matter too high\nfor me to comprehend. I see it not in any corner of the habitation, nor\ndoth the smell of it reach my nostrils. But I will visit it upon his\nhead; and mine eyes shall see my desire on him.\"\n\nThe dishes of meat were, however, of good quality, and well mixed with\nfat and lean; yet none of them knew exactly what they were, neither\nwould the sullen steward deign to give them the least information on\nthat head. There was even one large shapeless piece, of a savour and\nconsistence so peculiar that no one of them could tell whether it was\nflesh or fish. Still they continued their perseverance, devouring one\ndish after another, and drinking off one stoup of wine after another,\nwithout any abatement of appetite on the one side or any exhiliration of\nspirits on the other, the steward always bringing in a supply with the\nmost perfect equanimity. At length our yeomen began to look at one\nanother. Their hands had waxed weary with cutting, and their jaws would\nscarcely any more perform their office.\n\n\"What is the meaning of this, my brethren,\" said the friar: \"Surely it\nis better for us to desist, lest our table prove a snare unto us. Lo, my\nhands are weary, and my cheek-bones are pained even to their utmost\nextremities. Verily, it is all vanity, for my body is only filled as\nwith the east wind.\"\n\n\"Na, na; ply away. It's good sport. I dinna see how we can be better\nemployed,\" said the deil's Tam.\n\n\"I think, my brethren, that we should from eating straight refrain,\"\nsaid the poet; \"for eating is but weariness, and drinking is but pain.\nThere is no strength into our bread, nor spirit in our wine: some\nwarlock wight has ta'en the might out of this food of mine.\"\n\nThe steward had all this time never spoken word good or bad; but had\nserved them with the utmost obsequiousness; and when they had at length\nceased from feeding, he went and gave the Master an account of the\nrepast, which proved a source of great divertisement to him.\n\n\"I have not,\" said he, \"for these many years, had any desire to trifle\nwith the beings to whose species I once belonged; but this group\nsurpasses all of their kind. I will, therefore, lay aside my profound\nstudies, and be with them as one of themselves. If it were but to\ntorment them, I will indulge in this idle and vain humour. I have\nalmost forgot how human passions work.\"\n\n\"I pray of thee, Master,\" said Gourlay, \"that thou wilt suffer me to\nslay yon grim and snarling dog in the grey frock. I loathe, hate, and\nabhor him. He is, moreover, a bit of a necromancer himself; and has the\ninsolence to suppose that he can rival you in power.\"\n\n\"It is there I long to try him,\" said the Master. \"In power I brook no\nrival in this or any other land, as thou thyself, and thy wretched\ncompanion in bondage, can witness. There is only one thing in this weak\nman in shape of a friar that I fear, and that thing shall be nameless.\nPerhaps I may commission thee to take him away. In the mean time, remove\nthe remainder of their wretched viands, and bring me in a vessel full of\nthe strong wine of Palestine, mixed up with the essence of many spirits.\nIt is a beverage fit for gods. In it will I pledge these deranged\nmortals; and thou shalt see some sport for once, if aught on earth can\ndivert thee.\"\n\n\"Certes I shall be diverted, great Master of arts. I hope you will\nfavour them with a touch of _the varieties_, by way of example?\"\n\n\"By and by, Gourlay,--all in good time. In the mean while, let us deal\nwith them as men and as gentlemen; and, before I metamorphose them\ninto quadrupeds, let us see what kind of beings they will make of\nthemselves.\"\n\nThe Master accordingly entered the room, where his guests still sat\nround the board. All of them rose, and made obeisance; but, without\nreturning the courtesy, he took his seat at the end of the table next to\nthe door, and was just about to address them, when he was interrupted by\nCharlie Scott. There were two great individuals always uppermost in\nCharlie's mind,--these were his master the warden, and his horse Corby;\nand finding himself again in the Master's presence, and thinking he\nrather looked better pleased than he was wont, he judged it prudent not\nto let the opportunity slip: so, after scratching his head violently\nwith both hands, he thus preferred his solicitation:\n\n\"Gude faith, Master Scott, I'm glad I hae seen you again; and, nae\ndisparagement either to you or your house, Sir Knight, but the truth is,\nwe canna bide here. For, in the first place, you see, our skins will\ngang to the bauks in a jiffey; and, in the next place, our captain, the\nwarden, canna want us. It is far mair than our lives are worth for us to\nstay here; for, troth, Sir Master, the lives o' others depend on it.\nNow, I wadna like that we were trowed to be corbie messengers. And that\nbrings me a-mind, Sir Knight, how muckle need I hae to be at the mill\ndown by there. I hae a friend at it that I fear is in nae good plight.\"\n\n\"Content you, gallant squire, for a space,\" said the Master; \"I do\nintend to answer the request of my noble kinsman with all expedition;\nbut such things cannot be done in a moment. I must read the face of the\nheavens, and listen to the voices from the deep below. I have likewise a\nmaster to consult; he has another; and both are as perverse as hell\nitself. Be content, therefore, and enjoy yourselves for the remainder of\nthis day. Give me all your names that I may register them, and give me\nthem truly.\"\n\nEvery one gave his name and designation, save that the poet gave the\nname of the lovely Delany with an encomium on her beauty and virtue. But\nMichael cared for none of those things. What appeared beautiful in the\neyes of other men, to his were loathsomeness and deformity. Far\ndifferent was the case when the friar announced his own name.\n\nMichael started to his feet, and, with spread hands, and every feature\nof his countenance dilated with joy, he exclaimed, \"What? Primate of\nDouay in France, and author of the Book of Arts?\"\n\n\"The same, great Sir,\" said the friar: \"I confide it to you: But haply\nthou dost not know, in this thy retired habitation, that men thirst for\nmy blood; that I am a persecuted man, and have suffered imprisonments,\nbonds, wounds, yea, and tortures; that I have been hunted from nation\nto nation, and from land to land, until I found shelter and protection\namong these wild and reckless Borderers, a people that neither fear God\nnor regard man. With them have I taken up my abode. I am become a father\nto them, and they are as children unto me. I love them. But, if they\nshould be induced to give me up, wo would be unto me!\"\n\n\"What d' ye say, man?\" said Charlie, grasping his hand. \"D' ye think a\nScot amang us wad gie you up? If there be sic a man in the Border array,\nhe ought to be d--ned. But I trow I ken a bit o' the warden's mind\nthere; and I can tell you, a' the pens and a' the rapiers in England\nwadna gar him gie up the gospel friar. Na, na; if ever he's gien up, he\nmaun gie up himsel, and mak his ain conditions too.\"\n\n\"Great and notable Primate, you are welcome to this castle,\" said the\nMaster; \"whether by the title of monk, prior, primate, or friar, I say\nyou are welcome here. I have ridden a thousand miles to meet with you.\nBut that is long agone. I had heard of your great skill in the sublime\narts, that surpass the comprehension of ordinary men, and I determined\nto stake my life on the trial of skill between us. I was disappointed in\nmeeting with you, for you were not to be found, dead or alive. The days\nof my ambition are fled. My power has been acknowledged so long, none\ndaring to contend with me, that indifference hath ensued; after that\ncame disgust, and with it misery. Thou art the man of all the earth\nwhose fame I have envied; and, if thou darest, I will contend with thee,\nfor freedom or for life, which thou wilt. If thou art overcome, thou\nshalt be my bondsman and slave, and if thou conquerest I will submit to\nbe thine.\"\n\n\"Lo, I will contend with thee even for name and being,\" said the friar.\n\"Of the strong-holds of sin and Satan am I not afraid. I have put the\nministers of thy vengeance to flight already, and I will chase, yea, I\nwill overcome and pursue them away; as chaff is driven before the wind,\nwill I scatter them. Dare not to contend with me; for, if I judge\naright, my Master holdeth thine in chains, and if I interfere thou\ncanst do nothing. I judge it therefore best to contend as brothers\ncontend. To admire what is truly great, and deride that which is\ninsignificant. Mine are the arts of peace, truth, and righteousness, and\nI hoped thine were the same.\"\n\n\"Why, art thou not a monk, a follower of the wretched maniac, Benedict\nof Padua? that driveller in hidden mysteries?\" said the Master. \"I do\nnot rightly comprehend thee, or by what power thou didst thwart my\nservants. Tell me in one word,--Art thou not in combination with the\npotent elemental spirits that rule and controul the earth, the air, the\nfire, and the waters? If not, thy arts are superficial and worthless.\"\n\n\"Thou shalt see, and thou shalt judge,\" said the friar: \"I am not\nashamed of that I can do.\" And with that he went and brought up his huge\nportmanteau, in which he always carried many a small and curious\napparatus; but these he kept carefully concealed, having suffered so\nmuch from the superstitions of bigotted and illiterate men, in the\ncourse of his profound researches. He was the greatest chemist that had\never appeared on the stage of existence; yet that curious and refined\nart was he obliged carefully to conceal, having been persecuted as a\nnecromancer over every kingdom of southern Europe.\n\nWhen he went away Charlie Scott was terribly in the fidgets. He expected\ninstantly to witness the raising of the devil, and other infernal\nspirits, against whom he cherished the most inveterate dislike. His eyes\nbegan to set in his head, and the roof of his mouth became so dry that\nhe could not pronounce words distinctly.\n\n\"Gude faith, Sir Master,\" said he, \"I dinna appruve of a man setting up\nhis birse, and braving a gentleman in his ain house. And, wi' your\npermission, I hae something o' great importance to do at the mill; sae\nI'll e'en step down that length, and I shall come up again' the morning\nby day-light.\"\n\n\"Please to remain with your friends, good yeoman,\" said the Master:\n\"You shall witness something worth your while. What can you possibly\nhave to do at the mill?\"\n\n\"Muckle, muckle to do at the mill, Sir Knight; I'll just refer it to\nyoursel,--can either man or beast leeve wanting drink?\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" said the Master: \"I had almost forgot my principal\nerrand. Gourlay, fill me a glass of the wine of Palestine.\"\n\nThe steward did as he was ordered; and the Master, taking the cup, drank\nto the health of his kinsman, the warden, and all his friends. Every one\nof his guests did the same, save the maiden and boy; and every eye was\ncleared, and every heart warmed, for the liquor was as strong as brandy.\n\n\"Weel, Sir Knight,\" said Charlie, \"that is what ane wad ca' rather stiff\nsturdy drink; I hae nae tasted ought as weel worth the drinking: And if\nye will just gar auld Crossgrains come ower us again, I think I could\neven prevail on mysel' to face the deil, and let Corby tak his chance.\"\n\nThe request was instantly complied with. Each of them got another cup;\nand the friar having tarried a while to put his affairs in order, when\nhe came back the tongues of all his companions were going at once, and\nhe was apprehensive that they were bewitched. He, however, took the\npledge in one full cup, and was greatly revived by it; but refused\ntaking another at that time.\n\nThe room in which they sat was lighted by four windows: those to the\neast and west were small circular ones, having a pane of bright glass in\neach: those to the north and south were merely long slits in the wall,\nwithout any glass; and the first thing the friar did, before producing\nthe specimens of his art, was to close up all these windows, so as to\nexclude the light of day, and the glass of the western one he either\ncontrived to remove, substituting another in its place, or else he put\nanother piece of magnifying glass over it.\n\nWhen he began a-closing up the last, Charlie entered a vehement protest\nagainst it, on the ground that no body would see what he did, or what he\nraised, and any one might be seized by the neck ere ever he was aware,\nby some o' his infernal deils.\n\n\"I hate a' surprises,\" added he; \"It's best keeping the crown o' the\nfell, and seeing weel about ane. Room to fight and room to flee, an ye\nlike, Maister Gospel-friar. Wha do you think's gaun to play at\nhide-and-seek wi' the deil in sic a place as this?\"\n\nThe Master, in a sneering manner, requested that the great enchanter\nmight have his own way: and Charlie, whose tongue was a little loosed by\nthe wine of Palestine, was at last restrained, though not without a good\ndeal of grumbling and fidgetting. The room was darkened; the friar went\ninto a small alcove, and, by the help of a magic lanthorn, a thing never\nbefore seen in Scotland, he raised up a tremendous and horrid figure on\nthe wall. It was of gigantic size; its eyes, lips, and paws moved; and\nits body was thrown into various contortions.\n\nAll were in breathless silence on the appearance of this extraordinary\nshade; but among the darkling group there was distinctly heard one\nwhose breathing was frequently cut short, as if something had been\nchoking him, or seizing him by the throat.\n\nAfter the apparition had gone through its various evolutions, all\napparently at the further end of the apartment, it fixed its eyes,\nclenched its teeth, and, stretching forth its claws, it appeared to make\na spring forward at the party.\n\n\"Aih! L--d be here!\" cried Charlie in a trumpet voice, and threw himself\nflat down behind the rest. Hearing that some of them laughed at the\nfright he had got, he ventured to speak and expostulate a little; but no\ncuriosity could induce him to raise his face from the floor, or open his\neyes again while the friar's exhibition continued. \"Lair him, lair him,\nfriar!\" cried he,--\"or, od, I's be about your lugs some day for this.\nLair him, lair him, in the name of St Michael! and if that winna do, try\nhim wi' Peter--he'll send him ower the battlements like a shot. O good\nfriar, whatever ye do, lair him!\"\n\nThe friar went on with his phantasmagoria. The figure, after giving a\nshiver or two, was parted into three, all of the same form and size,\nbut all making different motions, and different contortions of feature.\nThe three were afterwards parted into six, which, among other grotesque\nfeats, danced a reel, and, on running thro' it, every one threw itself\nheels-over-head. The group of onlookers laughed outright at this,\nnotwithstanding their astonishment, and called to Charlie to look. But\nhe would not move his face from the earth, and only asked, in a\nhalf-suffocated voice, \"Is he no laired yet? Od I shall be about wi'\nthat cursed body for his tricks.\"\n\nWhen the friar had concluded this feat, he put out his small lanthorn,\ntook the machinery out of it, concealing it beneath his ample frock, and\nagain opened all the windows.\n\nCharlie got up, and running to one of the loop-holes, \"Gude be thankit,\nI'll get a cooke o' the air o' heaven again!\" said he, \"for I hae been\nbreathing fire and brimstone this while byegane. Foul befa' me gin ever\nI saw the like o' yon; I was sair dumfoundered,--but wha could stand\nafore the face of a fiery giant?\"\n\nThe friar's associates looked at the lanthorn, examining it with curious\neyes, but perceived nothing about it which could in any way account for\nthe apparition they had seen. Master Michael Scott did not deign to ask\na sight of it, but paced over the floor in sullen and thoughtful mood.\nThe seneschal stood fixed to the spot on which he had witnessed the\nphenomenon, with his heavy unmoving eyes turned towards his master. He\nseemed dubious whether he was vanquished or not. The Master at length\nspoke, addressing the friar:--\n\n\"I hope, right worshipful Primate, this is not the extent of your\nknowledge and power in the sublime art of divination? The whole is only\na delusion,--a shadow,--a phantom, calculated to astonish women or\nchildren. I acknowledge it to be ingenious; still it is nothing. You\nmultiplied your shadows, turning three into six; now, if I turn\nthree men into six living, breathing, substantial beings, will you\nacknowledge yourself outdone?\"\n\n\"Certes, I will,\" said the friar.\n\n\"Away, then, with deception,\" said the Master: \"What I do, I do in the\nopen eye of day.--Stand forth three of you.\"\n\n\"Master Michael Scott, I'll tell you what it is,\" said Charlie, \"I\nsolemnly protest against being parted into twa.\"\n\n\"You shall neither suffer nor feel the least inconvenience by the\nchange, brave yeoman,\" said the Master; \"therefore be not afraid, but\nstand forth.\"\n\nCharlie hung his head to one side in a deep reverie, till at length his\ncountenance lightened up by degrees, his features opening into a broad\nsmile.\n\n\"I'll tell you what it is, Sir Knight,\" said he, \"if you will assure me\nthat baith o' us shall be as stout and as wight chaps as I am mysel e'en\nnow, gude faith, I dinna care though ye mak me into twa, for my master\nthe warden's sake. If you could double an army that gate, it wad be a\ngreat matter. I doubt sair I'll cast out wi' my tither half about\nsomething that I ken o', and that's Corby; but I'll run the risk. Nane\no' your cutfing and cleaving, however, Sir Knight. Nane o' your imps wi'\ntheir lang-kail gully knives again.\"\n\nCharlie stepped up the floor, and took his stand with his back at the\nwall, to await doggedly this multiplication of himself. Tam soon joined\nhim: but there was a hard contest between Gibbie and the poet, both of\nwhom were rather personal cowards, and both alike averse to such\nexperiments. The former was at length obliged to yield, for Carol clung\nso close to the maid, that nothing could induce him to part from her;\nand, ever since the friar gave him the grievous overthrow, he had lost\nall confidence in his personal prowess.\n\nMichael stamped thrice with his heel, and spoke some words in an unknown\ntongue, in a low muttering tone; but some of them heard the sounds of\nPrig, Prim, and Pricker. There was a momentary confusion in the\napartment. A darkening haze flashed over it, and blinded the eyes of men\nfor a short space; the floor gave a shake, as if it had sunk down a\nlittle,--and there stood two of each of the three friends, so completely\nalike that no one knew who was who.\n\nNo scene could be more truly ludicrous than the one which now ensued;\neach man turned to his prototype, and the looks of confusion and\nastonishment in both being the same, the beholders were seized with\nirrepressible laughter.\n\nCharlie felt his legs, thighs, and ribs, if they remained the same as\nbefore. The other boardly personage in the same shape followed his\nexample, and added, \"Gude faith, the like o' this I saw never!\"\n\n\"You may weel say't,\" said the other; \"But let me see if you can draw\nthat lang sword as weel an' as cleverly as I can do.\"\n\n\"Gude Lord, hear til him!\" said the first: \"He's speaking as he were the\ntrue Charlie Scott himsel! Speak ye, friend: Were you me before this!\nThat, is, did you ride with the warden over the border?\"\n\n\"I am sure if you were there, I never saw you before,\" said the second\nspeaker; \"But I dinna ken what I am saying; for the truth is I dinna\ncomprehend this.\"\n\nWith that they again gazed at each other, and looked over their\nshoulders, as if they would not have cared to have fled from one\nanother's presence.\n\nWith every pair the scene was much the same. Tam was so much astonished\nthat he turned to his second self, cowered down, leaning his hands upon\nhis knees, and made a staunch point at him. The other took precisely the\nsame posture, so that their long noses almost met. The maid, the poet,\nand the boy screamed with laughter. Both of the Tams laughed too, so\nthat they very much resembled an ideot looking at himself in a glass.\n\n\"Friend, I canna say but ye're very like me,\" said Gibbie to his\npartner; \"But, though nane o' us be great beauties, ye look rather the\nwarst o' the twae.\"\n\n\"It brings me a-mind o' a story I hae heard my mother tell,\" said the\nother, \"of a lady and her twa Blackamores\"--\n\n\"What the deil man!\" exclaimed the first; \"Did your mother tell that\nstory too?\"\n\n\"Ay; wha else but she tauld it? I say my mother, auld Effy Blakely of\nthe Peatstacknowe.\"\n\n\"Eh?--She your mother? It is gayan queer if we be baith ane after a'!\nfor I never had a billy.\"\n\nThe two Gibbies then both began to tell stories, which each claimed as\noriginally his, so that the perplexity still increased. Nor was it\nbetter when the parties began to mix and address each other. All spoke\nof themselves as the right and proper persons, and of the others as\nbeings in their likenesses, and the most complete uncertainty prevailed.\nBut, just as the novelty and interest of the drama began to subside,\nMichael, by a wave of his hand annihilated the three additional\npersonages, and all remained as it was before the grand exhibition\ncommenced, save that our group had got a new topic of conversation and\nmerriment.\n\n\"Primate of Douay, so celebrated for thy mighty enchantments, how\nthinkest thou of this?\" said the Master.\n\n\"That thou hast done what no man could have done beside,\" said the\nfriar; \"and that thy power even surpasseth that of the magicians of\nEgypt, and of those of the countries in the lands of the east. But in\none thing my power is even as thy power. Dost thou know that I could\nhave prevented thy charm, and put a period to thy enchantment at my will\nand pleasure?\"\n\n\"It is not the power of prevention that we are trying,\" said the Master.\n\"Suffer my servants to do their work, as I shall suffer thine, and we\nshall then see who are most punctually obeyed, and who shall perform the\ngreatest works. Only, if I prevail in all things, you will surely have\nthe generosity to acknowledge that my master is greater than thine?\"\n\n\"Wo be unto me if such a confession proceed out of my lips!\" said the\nfriar: \"Who can be greater than he who builded the stories of heaven,\nand laid the foundations of this earth below; who lighted up the sun,\nsending him abroad in brightness and in glory, and placed the moon and\nthe stars in the firmament on high? Who is greater than he who hath made\nthe mountains to stand, the seas to roll, and the winds to blow? who\nhath not only made the souls of men, but all the spirits of the upper\nand nether world--\"\n\n\"Peace, thou maniac!\" cried the Master, interrupting the friar, in a\nvoice that made him leap from the floor: \"Comest thou here to babble\ntreason against the master whom I serve, and the mighty spirits with\nwhom I am in league? Do what thou canst do, and cease from speaking evil\nof dignities. What knowest thou of the principalities and powers that\ninhabit and rule over the various regions of the universe? No more than\nthe mole that grovelleth beneath the sward.--What further canst thou do\nin proof of thy profound art?\"\n\n\"Behold with thine eyes, O thou who accountest thyself the greatest\namong the children of men!\" said the friar, with a waggish air; \"that I\nwill but speak the word, and the mountains shall be rent asunder, and\nthe tops of the everlasting hills stand in opposition. Knowest thou the\nproper name, figure, and dimensions of that peaked mountain over against\nthe castle, to the west?\"\n\n\"Well may I know it,\" said the Master, \"for I have looked out on it\nthese fifty years, and many a hundred times have I followed the chase\naround it. It is named Cope-Law, and the mountain is my own.\"\n\n\"Mountain of Cope-Law, hear my voice,\" cried the friar in the same\nwaggish tone, in which there was an affectation of sublime command:\n\"Thou hast borne the footsteps of thy great master and his black horse\nBeelzebub, yet hast thou neither been scorched nor rent. Yea though he\nhath cursed thee in the bitterness of ire, yet hath thy grey head never\nbeen shaken.--But, behold, a greater than thy master is here. Mountain\nof Cope-Law, hear my voice:--Be thou rent asunder and divided into\nthree, that thy owner may look on thee and be astonied. If it please\nthee, mighty magician, look out on thy mountain of Cope-Law now.\"\n\nMany a thousand times had the Master looked out at that circular window;\nevery bush and grey stone on the hill were familiar to him; and, all\nunsuspicious of the simple deceit that had been practised on him, he\nwent and looked forth from the window, when, in the place where one\nround peaked mountain was wont to be, he actually saw three, all of the\nsame dimensions; and, as he weened, each of them more steep, tall, and\nromantic than the original one had been. He looked, and looked\nagain--the optical delusion was complete. He paced the floor in sullen\nmood; muttered some sentences to himself in an under tone, and once more\nlooked forth on the singular phenomenon. The mountains remained the\nsame. They could not be seen from any other window, and no one thought\nof descending to the great balcony; so that in the eyes of all the friar\nremained triumphant.\n\nThe Master could not brook this. He strode the floor in gloomy\nindignation; and at length they heard him saying, \"If I should venture\nto demand it--But is it then to be my last great work? The demand is\ndreadful!--I will--I'll demand it. Never shall it be said that Michael\nScott was out-done in his own art, and that by a poor peddling friar.\nCome all of you hither,\" added he in a louder tone. \"Look at that\nmountain to the east. It is known to you all--the great hill of Eildon.\nYou see and know that it is one round, smooth, and unbroken cone.\"\n\n\"We all know it, and have known it from infancy,\" was the general\nanswer.\n\nThe Master gave three strokes with his heel, and called the names of his\nthree elfin pages, who in an instant stood before him.--\"Work, Master,\nwork,--what work now?\"\n\n\"Look at that mountain to the east,\" said he, \"ycleped the hill of\nEildon. Go and twist me it into three.\"\n\nThe pages grinned, looking at him with eyes of a devilish gleam, as a\nravenous creature eyes its prey.\n\n\"The hill is a granite rock,\" said one,--\"and five arrow-flights high,\"\nsaid another,--\"and seventy round the base,\" said the first.\n\n\"All the powers of earth, and hell to boot, are unmeet to the task,\"\nadded the third.\n\n\"Thou art a proud and impertinent liar, perverse imp of the regions of\nflame,\" said the Master: \"Note this, The thing must, and shall be done;\neven though a body and soul should both be given up as the guerdon. I\nknow my conditions; they are sealed, and subscribed, and I am not to be\ndisobeyed. Get to your work without more hesitation.\"\n\nThe three pages then fell to reeling about and about, singing a wild and\nuncouth trio, in words of the following import:\n\n            \"Pick and spade\n            To our aid!\n            Flaught and flail,\n            Fire and hail!\n    Winds arise, and tempests brattle,\n    And if you will the thunders rattle.\n            Come away\n            Elfin grey,\n    Much to do ere break of day!\n\n    Come with spade, and sieve, and shovel;\n    Come with roar, and rout, and revel;\n    Come with crow, and come with crane,\n    Strength of steed, and weight of wain,\n    Crash of rock, and roar of river;\n    And, if you will, with thunders shiver!\n            Come away,\n            Elfin grey;\n      Much to do ere break of day!\"\n\nAs they sung these last lines they reeled out at the door in a circular\nmotion, so rapid that the eye dazzled which looked on them. The poet,\ndrawn involuntarily by the ears after that wild fairy lay, hasted out\nafter them. He looked east, and west, and all around, but he only saw\nthree crows winging their flight toward the hill of Eildon.\n\nFrom the time of their departure the temper of the great Master became\nextremely variable. At one time his visage would be clouded with the\ngloom of despair, and at another lighted up with a sort of horrid\nexultation; but he spake not, save to himself.\n\nThe friar, therefore, in order to divert his host, and gratify his own\nvanity, proposed to show off some more wonders of his art. Accordingly\nhe closed up all the windows once more, making the apartment as dark as\npitch, and exercised many curious chemical devices, lighted Roman\ncandles, and made them dance about the chamber in every colour of the\nrainbow.\n\nHe was still busily employed playing off his little ingenious tricks,\nwhen the party were disturbed by a bustle in one of the corners. It\nchanced to be so dark at the moment that no one could see what was going\non; but they heard a noise as of two people struggling; then a blow, and\none falling down with a groan.\n\nThe friar paused, calling out and enquiring what it was. Charlie, never\nbehind in a fray, bustled over the forms toward the scene of action; but\nfalling by the way, the noise was quickly removed to another corner, a\ndoor was opened and shut, and all was again quiet.\n\nEvery one ran about groping his way in the dark, and coming full drive\nagainst others, till the friar had the presence of mind to pull the\nstuffing out of some of the windows. The first thing they then saw was\nthe poet lying on the floor, void of sense and motion; and then it\nquickly appeared that the steward and Delany were a-wanting. The whole\nparty, save the Master, set out on the pursuit, headed by the friar and\nCharlie, and came just in time to rescue the maid as the wretch was\ndragging her into his abominable cell. It seemed that he had determined\non seizing her as his prey, and now that the three infernal pages, his\ntormentors, were dispatched elsewhere, he feared neither the Master nor\nhis guests; and, taking advantage of the utter darkness, and of the poet\nand her being in a corner by themselves, he stole up to them, gagged the\nmaid, silenced the poet, who resisted, with one blow, and then bore off\nthe helpless lady with all expedition.\n\nWhen he saw that he was overtaken and overpowered by numbers, he only\nlaughed at them; and assured them that, in spite of all they could do,\nhe would have possession of her, and that they should see. The girl\nwept and complained of being hurt; but then he only laughed and mocked\nthe louder. Some of them proposed that they should hew him all to\npieces, but the friar had resolved on his measures, and, at his request,\nthey took the culprit up before the Master, and there lodged their\naccusations against him. But the Master either durst not, or would not\nsay a word against him; for, in fact, it appeared that this great man,\nwithout his familiar spirits, shrunk into nothing, and was not only\nafraid of his own bondsman, but of every thing around him, deeming\nhimself altogether without help.\n\nThe friar's eye burned with indignation and rage, at witnessing such\narrogance on the one hand, and imbecility on the other; but his bootless\nwrath only delighted the steward the more; and it was evident that, had\nit not been for fear of Charlie Scott's long sword and heavy hand, he\nwould have taken his prey from the midst of them.\n\nDelany still wept and sobbed till her bosom was like to rend, and begged\nto be taken away from the castle, or to be killed and put in her grave.\nThe friar tried, with all the fair and kind speeches he was master of,\nto comfort her; but when she saw the poet pale, bleeding, and sitting\nstill unable to rise, she only waxed worse, and hid herself from the eye\nof the wretch behind the friar's frock.\n\n\"Daughter of my love, and child of many misfortunes, be thou comforted,\"\nsaid the friar; \"for though the wicked triumph for a space in their\niniquity, yet shall they not thrive. They who refuse to do justice to\nthe innocent and upright in heart shall perish in their sin, and pass\naway as the smoke that is driven by the wind. Therefore, my daughter, be\nthou comforted; and that thy heart may be cheered, I will show thee a\nwonder of my art,--a wonder so great that whosoever seeth it his heart\nshall melt within him; and whosoever heareth of it his ears shall\ntingle. Come, whoso listeth, forth into the open air, and I will do it\nin the sight of heaven and of man.\"\n\nThe friar then lifting up his huge portmanteau, went forth to the large\npaved gateway that surrounded the whole of the uppermost arches of the\ncastle. It was so ample as to be like a small field, for it covered all\nthe castle, save four small pointed turrets, and the square apartment\nwhich the party now left, that rose like a shapeless dome above all. In\none corner of this level battlement there stood a leaden vessel that had\nonce been used as a cistern. To that the friar went; and, laying down\nhis huge walise, he took from thence a handful of blackish sand, and\nstrinkled it all around the battlement on the one side to the opposite\ncorner. He then stood and looked awfully around him. He looked to the\nheavens, but they were shrouded in a dark hideous cloud that now covered\nthe mountains, and hung lowering over the uppermost spire of the castle.\nNeither the Cope-Law nor the hill of Eildon could be seen, nor could\naught be seen save the dark and troubled cloud. The scene was truly\nimpressive; and when the rest saw the friar looking on it with such\napparent dread, all of them looked abroad with him, and whispered to one\nanother, \"He's gaun to be about some awesome enchantment now.\"\n\nThe friar covered up his pormanteau with the leaden vessel, and then\ndesired the Master to bring any weight he chose, and heap it on its\nbottom, which he had now turned uppermost, and, at one word or sign, he\nwould make his goat-skin wallet carry the vessel, and all such weight,\nround the battlements of the castle.\n\nThe Master, and every one present, pronounced the thing to be\nimpossible,--the steward grinned in derision,--and, after mocking and\ntaunting the friar on his art in the most gross and provoking terms, he\nproffered to hold down the leaden tub, wallet and altogether, or to\nforfeit his head if he failed. Then laying himself over it, in the\nattitude of holding it down, he called on the friar to proceed, and give\nhim the promised canter round the walls, which he well deserved, he\nsaid, not only for his kindness to them all, and to their Miss in\nparticular, but also for his kind intentions. Then he scoffed aloud,\ncrying out, \"Now thou poor vain fool and liar, be as good as thy word,\nand give me, an it were, but one hobble.\"\n\n\"God do so to me, and more also,\" said the friar, \"if I do not give thee\nsuch a hobble as eye hath not seen!\"\n\nWith that he struck a spark of fire among the black sand, as the rest\nsupposed it to be, that lay among his feet. The sand caught fire,--the\nflame ran sputtering around the western battlement,--and the next moment\nthe steward and his tub bolted away into the firmament in a tremendous\nflash of fire, and with a sound so loud that it shook the castle to its\nfoundations. Some averred that they saw, through the fire and smoke, a\nmomentary glance of him and the cistern both, as they pierced the cloud\ntowards the north; but nothing further was heard or seen,--and, in a\nsecond of time, all was quite and gloomy above and around as it had been\nbefore.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n    The wind blew as 'twould blawn it's last,\n    The thickening showers rose on the blast;\n    The speedy gleam the darkness swallowed,\n    Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed;\n    That night a child might understand\n    The deil had business on his hand!\n\n        _Tam o' Shanter._\n\n\nLong was it before any of the astonished spectators opened their lips.\nThe shock had almost deprived them of sense, sight, and motion; and when\nthey began to articulate, it was only to utter short exclamations, and\nnames of saints. Tam Craik was the first who ventured a remark, which\nwas in the following words:--\"By the Lord Robin!\" (meaning, it was\nsupposed, the king,) \"The deil has flown away wi' him bodily in a flash\no' fire!\"\n\nThe great Master stood mute with astonishment; he even trembled with\ndread; and appeared once as if he would have fallen at the friar's feet:\nBut he never said, Where is my seneschal gone? Whither hast thou sent\nhim? seeming rather to succumb to his guests for the time, being as a\nman utterly at their mercy. His powerful and malevolent spirits had left\nhim by his command; his steward, and only human attendant, had been\nblown into the air; and as for the miserable night-hag, they had seen no\nmore of her since her escape from the prison vault, and they wist not\nwhether she remained in the castle, or had fled from it out of dread of\nthe symbols of the Christian religion, which she had seen about the\nfriar, and the effects of which she had felt in frustrating her potent\nspells. The wizard had therefore none to execute his commands, and\nappeared a being quite forlorn, as well as greatly troubled in his mind.\n\nNo one ever knew to this day by what means the wicked seneschal was\nborne away among the clouds in a column of fire and smoke; and those who\nwitnessed it spread the word over the country, that the devil took him\naway with a great roar amid fire and brimstone; and that, after having\nhim up among the dark clouds, he tore him all to pieces. It was a fact\nthat one of the steward's mangled limbs was found hanging on a tree,\namong some thick branches, in the wood of Sheil's Heuch, over against\nthe castle, which gave some countenance to the report; and no farther\nremnants of him were ever discovered.\n\nThe friar, however, knew well enough by what means he was taken away;\nand though he never explained it as long as he remained in Scotland, it\nis meet that the readers of this tale should know the truth. It can be\ntold in a few words. The friar had brought his huge wallet full of the\nstrongest gunpowder he had been able to make, to shew off his wonderful\nfeats, and astonish the great Master. The exigency of the moment induced\nhim to part with it all at once; and, in all probability, he could not\nhave caused so much astonishment by any experiment he could have put in\npractice.\n\nHe was guilty, however, of a manifest oversight; one that had well\nnigh proved fatal to the whole party in its consequences, When they\nfound themselves freed from their vile persecutor, and the great\nMaster rather their prisoner than they his, their first thought\nwas of departing from that unhallowed place, and awaiting, in the\nneighbourhood, the wizard's final answer, without which they durst not\nwell return to the warden.\n\nCharlie jumped on the battlement with very joy that he would now get\ndown to the mill to see what was become of Corby, and how he fared; and\nhe was the first man to proceed down the narrow stair-case, leading the\nway to the fair fields. But, alas, how transient are all sublunary joys\nand hopes! In the middle of this confined and difficult stair, just at\nits darkest and most acute turn, there was a massive iron door, which\nCharlie ran his nose against in his descent, and soon found, to his\nmortification and disappointment, that it was locked and double locked.\nHe returned to those above with the dismal information. The friar's\ncountenance fell, and he became pale as ashes, when it was thus brought\nto his recollection that he had not only blown the brutal seneschal to\nthe devil, but that he had blown the keys of the castle along with him;\nand there were they left on the roof to perish with hunger.\n\nAfter many ineffectual attempts to break open that door, having no other\nresource, they agreed to go to the topmost tower, and there unite their\nvoices, in order to raise the country to their assistance; for, without\nropes and ladders, they saw no means of escape. Accordingly they\nascended, and uttered many a prolonged and tremendous shout, for the\nspace of a whole hour. But these unwonted cries only drove the hinds to\na greater distance from the castle. Many of them had witnessed the\nmighty explosion at the exit of the seneschal, which, in the middle of\nthe lurid gloom, had a hideous effect; and when they heard such long and\nloud howls proceeding from the battlements of that gloomy and desolate\npile, they weened that a whole host of demons had assembled about it,\nand kept far aloof.\n\nIn these and other fruitless exertions, our hapless prisoners spent the\nevening of that eventful day. The sun, or the blue sky, had not once\nappeared since the break of morn. For a little while, about noon, the\nhills of the Forest were visible, and, on their back-ground of pale\nshadowy clouds, formed a scene of dark sublimity. Still, as it\napproached toward evening, these clouds came lower and lower down upon\nthe hills, and became more dark and dense in their appearance; and\nprecisely at the close of day the storm burst forth in all its fury,\nsweeping over hill and dale with increasing majesty every minute. The\nwoods roared and crashed before the blast. The snow descended so thick\nthat in a short time every ravine and sheltered dell was heaped. After\nthat came sleet and snow mingled; and, finally, a driving rain dashed\nwith such violence on the earth, that it seemed as if a thousand\ncataracts poured from the western heaven to mix with the tempest below.\nNeedless is it to describe that night farther. It was that on which the\ngreat battle was fought in the camp of Douglas, and formerly mentioned\nin this momentous history.--It is therefore apparent that Isaac the\ncurate is now drawing near to the same period of time when he broke off\nat a tangent and left the camp, and that every thing will, of course, go\non to the catastrophe without further interruption.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nKind hearted and gentle reader, be not too sanguine. Who can tell what\nis to fall out between the cup and the lip? Incidents seem to have\nmultipled intentionally to interrupt poor Isaac's narrative. Besides,\nlet any one consider how he is to liberate and get free of this group of\ninteresting individuals, locked up, as they were, to perish on the top\nof the castle of Aikwood. It was no difficulty to Isaac. He was one of\nthose wise and downright men who know that truth tells always the best,\nand to that maxim he adhered. But the worst of it was, there were so\nmany truths, that any body may see it was scarcely possible to get them\nall narrated in their proper places; and that, without the help of the\nwaggoner, the task could never have been effected.\n\n\"Gude sauf us, but it is gaun to be an awsome night!\" said Charlie\nScott, as he stepped the last up into the dark apartment in which the\nparty had spent the greater part of the day, and into which the storm\nhad now driven them once more.\n\n\"Gaun to be?\" said Tam, taking up Charlie's words; \"I wot nae what it is\ngaun to be, but it is an awsome night already.\"\n\n\"It brings me in mind of a story,\" said Gibbie, \"that I hae often heard\nabout a friar Gabriel o' St Martin's that raised the deil--\"\n\n\"Od, Sir, an ye dare, for the blood of you, speak another word about\nraising the deil the night,\" cried Charlie, interrupting him, \"may I be\nchased by an Englishman, if I dinna thraw you ower the castle wa'. We\nlittle ken wha may be near, or wha may be amang us. Gin ane may judge by\nappearances, that same chap ye hae named (gude keep me frae repeating\nit) isna in his ain hett hame the night. Heaven defend us, hear how the\nwind howls and sobs! I wish yon auld houses o' the mill may be safe\naneuch; they stand sair exposed. Hech-ho! hear til't! There will be mony\ncauld quarters on Otterdale the night, but there is some a-wanting there\nthat wad be blithe to share them.\"\n\nThe friar now set himself to strike a light, which at last he effected;\nand collecting the oil which remained in the lamps into one, they found,\nto Charlie's great satisfaction, that they had as much as would burn\nover-night, besides some remnants of waxen torches. Of all the huge\nremains of their morning feast that they had seen removed from the\ntable, they could not find one vestige, even though the trenchers\nremained in the chamber as it was termed; but, to their great joy, they\nfound an article as precious to the eyes, for about two-thirds of the\nhuge flagon of the wine of Palestine were still left. This, in the total\nabsence of fuel, was a discovery of some consequence; and the friar, in\nthe like absence of a steward, took that office voluntarily on himself.\n\nWhen the lamp was kindled, the first thing that Delany did was to dress\nthe poor poet's hurt head, and bind it up with a napkin. This attention\nand kindness so thrilled his heart that he could not refrain from tears,\nand seemed to rejoice in his wound; and as both he and his adored maiden\nhad seen the ruffian steward transported up to heaven in a flame\nof fire, they were freed from all terror on his account; and,\nnotwithstanding all the perils with which they were surrounded, they\nappeared composed, and, if not happy, were at least quite resigned to\ntheir fate.\n\nThe great Master sat muffled up in his cloak, and apart by himself, his\nbrows screwed down into deep curved wrinkles, and his sunken eye fixed\non the ground. The friar filled a cup of wine, and, bowing, presented it\nto him the first. He took the cup, and drank it off, but he spoke not a\nword: his piercing eyes glimmered round the chamber; he uttered a loud\ngroan, and, apparently, sunk again into his deep reverie. The\ntransportation of his steward, while in the very act of braving the\nfriar's might, made a terrible impression on his mind, and he weened\nthat he now sat before his master--before one that might send him on a\nvoyage of the same nature whenever he chose; and therefore he judged,\nwith great reason, that for a space it behoved him to keep on good terms\nwith so dangerous an opponent.\n\nWhen each had taken a cup of the elevating beverage, the effect was\ndelightful; all their cares, dangers, and wants faded; the terrors of\nthe storm, that was still increasing, only startled them now and then,\nas it rattled on the tower, or yelled thro' the crevices below. They\nchatted, laughed, and broke jokes on each other, till even the sublime\nMaster was diverted from his profound and brooding ideas, and smiled at\nthe rustic simplicity of the characters around him. The laird of the\nPeatstacknowe told a great number of his long stories, of which\nsomething that was seen, said, or done, always reminded him; Charlie\ntold confused stories about battles and forays; and the poet came in\nalways between with his rythmatic descriptions and allusions; until at\none time the associations of ideas followed one another in a manner so\ntruly ludicrous, that the enchanter actually laughed till he had almost\nfallen into a fit, a thing that had not for twenty years been witnessed\nof him.\n\nThe tempest still continued to rage, and the loquacity of the party\nbeginning to flag, they became drowsy as midnight approached. The friar\nthen looking gravely around him, and, laying aside his hood, took a\nsmall psalter book from his bosom; which volume also contained the four\nbooks of the Apocalypse; and, opening it reverendly, he proposed that\nthey should all join in performing the evening service to the Virgin,\nand the hymn to the Redeemer. Delany rose from off the lap of the poet's\ncloak, where she had sat nestling all the evening, and came and kneeled\ndown at the friar's knee. The Master started up with a look of\nindignation, stamped on the floor, and ordered the friar to put up his\nvain book, and refrain from such flummery in his presence. The friar\nlooked at him with a steady countenance.\n\n\"It is not meet that I should obey man rather than God,\" said he. \"I\nhave taken a vow in the face of Heaven, and I will pay that vow in\nspite of men and devils. I will sing my holy hymns with these my friends\nand children, and he that listeth not to join, let him be accursed, and\ntranslated from the presence.\"\n\nThis last sentence sounded rather equivocally in the Master's ears. He\nliked not such a translation as he had lately witnessed; for, with all\nhis power and mysterious art, the terrors of death still encompassed him\nabout. He held his peace, therefore, although he growled like a lion at\nbay at being bearded thus in his own castle.\n\nThe friar proceeded as he had said, and all the rest joined him with\nbecoming devotion, save the poet, whose orisons that night were somewhat\ncold. He could not brook the charm that drew Delany from his own side to\nhis rival's knee. The Master sat aloof, biting his lip, and grinning in\nderision; but, at one part of the service, although the curate does not\nsay what part, he was insensibly overcome, and fell into a painful\noblivious dream. The strains of the sacred music, simple as they were,\nstole over his soul, as some remembrance of early life sometimes steals\ninto the heart of enfeebled age, reminding the decaying and dying worm\nof joys he can no more see, and of feelings of delight that have\nperished for ever.--If a son of the mountains of the north were\ntransported to some far foreign clime, and there doomed to remain for\nlife: After sojourning in that land for half an age, until grey and\nbowed down, if by chance, on some still evening, or mayhap through the\neddies of the storm, one of the strains of his native land were poured\non his ear, think of the recollections it would awaken in his mind: How\npainfully thrilling the sensations! Would it not be like the last sweet\nbeam of a hope he was never more to cherish, a last look of all that was\ndear on earth?--Such were the feelings that crept unbidden over the soul\nof the enchanter, on hearing the sweet sounds, that reminded him of a\nreligion he had for ever renounced, and in which he had never firmly\nbelieved till he had believed to tremble.\n\nIn this troubled trance he sat leaning against the wall, until the\nworshippers had reached the middle of the hymn to the Saviour. He then\nwas seized with strong convulsions, and, rising up, with staggering\nsteps, he fled from the chamber, crying as he went,--\"Cruel and\nimprovident things! reptiles! cursed, whining sycophants! that would\nsend me to my doom before my time!\" He rushed out to the battlements,\nand, groping his way through the storm, took shelter in the narrow\nstaircase, that he might hear no more of the sounds that thus troubled\nand distracted his soul. What dread had seized him, or what he had seen\nor heard, his guests knew not; but they had scarcely well ended their\nhymn, when he rushed again in among them, with wildered looks, and his\nhair standing on end, seeming glad to take shelter among those from whom\nhe had so lately fled with abhorrence. No one enquired the cause, for\nall were so weary and overcome with slumber; and every one then composed\nhimself to sleep in the manner that best suited his convenience.\n\nThe storm continued to rage with unabated violence, and, after they had\nlaid themselves down, they found that the castle was all tottering and\nquaking before it. The firmest heart was appalled; for the rocking of\nthe castle was not all; every now and then they heard eldritch shrieks\narising, as of some wretch perishing, or rather, as some of them\nthought, like the voices of angry spirits yelling through the tempest.\nWhen one of these howling sounds came on the blast, every one of our\nprostrate friends breathed a deep sigh, or uttered some exclamatory\nsound, Charlie had always one, which he uttered even after he was\nasleep. \"Hech! Gude sauf us, sirs! what will be the upshot o' a' this?\"\nThe Master sat muffled up in the corner close behind them, and after he\njudged them all to be asleep he fell a-crooning a sort of hymn in an\nunder key. The poet was, however, more than half awake, and gathered up\nsome broken fragments of it. Poets are never to trust when they give\nquotations from memory out of the works of others; and perhaps honest\nCarol might add some bombastic lines of his own, but he always averred\nthat the following lines formed a part of the warlock's hymn.\n\n          \"Pother, pother,\n          My master and brother!\n          Who may endure thee,\n          Thus failing in fury?\n    King of the tempest that travels the plain;\n    King of the snow, and the hail, and the rain,\n    Lend to thy lever yet seven times seven,\n    Blow up the blue flame for bolt and for levin,\n    The red forge of hell with the bellows of heaven!\n          With hoop, and with hammer!\n          With yell, and with yammer;\n          Hold them at play,\n          Till the dawn of the day!\n          Pother! pother!\n          My sovereign and brother!\n\n            \"O strain to thy lever,\n            This world to sever\n            In two or in three--\n            What joy it would be!\n    What toiling, and moiling, and mighty commotions!\n    What rending of hills, and what roaring of oceans!\n    Ay, that is thy voice, I know it full well;\n    And that is thy whistle's majestic swell;\n    But why wilt thou ride thy furious race,\n    Along the bounds of vacant space,\n    While there is tongue of flesh to scream,\n    And life to start, and blood to stream?\n          Yet pother, pother!\n          My sovereign and brother!\n    And men shall see, ere the rising sun,\n    What deeds thy mighty arm hath done.\"\n\nIf it was true that the Master sung these ridiculous lines, which is not\nvery likely, his \"sovereign and brother\" had not accepted of his\nsacrifice, nor paid due deference to his incense of praise. For, a\nlittle before the break of day, our group were aroused from their\nprofound slumbers by loud and reiterated cries. The lamp was still\nburning feebly and blue. Charlie, whose ear was well trained to catch\nany alarm, was the first to start up; but the sight that he saw soon\nlaid him again flat on the floor, though not before he had leaped clear\nover a narrow oak-table and two forms. There was a black being, that\nappeared to be half-man and half-beast, dragging Master Michael Scott\nalong the room toward the door; yet he dragged him with difficulty, and\nat some times the wizard seemed rather to prevail. Horrible as this\nphantom was, all those who saw it agreed that there was something about\nit that instantly reminded them of the late seneschal; and, as they\nraised their heads and beheld it, every heart was chilled with terror.\nCharlie pronounced his short, loud prayer, which has already been\nrecorded in this history, and which consisted merely of one vehement\nsentence of three syllables; yea, he pronounced it as he flew; and then\nsquatting in a corner, and covering his head with his cloak, that,\nwhatever dreadful thing happened, he might not see it, there he lay\nrepeating his little prayer as fast as human breath could utter it.\n\nThe demon struggled hard with the Master; and the latter, as may well be\nsupposed, exerted his utmost power,--so that his adversary only got him\ntoward the door as it were by inches. When he found himself losing\nground, he always made a certain writhing motion, which cannot be\ndescribed, and which every time extricated him somewhat from his\nadversary's clutches. Then the apparition laid hold of him again by the\nleft side with his lobster claws, and that gripe uniformly caused the\nwizard to utter a loud and piercing cry. At such times Charlie's little\nprayer might be heard waxing still louder as the strife increased; and,\nthough he lifted not his face from the earth, he continued a kind of\nspurning motion with his feet, as if he would fain have burrowed under\nthe wall like a mole.\n\nFor a long time no one durst move to the Master's assistance. The scene\nso far surpassed ought they had ever conceived in horror, that their\nsenses remained altogether benumbed. The combat continued with unabated\nardour. The Master foamed at the mouth, his hair stood all on end, and\nhis bloodshot eyes stared wildly, as if they would have started from\ntheir sockets. At length the fiend so far prevailed as to drag the\nMaster close to the door, where he threw him down, and made a motion as\nif he would have dashed him through below it. But Michael was flesh and\nblood, and could not enter nor depart by the key-hole, or the foot of\nthe door, like the beings with whom he had to do. The demon therefore\ntried to open the door; but the enchanter's muscular frame being jammed\nagainst it, it could not be opened at once. Michael's efforts were now\ndirected to that object alone, namely, the keeping of the door shut, and\nhe exerted himself till his remaining strength was exhausted, but at\nlast suffered himself to be dragged back from the door, repeating these\nwords as he lay flat on his back:--\"'Tis done! 'Tis done! 'Tis over!\n'Tis over!\"\n\nThe lookers on sat and trembled, all save the friar, who had by that\ntime somewhat rallied his scattered senses, and stood on his feet. The\nfiend had dragged the Master back from the door by the feet, and holding\nhim down by the grey hair with one hand, he opened the door with the\nother; then, stooping down, he twisted the one hand, armed with red\ncrooked claws, in his hair, and the other in his long grizzled beard.\nThe friar had stepped forward, and, at that moment, laying the rood on\nthe Master's forehead with the one hand, and the open Book of the\nGospels on his breast with the other, he pronounced a sacred Name, and\nin that name commanded the demon to depart. Swift as the javelin leaves\nthe hand of the warrior, or the winged shaft flies from the bowstring,\ndid the monster fly from the symbols of a creed by which he and his\nconfederate powers were all controlled, and from a name and authority at\nwhich the depths of hell trembled. He rushed out at the door with a yell\nof dismay, and threw himself from the battlement on the yielding wind.\nThe friar peeped forth after him, but he only heard a booming sound,\nwhich died on the gale, and beheld like a dragon of blue livid fire\nflying toward the east, in the direction of the hill of Eildon.\n\nThe friar returned into the chamber with a countenance beaming with joy.\nNo conqueror ever returned from the field of battle with an exultation\nof mind so sublime as that which now lighted up his uncourtly mien. His\nvictory had been so sudden and so complete, that all present were\nastounded at the greatness and extent of his power, and none of his\nfriends doubted that his might was as far above that of their host as\nthe sun or the stars are above the earth. They had in this instance seen\nit exemplified in a manner not to be disputed; and there was the Master\nhimself still sitting on the floor, and gazing on his deliverer with\nastonishment.\n\n\"Man, may I not thank thee for this?\" said he.\n\n\"No,\" said the friar, \"think not of a poor mortal thing like me,\novercome with sins, faults, and follies: You are freed for this time;\nbut thank One who is greater than I.\"\n\n\"True; I am freed for the present,\" said the Master; \"but it is by a\nmode, and by a power, that I dare not, for my existence, acknowledge or\nacquiesce in.\"\n\nWhen Charlie heard by what was passing that the devil had been\nvanquished and was fled, he called out with a voice that seemed to come\nfrom under ground,--for he was so muffled up in his cloak that the\nsounds could scarcely be heard,--\"Friar, steek the door.\" The good man\nobeyed, and as soon as Charlie heard the welcome sound, he raised his\nface, which was much of the same colour as a living lobster, and,\nstanding on one knee, viewed all the faces and corners with that\neloquence of eye which is quite indescribable. How superior was it to\nhis blunt address:--\"Gude sauf us, callans, is a' safe?--Is the\ncoutribat ower? Sic a fie-gae-to as yon I saw never! Hech! but it is an\nunsonsy place this! I wadna live here an there warna another place to be\nhad aneath the shoulder o' heaven.\"\n\nA long discussion now commenced between the friar and the Master, on the\nprinciples which each of them professed. That colloquy is too serious,\nand too tedious, to be copied at full length in this place; but it\namounted simply to this,--That the one considered the Christian\nRevelation as the source of all that is good, wise, or great among men.\nThe other had disbelieved it from his youth upward; and, not being able\nto come to any conclusion from ought he could learn among men, he had\nbesought communion with the potent spirits of the elements; and, after\nseven years of unparalleled suffering, such as cannot be named, had\nattained what he sought. These had confirmed him in his infidelity. He\nhad entered into a league with them, renouncing, for ever and ever, all\nright in a Redeemer, and signing the covenant with his own blood. That\nafterwards he had rejoiced in this fellowship, which had enabled him to\ndo deeds such as no other man could perform, till by degrees he\ndiscovered that the meanest professor of the religion of Jesus, if\ninfluenced by faith and sincerity, had the power of counteracting these\nmighty spirits, and of frustrating their highest intents. That then his\neyes were opened when it was too late, and he only believed in time to\ntremble and despair. The friar urged the inexhaustible riches of\nheavenly mercy; but the Master spurned at it, declaring his resolution\nto abide by his covenant, whatever his fate might be. He despised the\nvery name and nature of repentance, and would rather suffer with the\ncolleagues he had chosen, he said, than whine and cringe to another\nmaster,--\"Though I now feel to my sorrow that they are subordinate,\"\nadded he, \"yet are they mighty and powerful, beyond what thou canst\ncomprehend; and why may not I be a sharer in their energies in a future\nexistence as well as in this?\"\n\nThe friar gazed and trembled when he heard the wild and erratic ideas of\nthis extraordinary man; and, ceasing to reason further with him, he\nenquired how it came that some of these mighty associates of his were\nhis enemies, and seemed but to watch an opportunity of tearing him in\npieces.\n\n\"They are jealous of their rights, and capricious beyond all\nconception,\" said he. \"The utmost circumspection is not fit to keep on\nfair and equal terms with them. Even yet I do not know but that this is\nto be my last night here. If I have gone beyond my commission in the\norders I have given, then am I doomed to be their bond slave for ages:\nbut if I am within my limited bounds, and the work is effected, then\nshall I still be obeyed for a time and a season. Would that it were\nmorning that I might know the worst!\"\n\n\"Scarcely dost thou need to express thy wish again,\" said the friar;\n\"for, lo, the day dawneth in the east, and the shadows flee away before\nit; the winds have gone to their chambers to sleep, and the rains are\nover and gone. Let us walk forth and see how the darkness fadeth before\nthe face of the day, and all that is stirring abroad on the fair face of\nthe creation.\"\n\nThe Master did not move, for it was yet but twilight, and nothing could\nbe seen distinctly; but the friar stepped down to the battlements, and\nCharlie, who looked on him as their only safeguard, followed. The poet\nwould doubtless have followed also to have seen the dawn of the morning\nafter a storm; but, like all the rhyming race to this day, he was\nenslaved by the eyes of a maid, languished in chains, and could not move\nbut as she moved. Alas for the poor amorous poet! The others lay in a\nsluggish and restless slumber.\n\nThe friar and the bold yeoman strode together along the paved way, and\nlooked abroad; but they could see only the clouds whitening in the\neastern horizon, without being able to distinguish wood from waste, or\nland from water.\n\n\"Let us kneel down and pray, my son,\" said the friar, \"even in this\nquiet place, where we shall be freed from the interruptions of the\nwicked one; for great and manifold are the dangers that surround us. I\nsee not what remains for us, but either to throw ourselves from the\nwalls and perish, or remain where we are and feed upon one another.\"\n\n\"It is an awsome eternitive, man,\" answered Charlie; \"I'm sure an ye\nthink praying will do ony good, I shall take off my bonnet and kneel\ndown on my knees, and hearken weel; but what mair can I do?\"\n\n\"You can join with me in spirit, my son,\" said the friar, \"and pray with\nyour heart.\"\n\n\"I am sure, gin I but kend the process, I am very willing,\" said\nCharlie. With that he took off his steel belted bonnet, and kneeled\nreverendly beside the friar, who prayed so fervently and sublimely for\ndeliverance, that Charlie looked about every minute, not only then, but\nall that morning, to see by what means they were to be delivered; for he\nhad no doubt but they would be set free to a certainty, and that in a\nvery short time.\n\nWhen they arose, the first word that the friar said was the following\nfervent exclamation--\"Blessed Virgin! What do I see?\"\n\nCharlie looked all about for some approaching miracle; he had even some\nhopes of seeing a detachment from the warden's army; but his eye ranged\nthe dusky fields in vain.\n\n\"What a strange world we live in!\" rejoined the friar: \"Yea surely there\nare things in heaven and in the earth, and in the waters,--yea many\nthings, of which man knoweth nothing! Why art thou gazing abroad on all\nnature, my son? Turn thine eyes toward the east, and tell me what thou\nseest.\"\n\nCharlie did so; and, on the instant, the two friends were standing fixed\nin amazement like two statues. They moved not, save, now and then, to\nsteal a momentary glance at each other. The great mountain of Eildon\nwas actually rent in pieces from the top to its very foundations, and\npiled up in three towering spiral mountains, as they remain to this day.\nOnly at that time they were taller, darker, and more uniform.\n\nIt was a scene of wonder not to be understood, and awfully impressive.\nThe two rivers flowed down their respective vallies, and met below the\ncastle like two branching seas, and every little streamlet roared and\nfoamed like a river. The hills had a wan, bleached appearance, many of\nthe trees of the forest were shivered; and, towering up against the\neastern sky, there stood the three romantic hills of Eildon, where\nbefore there was but one.\n\nThe friar was the first to move from his trance, stepping away in deep\nmeditation. Charlie was by this time likewise released from the spell,\nand he ran to the door of the high chamber, calling aloud, \"Come a' out,\nsirs, come a' out. The like o' this was never seen sin the warld stood\nup!\"\n\nThey came forth accordingly, and their consternation was correspondent\nto the extraordinary event. But when the Master came out, and saw what\nwas done, he shouted, and leaped on the battlement like one frantic,\nboasting, and uttering words of terrible blasphemy. He looked on the\nmountain of Cope-Law, and he could scarcely believe his eyes when he\nbeheld it standing in one unskaithed unbroken cone, as it had done for\nages. He looked again to the three mountains of Eildon, and his\nexultation and blasphemous boasting was redoubled.\n\n\"So, all that you and your master can effect,\" cried he, \"is to throw a\nlittle glamour on the sight,--is to practise a little deception! I never\nweened the monkish art or profession to consist of more. See what my\nsovereign and master can do!\"\n\n\"Hold there,\" said the friar. \"Who was it that made these mountains at\nthe first? Was that deception?\"\n\n\"It was not thou,\" said the Master.\n\n\"But who was it, then, that sent up your wicked seneschal into the\nstormy clouds in a flame of fire?\" added the friar. \"And who was it\nthat saved your life, but this morning, from a fiend that would have\ndevoured you? Were these both deceptions?\"\n\nThe Master's countenance fell. The friar said this, because, in their\npresent perilous situation, he wished to keep a little awe over the\nwizard, and likewise to put a stop to the torrent of blasphemy that\nproceeded from his lips.\n\nThe morning advanced, the sun arose, but no assistance, no relief\nappeared to our hapless prisoners. They had tasted nothing for a day and\nnight, save one cup of wine each, and they had not above as much more\nremaining. For all this the Master was so much elated, that his\nbehaviour was rather like that of a person frantic with joy, than that\nof one shut up among others to perish of hunger. His companions in\nmisfortune noted likewise that he was again disposed to be peremptory\nand tyrannical with them, and they dreaded that his familiars were again\nat his command.\n\nThe men wrought all the forenoon endeavouring to break up the iron\ndoor; but they neither had mattocks nor room to work in, and they made\nno more impression on it than as many mice would have done. They were\nnow quite disconsolate; and, being unable to do aught else, they puzzled\nthemselves in accounting for the late steward's motives for having\nlocked it. They remembered that it was standing wide open when they\nbrought him up a prisoner before the Master; and they likewise\nremembered of having seen him step into that stair for a minute or two,\nimmediately before he began to brave the friar. Therefore, all that they\ncould guess was, that it had been locked with some fatal intent.\n\nThe friar, perceiving that their efforts were vain, entreated them to\ncome in from the open air, and keep themselves quiet and cheerful, that\nthey might wear the longer. He trusted in Heaven, he said, that they\nwould be delivered, but in the mean time it was absolutely necessary to\nuse every precaution; and for that purpose, he added, if one of them\nwould keep watch at each of the four windows, lest any passengers or\ncountrymen should come near, he would tell them a story, which would at\nleast have the good effect of keeping them quiet. The Master was quite\ndelighted with this proposal; and, taking the flagon of wine, he\nproposed that they should share it among them; but the rest opposed it,\nand contented themselves with half a cup each.\n\nCharlie was most of all cast down. He had heard a word from the friar\nthat morning that sunk deep on his heart. It was something about eating\none another! And not being able to get rid of the thought, he brought it\nagain overhead. The rest were all struck dumb; for they perceived that\nit was but too apparent it might come to that. The Master grinned\ndarkly, and said it was well. But Gibbie said he hoped, \"if things came\nthat length, they wad draw cuts, that ilka ane might get a fair chance\nfor his life.\" The poet begged, with tears in his eyes, that, out of\nrespect to the tender sex, they would leave Delany the last, or at least\nthat, when the lot fell on her they would take him in her place. To\nthis they all agreed with one voice: but an extraordinary thought\nstriking on the Master's mind at that instant, he made a motion, and\nproposed to settle it off hand by a vote.\n\n\"This maid, whom you term beautiful, is mine on one condition,\" said he;\n\"and as I can now in a very short time comply with that condition, I\nclaim her as my own. I will therefore give her to the man among you who\ntells me the best tale. She shall be his, fully and freely, to do with\nher as seemeth him good. And the man among you who tells the worst\nshall, if need require it, be blooded and flayed in this same chamber\nfor food to his associates.\"\n\nCharlie's blood ran cold within him at this proposal. He almost thought\nhe felt the flaying knife and the teeth of the ravenous half-famished\neaters; and when the Master called out, \"Approve, or not approve?\"\nCharlie was the first to call out, \"O! Not! not, not!\" He was seconded\nby Tam Craik, but all the rest voted on the other side; so that they\nwere left in the minority, and the matter was finally decided to be\nprecisely as the Master had proposed. The poet stretched himself, so\neager was he to begin; for his heart yearned within him to win the\nbeautiful Delany. Gibbie was also uplifted, and sure of victory; but Tam\nand Charlie were both quite hopeless and cast down.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n     And I said unto him, Can'st thou tell unto thy servant what is the\n     meaning of this?\n\n         _Esdras._\n\n\nThe friar having volunteered a tale, the priority was unanimously\nawarded to him: So, after the watches were set and all quiet, he began\nthe following singular narrative, without further ceremony:\n\n    The Friar's Tale.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n1. In the days of the years of my pilgrimage, it chanced to me that I\nsojourned in the great kingdom that is toward the south.\n\n2. And I passed through the city that lieth on the river of the hills,\nunto the house of Galli the scribe, who was a good man and a just.\n\n3. And he had one only daughter, who was unto him as a treasure and an\nheritage, for her mother had been led unto her people before the maid\ncould distinguish between her right hand and her left.\n\n4. And the maiden was fair to look upon;\n\n5. For her neck was as polished ivory, and her chin like the ripened\npeach basking on a wall that looketh toward the south.\n\n6. Her lips also were like the honey-comb; her teeth were rows of pearl,\nand her breath was as sweet smelling incense, and myrrh, and cassia.\n\n7. Her eyes were brighter than the dew of heaven, and her hair was like\nthe beams of the moon streaming through the white clouds that are in the\nfirmament of air.\n\n8. And I loved the maiden exceedingly; and my heart burned within me;\nand I became as a dead man.\n\n9. And I wist not what to do, or what would become of me; for the vows\nof the Lord were on me that I could not wed; and I said, Woe is me, for\nI am undone!\n\n10. And I went in unto her, and communed with her of my great love; and\nwhen she had hearkened to my voice, she laughed me to scorn.\n\n11. And I said, Why dost thou laugh me to scorn? Knowest thou not that I\nwould lay down my life for thee? For I love thee so much above all\nthings that are on the earth, that I would even lick the dust from off\nthy feet.\n\n12. And she said, What wouldst thou have me to do?\n\n13. And I looked on my right hand, and on my left, and I communed with\nmy heart.\n\n14. And I perceived that the maid had asked aright, for I knew not what\nI would have her to do; and lo my countenance became abashed.\n\n15. And she laughed at me exceedingly; yea she laughed at my calamity\ntill the tears streamed from her eyes.\n\n16. I said therefore unto myself that I would die, and be gathered unto\nmy fathers; for how could I live to be a scorn and a derision, and to be\nburnt up as with a devouring flame? and I had many thoughts of\nunrighteousness dwelling in me.\n\n17. And she told her father of these matters; and Galli the scribe was\nwroth with me, and said unto me, Why wouldst thou betray my daughter,\nthe child of my age, and the hope of my grey hairs?\n\n18. Is it not better for thee to depart unto thine own country, and to\nthy kindred, than commit this great wickedness?\n\n19. And my spirit was grieved within me; nevertheless I could not\ndepart, for my heart clove to the maid, and I loved her as my own soul.\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n1. And it came to pass that the army of the prince of the land encamped\nin that place;\n\n2. For he was a great prince, and had increased his army; and he had\ncaptains over hundreds, and captains over fifties, and captains over\ntens.\n\n3. And these were clothed in gorgeous apparel, in brocade of gold, and\nin brocade of silver; and they were vain men, for they had the plumage\nof birds upon their heads, and gems of silver, and of gold, and of\nprecious stones, on their breasts; and swords girded on their thighs.\n\n4. And the damsel beheld them, and her heart danced with joy; yea, her\neyes followed them whithersoever they went.\n\n5. And I was more grieved than ever; therefore I counselled her, and\nsaid all manner of evil of the men.\n\n6. But she would not hearken to my reproof, but cast all my counsel\nbehind her back; and she derided me.\n\n7. And it came to pass, in the process of time, that one of the captains\nof fifty came to her, and spoke kind words unto her, even great swelling\nwords of vanity.\n\n8. And she hearkened unto him, and her ears drunk in his burning\nspeeches, even as the ox drinketh in water; and she delighted therein;\nand he looked into her eye, and behold he saw his own image impressed in\nit, as in a glass.\n\n9. And he looked into it many times, and it grew brighter; and every\ntime that he looked into it he saw his own image the more deeply and\nstrongly reflected, until he knew that he lived in her heart.\n\n10. But her image was not in his eye.\n\n11. And I knew this, and was grieved. Therefore I withstood him to his\nface, and rebuked him; yea, and I also cursed him.\n\n12. But the captain of fifty mocked me; he also told the maid, and she\nbecame wroth with me, so that, the two being combined against me, I\ncould do nothing but sit down and weep.\n\n13. And she gave unto him all that she had; yea she gave him until she\nhad no more to give, for she gave unto him herself.\n\n14. And her countenance was changed; her bright eyes retained not their\nwonted brightness; her voice was broken, and her tongue faltered in her\nmouth.\n\n15. But the captain of fifty regarded it not; for he left her and went\nhis way, and he did eat and drink, and made himself merry with wine.\n\n16. And he said, What is a maiden that I should regard her? or for what\nwere the daughters of women formed but for my pleasure?\n\n17. And the prince of the kingdoms of the land sent unto his army, that\nthey should go into a far country to fight against the enemies of their\nlord the king. And the men purposed to go; and the captain of fifty\npurposed to go also.\n\n18. And when the maiden heard of it her heart failed within her, and she\nfell sick, and I feared it would be to death.\n\n19. And I tried to comfort her; and I watched with her day and night,\nand prayed many prayers for her; but she became worse, for her spirit\nwas wounded and cast down.\n\n20. And Galli the scribe was also sorely afflicted, and he mourned\nexceedingly, saying, Alas! what shall I do for my daughter! she who was\nthe hope of my age, and my only comfort here below. Wo is me, for she is\ndying of a lingering disease, and I shall be left childless! Now Galli\nthe scribe knew not what the captain of fifty had done unto her, nor of\nall that she had given unto him.\n\n21. So I went forth unto the host to seek this betrayer of women, and to\nspeak peaceably with him, and to reason with him.\n\n22. But he knew me afar off, and said to his brethren, Lo, here cometh\nthat man of a strange country, let us make him our sport.\n\n23. And they combined against me, and treated me with great indignity;\nfor they bound my hands and put me into the river, and the flood carried\nme away, so that I said in mine heart, lo, I shall be drowned, for there\nis not one to pity or save me.\n\n24. But they took me forth before my breath departed clean away; and\nthey stripped me naked, and tied me to a stake, and scourged me.\n\n25. And afterwards they stoned me out of the camp.\n\n26. And I was very wroth, and went unto the captain of the host, and\nmade my complaint known unto him.\n\n27. And I said, O my lord, hearken unto the voice of thy servant. Behold\none of your captains of fifty came unto the house of Galli the scribe.\n\n28. And the man intreated him kindly, yet hath he betrayed his daughter,\nand refuseth to do her justice; and the maid will die, and her father,\nwho is a good man, will go down to the grave with her.\n\n29. And he answered and said unto me, What have I to do with this\nmatter, or with thee? As a maid treadeth the wine press, so let her\ndrink. It is not meet that I should be troubled with these things.\n\n30. And I went away and wept bitterly, for I could find neither\nconsolation nor redress; and I saw that the wickedness of the men was\nvery great.\n\n31. Then I went and trimmed my beard, and borrowed me a suit of armour;\nand I put an helmet of steel upon mine head, and a breast-plate upon my\nbreast, and I girded on a sword.\n\n32. And I went forth and challenged the captain of fifty to fight with\nme.\n\n33. And I said in mine heart, Lo, I will fight this wicked man, and\novercome him. And I will take his sword from him, and rend his armour\nfrom off his loins.\n\n34. And then will I compel him to do justice to those whom he hath\nwronged, else will I smite off his head.\n\n35. And we met by the side of the river; and he discerned me not through\nmy disguise, for he said unto me, Who art thou, or what have I to say to\nthee?\n\n36. And I said, For the wrong that thou hast done to the house of Galli\nthe scribe have I called thee out to battle.\n\n37. And he said, Thou hast done well. I will chastise thee as thou\ndeservest, that thou mayest learn how to lift up thy hand against the\nservants of our lord the king.\n\n38. So we fought; and his hand was sore against me.\n\n39. For he drove me out of my place, and wounded me, and my hope had\nnearly perished.\n\n40. But I prayed to the Lord for strength. And we fought again; and the\ncombat was very sore that day, and he prevailed not against me.\n\n41. And after the combat had lasted until my breath was spent, and my\narm weary, by the help of the Lord I wounded him in the loins, so that\nmy sword found a passage through his body, and he fell.\n\n42. And I was sore afraid; and fled away, and hid myself; for I trembled\nat the thing I had done, because I perceived that the last case was\nworse than the first.\n\n43. And when the soldiers came to him, he said that Galli the scribe had\nsent out ruffians to slay him.\n\n44. And when these things were told to the captain of the host, he was\nexceedingly wroth, and he sent forth men to destroy the house of Galli\nthe scribe, and to slay him, and take his substance for a prey.\n\n45. And the captain of fifty died that night; and they buried him with\ngreat lamentation, for they wept over him, saying, Alas! our brother!\nfor he hath been cut off before his time.\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n1. And it came to pass, that after I had laid aside my armour, and put\non my pilgrim weeds, that I went forth into the plain, and into the\ncity.\n\n2. And when I heard the words of the captain of the host, and the\ncommand that he had given, I hasted to the house of Galli the scribe,\nand said unto him, Go to, put up all thy money, and thy jewels, and fly\nfor thy life, for behold evil is determined concerning thee.\n\n3. But he would not hearken to my voice; for he said, I have done no man\nwrong.\n\n4. And I intreated him, but prevailed not.\n\n5. Therefore I went unto his daughter, and told her of what I had heard;\nand I said, Rise up, make haste and escape, for the soldiers will abuse\nthee.\n\n6. And she was afraid, and said unto me, Take me, and hide me for a\nshort time, for thy words have never deceived me.\n\n7. And I hid her in a palm tree, and remained with her.\n\n8. And the men who belonged to the captain of fifty, even to him whom I\nslew in battle, came as they were commanded; and they entered into the\npossessions of Galli the scribe, and they took all that he had for a\nprey, and burned his house with fire.\n\n9. And we beheld all from our hiding-place, and were greatly astonished;\nfor we saw Galli the scribe flying through the garden, and the soldiers\npursuing hard after him, with their swords drawn.\n\n10. And when his daughter saw it she shrieked and fainted away; and when\nthe men heard her voice they looked about, and some of them ran into the\narbour, but they found her not, therefore they pursued after Galli the\nscribe.\n\n11. And I trembled sore, for I knew not if we were discovered, neither\ncould I support the maiden in her seat.\n\n12. For she beheld whose men they were that pursued after her father to\nslay him, and she deemed that her captain of fifty had sent out his\nfifty to devour them, yea to destroy, and to slay, and to ravage; and\nthere was no more spirit in her.\n\n13. And I prayed to the Lord my God out from among the branches of the\npalm tree, and he heard my voice.\n\n14. For the spoilers came, and they sought, but they found us not.\n\n15. For their eyes were blinded that they could not see. We beheld their\neyes, and heard the threatenings that proceeded out of their mouths, yet\ncould they not perceive us.\n\n16. And their threatenings were filled with the abominations of\niniquity, for the men were very wicked.\n\n17. And I took her out of the palm tree by night; and I covered her with\nmy sack-cloth gown, and we tried to fly and make our escape, but she\ncould not; therefore my distress was very great.\n\n18. And I carried her to the house of a poor widow in the suburbs of the\ncity, and I concealed her there till her strength should recover.\n\n19. And I went about making many inquiries; and I heard that the\nsoldiers had taken Galli the scribe, and had given him up to be\npersecuted, and tormented, and slain; also that the whole army were\nabroad searching to recover his daughter, to execute vengeance on her.\n\n20. And I was grieved for that I had done, and for bringing evil on\nthose I loved; for I knew that the men of the host spoiled the people,\nand did according to their will.\n\n22. So I borrowed me a pilgrim's robes, and in these I equipped the\nmaiden; and when she was clothed in her flowing sack-cloth gown, with\nher cross, scallop, and shell, behold I myself could not discern her.\n\n22. And we escaped from the city by night, and journeyed toward the\nnorth, and at break of day we came to the fords of the great river,\nwhere we were encountered by three of the soldiers of the guard, who\nwaylaid us.\n\n23. And I said unto them, Whom seek ye? And they said, We be sent out to\nseek the daughter of Galli the scribe, for she hath betrayed one of the\ncaptains into her nets, and hath robbed him, and also caused him to be\ncut off from his men; therefore are we sent out to take her, that she\nmay be delivered into the hands of his men, that they may do to her as\nseemeth good in their eyes.\n\n24. And the maiden trembled, so that the men beheld it; and I turned and\nsaid unto her, Said I not that it was so?\n\n25. And I said furthermore, Sit thee down, my brother, until we converse\nwith these men, for they are good men, and filled with wisdom; and lo,\nhave not I strange things to relate unto them?\n\n26. And the men sat down, and we sat down beside them.\n\n27. And I said, We are pilgrims and strangers, and come from a far\ncountry. And they said, Peace be unto you.\n\n28. And I said, moreover, that it was given unto me to dream dreams, and\nto see visions, and that I had a vision of my head upon my bed, which\nwas of this Galli the scribe of whom they spake.\n\n29. For I saw and beheld that he had put forth his hand on a captain of\nthe servants of my lord the king, and had sent forth his bravadoes, who\nhad wounded him until the sword passed through him, even from the left\nside unto the right. And the men said, Is not this wonderful?\n\n30. And behold I saw the servants of my lord the king enter the\ndwelling of the man, even of the scribe, and take his goods, and him\nthey pursued with the edge of the sword, and took by the vineyard as\nthou goest down towards a river.\n\n31. And they burned his house with fire, so that the flames ascended up\non high; and his daughter who was sick, and concealed in an inner\nchamber, her also did they burn until she was quite consumed.\n\n32. And the men wondered exceedingly; and they bowed down their heads\nand said, Thou hast told unto us strange things. It is even as thou hast\nsaid. Go on your way.\n\n33. And I blessed them; and they returned to tell unto their captains\nthe wonderful things which they had heard.\n\n34. And I fled with the damsel until I came to the sea; and when we had\nfound a ship we went into it, and I brought her to my own country, but\nnot to my kindred, for I placed her in the holy isle near the river of\nthe north.\n\n35. And she mourned night and day for her father, and also for the\ncaptain of fifty, whom she called her husband; for she dreaded that\nsome evil had befallen unto him.\n\n36. For, on the day that he had sworn to her, he had given her a graven\nimage, which she kept hid in her bosom, and she wept over it and kissed\nit.\n\n37. And I was grieved, and rebuked her, but she refused to be comforted;\nand I went and came and brought her of the good things of the land, for\nI loved her as the breath of my nostrils.\n\n38. And when the days of her months were fulfilled, behold she brought\nforth a daughter.\n\n39. And the babe was also beautiful to look upon. And the bosom of the\nmother yearned over her child, and she called her by her father's name,\neven by the name of the captain of fifty.\n\n40. And she kissed her child, and wept over it day and night; but the\nframe and substance of her body were wasted away with perpetual grief,\nand I saw that the child would die.\n\n41. And, when I saw the countenance that was once beautiful as the\nmorning bathed in tears, as her babe lay at a breast in which there was\nno nourishment, I was exceedingly sorry even unto death.\n\n42. And lo, I took the child and nourished it; yea I fed it with bread\nand with wine, with butter also, and with honey and milk from the beasts\nof the field; and the child was restored.\n\n43. But the mother decayed like a flower that is cut down; for the winds\nof grief had passed over her, and her spirit was consumed. The summer\ncame, and all the herbs of the field were renewed, but the fairest\nflower of the land was bending down to meet the clay.\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n1. And it came also to pass that as soon as I found myself in a land of\nsafety, I wrote many letters to Galli the scribe; for I said,\nPeradventure he may escape out of their hands.\n\n2. I wrote also to the chief of our order, giving account of the whole\nmatter, and attesting the innocence of Galli the scribe.\n\n3. But no answer came to me, therefore was I sore distressed; for I\nsaid, If the mother and babe both perish, what shall become of me?\n\n4. And one day as I sat with the babe on my knee, I beheld, and, lo, the\neyes of the mother were fixed mournfully on her babe, and she lifted\nthem to my face, and looked at her babe again.\n\n5. And I could not contain myself; so I lifted up my voice and wept\nbitterly.\n\n6. But she smiled, and said, Wherefore shouldst thou weep? Behold, am\nnot I in the hand of the Lord? And my child, the daughter of my youth,\nand of my love, thou also art in the hands of thy Maker.\n\n7. May he lead thee, and guide thee, and keep thee from the snares in\nwhich thy mother hath fallen.\n\n8. Though thou hast lost thy father, as I also have lost mine, yet hast\nthou a Father in Heaven who will not forsake thee. Neither shalt thou\naltogether lack a father's care here below.\n\n9. And she said to me, Is it not even so?\n\n10. And I could not answer her, for I wept aloud; yea, I even wept until\nthe child grew affrighted, and wept also.\n\n11. And the mother took the graven image from her neck, and from her\nbosom; and she kissed it, and hung it round the neck of her babe.\n\n12. And she said, It is the image and likeness of thy father, wear it,\nmy child, till the day of thy death.\n\n13. Peradventure thou mayest fall among his people, and among his\nkindred, for they were men of honour and renown.\n\n14. And she kissed her child, and said, Now shall I be taken from thee,\nand go to my grave, and they will bury me, my babe, among strangers, and\nthere is none of my people to shed a tear over me.\n\n15. And we all wept abundantly, and shed many tears.\n\n16. And while we yet cried aloud, lifting up our voices, behold one\nentered in, and said, Peace be with you!\n\n17. And I discerned him not, for mine eyes flowed like two fountains of\nwater.\n\n18. But the woman cried out, and sprang from her couch, and she clasped\nher arms around his neck, and said, My father! my father!\n\n19. And behold it was Galli the scribe.\n\n20. And the woman said, Now hath my child found a father indeed.\n\n21. And she said, Blessed and happy mayest thou be, my daughter, for I\nbring thee joyful tidings, and blessed be this man who hath befriended\nand saved thee. His intercession hath also saved the life of thy father;\nall that was mine hath been restored to me, yea, and more also.\n\n22. And I will give all unto thee and to thy child after thee, and thou\nshalt have riches and honours in thy own country, and among thy own\npeople.\n\n23. But his daughter answered him not, for the words died on her tongue;\nbut she looked in his face and smiled, and then she looked at her babe\nas it lay on my knee.\n\n24. And Galli the scribe was sore amazed, and said, What aileth thee, my\ndaughter? and why answerest thou not to the words of thy father?\n\n25. And he held her in his arms, and her hands were clasped around his\nneck that they would not be loosed.\n\n26. And behold there was a sound like a small voice issued from her\nmouth, and the light of her eyes became dim, and her head fell back over\nthe arm of her father.\n\n27. And her gentle spirit departed away unto him that gave it; for she\nspoke no more, neither breathed she any more.\n\n28. And we buried her in the isle of the holy place, and mourned for her\nmany days.\n\n29. And I besought of Galli the scribe that he would leave the child\nwith me, that I might bring her up in our convent, and breed her in the\nways of purity and truth.\n\n30. But he refused, and said, I cannot part with the child of my only\ndaughter; she shall go with me and be the heiress of all that I possess.\n\n31. And after I had blessed him, he departed with the little maid to go\nto his own land, and I saw them no more.\n\n32. For after many years had elapsed, I went again into the country\nbeyond the river, and I visited the house of Galli the scribe.\n\n33. But behold he had never returned to that place; and the people of\nthe land reported unto me, that he fell among thieves, and was slain,\nand the babe was slain with him, or led into captivity.\n\n34. The ways of heaven are unsearchable, and the hand of man often\nworketh out its decrees. But for the misfortunes that befel the house of\nGalli the scribe will I go mourning till the day of my death.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n    Beef steaks and bacon hams\n      I can eat as lang's I'm able,\n    Cutlets, chops, and mutton pies;\n      Pork's the king o' a' the table!\n\n        _Fragment of an old Bachanalian Song._\n\n\n\"It has made my heart very sair that tale,\" said Charlie; \"I wish you\nhadna tauld it.\"\n\n\"I think it is nae tale ata',\" said Tam Craik: \"If I coudna hae tauld a\nbetter tale than that, I wad never hae begun. I could now wager sax\nmerks, and sax brass mowdiworts to boot, that the Gospel-friar is the\nman that shall be the first to thole the knife. And what for should he\nno? He'll make the best mart amang us.\"\n\n\"I differ widely from you,\" said the poet, \"with regard to the merits of\nthe tale. I love the friar for telling it; and I love him ten times\nbetter for the part he took in the transaction. How I do admire the love\nthat has no selfish flaw, no moiety of sense to prompt its aberrations!\nShould I ever get free from this vile pinnacle,--this grave in\naltitude,--I'll search the world for that dear child, and find her too,\nif in the world she be.\"\n\n\"Alas! I have searched, and searched in vain,\" answered the friar. \"It\nwas so long before I knew of the mishap of my friend, and my darling\nchild, that all memory of the transaction was lost. I would travel from\nsea to sea, and from the river to the ends of the earth, to find out\nthat dear, that beloved maiden; and could I find her I would yet put her\nin possession of the inheritance of her father. For I have instructed\nthe heads of our order, and they are preserving it in their own hands as\nthe patrimony of the orphan and the father-less.\"\n\nDuring the time of the friar's narrative, Delany had been sitting close\nby his knee in fixed and earnest attention; and at this time there\nchancing to be a pause in the conversation, she looked wistfully about,\nas if afraid she was going to commit herself by telling a lie. But there\nwas such a beam of intelligence playing over her lovely countenance,\nthat all the party fixed their eyes on her, as if watching with the\ndeepest interest what she was going to say.\n\n\"I have a confused dream of having heard something of this story\nbefore,\" said she: \"but subsequent events had quite obliterated the\ntraces of it from my memory, till this narrative renewed them: I think I\ncan give you some intelligence of this lost maiden. You said she was\ncalled by her father's name. Do you recollect what that father of her's\nwas called?\"\n\n\"Ay, that will I never forget while memory retains her seat in this\nrepentant bosom,\" said the friar. \"His name was Captain Jacques\nDe-la-Veny.\"\n\n\"The very same,\" said the maid. \"Then do you know ought of this? Or did\nyou ever see it before?\"--and she took a small miniature from her bosom,\nholding it near to the friar's eye.\n\n\"By the blessed stars of heaven, and the Holy Virgin that rules above\nthem!\" exclaimed the friar; \"it is the graven image of the captain of\nfifty whom I slew in battle. I saw it placed in thy bosom, yea I held\nthee on my knee till that chain of gold was locked about thy neck never\nto be removed. Thou art indeed the daughter of the fairest and the\ncomeliest among women,--of her whom I loved far above my own life, and\nfor whom I travailled in pain; yea, thou art the child that I nursed and\nheld on my knee, and all the inheritance of thy fathers is thine.\nBlessed be thou, my daughter! and blessed be they who have preserved\nthee! Come to my bosom my child, my beloved, my fair one, that I may\nfall on thy neck, and bless thee, and weep over thee; for my soul\nrejoiceth that I have found thee.\"\n\nThe poet could stand it no longer; he threw himself at the maiden's\nfeet, and embraced them, and wept aloud. Charlie was busied in drawing\npictures of swords and cross-bows on the floor with the brazen end of\nhis sheathe, and always giving a loud sob as if his heart would burst.\nEven Master Michael Scott once drew the back of his hand across his\neyes, though no one believed it was ought of sympathy that affected\nhim.\n\n\"The abbreviation of the name was so natural in the mouths of the people\nof this land,\" said the friar, \"that I wonder I should never have\nrecognised it, nor yet on the face of my dear child the features of her\nmother. Hard has been thy lot, and the lot of thy fathers, but blessings\nmay yet remain in store for thee.\"\n\n\"I dinna see where they're to come frae,\" said Charlie, sighing louder\nthan ever. \"It wad be the hardest thing I ever kend, if ane sae young,\nsae bonnie, and sae good, after a' that she has borne, should be prickit\nup atween the yird and the heaven here, to be hungered to dead, and then\neaten wi' the corbies.\"\n\n\"Life's sweet to us a',\" said Gibbie: \"She wad be as little missed as\nony that's here, if she _should_ be starved to death wi' hunger.\"\n\n\"She shall _not_ be starved to death wi' hunger;\" cried Charlie, in a\ntone of valiant desperation. \"Na, na; afore she die o' hunger after a'\nshe has come through, I'll rather cut a limb off my ain body and feed\nher wi't. An Corbie be spared, I can e'en ride by the warden's side wi'\na timmer ane.\"\n\n\"God bless you, for a kind heart,\" cried the poet.\n\n\"Gin I thought I were to win her mysel,\" said Tam, \"and win away wi'\nlife out o' this luckless place, I wad do a good deal for her; but if I\ntrowed ony o' you were to get her frae me--I'll no tell you how I feel.\"\n\n\"Just as a hungry man should feel,\" said Gibbie; \"and as ane wha has\nstarvation afore his een maun feel. It is e'en a sair trial, and often\nbrings me a-mind o' the story of Marion Gib's callant.\"\n\nMaster Michael Scott, thinking that, in right of seniority, the Laird\nwas now about to begin his trial story for life or death, made a signal\nwith his hand for his guests to compose themselves, which they did with\none consent; while Gibbie, pleased with the mark of deference shown to\nhim, went on:--\n\n\nLaird of Peatstacknowe's Tale.\n\nThere wad aiblins nane o' you ken Marion. She lived i' the Dod-Shiel;\nand had a callant to the lang piper, him that Squire Ridley's man beat\nat the Peel-hill meeting. Weel, you see, he was a gilliegaupy of a\ncallant, gayan like the dad o' him; for Marion said he wad hae eaten a\nhorse ahint the saddle; and as her shieling wasna unco weel stored o'\nmeat, she had ill getting him mainteened; till at the lang and the last\nit just came to this pass, that whenever Jock was i' the house, it was a\nconstant battle atween Marion and him. Jock fought to be at meat, and\nMarion to keep him frae it, and mony hard clouts and claws there past.\nThey wad hae foughten about a haggis, or a new kirning o' butter, for a\nhale hour, and the battle generally endit in Jock's getting a', or a\ngood shareo' ilka thing. (I wish we had sic things here, even though we\nhad to fight for them!) When he had fairly gained the possession, by\nwhatever means, he feasted with the greatest satisfaction, licking his\nlarge ruddy lips, and looking all about him with eyes of the utmost\nbenevolence. Marion railed all the while that the poor lad was enjoying\nhimself, without any mercy and restraint, and there wasna a vile name\nunder the sun that had ony signification of a glutton in it, that she\ndidna ca' him by. Jock took the bite wi' the buffet;--he heard a' the\nill names, and munched away. Oh, how his heart did rejoice o'er a fat\nlunch o' beef, a good haggis, or even a cog o' milk brose! Poor fellow!\nsuch things were his joy and delight. So he snapped them up, and in two\nor three hours after he was as ready for another battle as ever.\n\nThis was a terrible life to lead. Times grew aye the langer the waur;\nand Marion was obliged to hire poor Jock to Goodman Niddery, to herd his\nkye and his pet sheep. Jock had nae thoughts at a' o' ganging to sic a\njob at first; but Marion tauld him ilka day o' the fat beef, the huge\nkebbucks, and the parridge sae thick that a horn-spoon wadna delve into\nthem, till he grew impatient for the term day. That day came at length,\nand Marion went away hame wi' her son to introduce him. The road was\ngayan lang, and Jock's crappin began to craw. He speered a hunder times\nabout the meat at Goodman Niddery's house, and every answer that Marion\ngae was better than the last, till Jock believed he was gaun home to a\ncontinual feast. It was a delightful thought, for the craving appetite\nwithin him was come to a great height. They reached the place, and went\ninto the kitchen. Jock's een were instantly on the look-out; but they\ndidna need to range far. Above the fire there hung two sides of bacon\nmore than three inches deep of fat, besides many other meaner objects:\nThe hind legs of bullocks, sheep, and deer, were also there; but these\nwere withered, black, and sapless in appearance. Jock thought the very\nsubstance was dried out o' them. But the bacon! How it did make Jock\nsmack his lips! It was so juicy that even the brown bristly skin on the\noutside of it was all standing thick o' eenbright beaming drops like\nmorning dew. Jock was established at Goodman Niddery's; he would not\nhave flitted again and left these two sides of bacon hanging there for\nan estate. Marion perceived well where the sum of his desires was fixed,\nand trembled for fear of an instant attack: Well might she; for Jock had\na large dirk or sheathed knife (a very useful weapon) that he wore, and\nthat he took twice out of its place, looked at its edge, and then at the\nenormous bacon ham, which was more than three inches deep of solid fat,\nwith the rich drops of juice standing upon the skin. Jock drew his knife\non his sandal, then on the edge of a wooden table that stood beside him,\nexamined the weapon's edge again, and again fixed his green eyes on the\nbacon. \"What do the people mean,\" thought he to himself, \"that they do\nnot instantly slice down a portion of that glorious meat, and fry it on\nthe coals? Would they but give me orders to do it,--would they even give\nme the least hint, how slashingly I would obey!\"\n\nNone of them had the good sense to give Jock ony sic orders. He was two\nor three times on the very point of helping himself, and at last got up\non his feet, it was believed, for the sole purpose of making an attack\non the bacon ham, when, behold, in came Goodman Niddery.\n\n\"There's your master, sirrah!\" whispered Marion, \"haste ye and whup aff\nyour bonnet.\"\n\nJock looked at him. There was something very severe and forbidding in\nhis countenance; so Jock's courage failed him, and he even took aff his\nbonnet, and sat down with that in his one hand and the drawn knife in\nthe other. Marion's heart was greatly relieved, and she now ventured on\na little conversation:\n\n\"I hae brought you hame my lad, Goodman, and I hope he'll be a good\nservant to you.\"\n\n\"I coudna say, Marion: Gin he be as gude as you ca'ed him, he'll do. I\nthink he looks like ane that winna be behind at his bicker.\"\n\n\"Ay, weel I wat, Goodman, and that's true; and I wadna wish it were\notherwise. Slaw at the meat, slaw at the wark, ye ken.\"\n\n\"That _is_ a good hint o' my mother's!\" thinks Jock to himsel: \"What\nthough I should show the auld niggard a sample? The folk o' this house\nsurely hae nae common sense.\"\n\nThe dinner was now, however, set down on the kitchen-table. The goodman\nsat at the head, the servants in a row on each side, and Jock and his\nmother at the foot. The goodwife stood behind her servants, and gave all\ntheir portions. The dinner that day consisted of broad bannocks, as hard\nas horn, a pail of thin sour milk, called whig, and a portion of a large\nkebbuck positively as dry as wood. Jock was exceedingly dissatisfied,\nand could not but admire the utter stupidity of the people, and their\ntotal want of all proper distinction. He thought it wonderful that\nrational creatures should not know what was good for them. He munched,\nand munched, and gnawed at the hard bread and cheese, till his jaws were\nsore; but he never once looked at the food before him; but leaning his\ncheek on his hand to rest his wearied grinders somewhat at every bite he\ntook, and every splash of the sour shilpy milk that he lapped in, he\nlifted his eyes to the fat bacon ham with the juice standing on it in\nclear bells.\n\nMarion wished herself fairly out of the house, for she perceived there\nwould be an outbreak; and to prepare the good people for whatever might\nhappen, she said before going away,--\"Now, goodwife, my callant's banes\nare green, and he's a fast growing twig; I want to ken if he will get\nplenty o' meat here.\"\n\n\"I winna answer for that, Marion;--he shall fare as the lave fare; but\nhe's may-be no very easily served. There are some misleared servants wha\nthink they never get enough.\"\n\n\"Tell me this thing, then, goodwife; will he see enough?\"\n\n\"Ay; I shall answer for that part o't.\"\n\n\"Then I shall answer for the rest, goodwife.\"\n\nJock had by this time given up contending with the timber cheese, and\nthe blue sour milk, and, taking a lug of a bannock in his hand, the\nsize of a shoe sole, he went away and sat down at the fire-side, where\nhe had a full view of the bacon ham, three inches thick of fat, with the\ndew standing on its brown skin.\n\nThe withered bread swallowed rather the better of this delicious sight;\nso Jock chewed and looked, and looked and chewed, till his mother\nentered into the security mentioned. \"That is a capital hint,\" thought\nJock; \"I shall verify my good mother's cautionry, for I can stand this\nnae langer.\" He sprang up on a seat, sliced off a large flitch of bacon,\nand had it on the coals before one had time to pronounce a word; and\nthen turning his back to it, and his face to the company, he stood with\nhis drawn dirk quite determined to defend his prey.\n\nThe goodwife spoke first up. \"Gudeness have a care o' us! see to the\nmenseless tike!\" cried she; \"I declare the creature has na the breeding\no' a whalp!\"\n\nJock was well used to such kind of epithets; so he bore this and some\nmore with the utmost suavity, still, however, keeping his ground.\n\nGoodman Niddery grinned, and his hands shook with anger, as if struck\nwith a palsy; but for some reason or other he did not interfere. The\nservants were like to burst with laughter; and Jock kept the goodwife at\nbay with his drawn knife, till his slice was roasted; and then, laying\nit flat on his dry piece of bread, he walked out to the field to enjoy\nit more at leisure. Marion went away home; and the goodman and goodwife\nboth determined to be revenged on Jock, and to make him pay dear for his\naudacity.\n\nJock gave several long looks after Marion as she vanished on Kettlemoor,\nbut he had left no kind of meat in her shieling when he came away, else\nit was likely he would have followed his mother home again. He was still\nsmacking his lips after his rich repast, and he had seen too much good\nstuff about the house of his new master to leave it at once; so he was\neven fain to bid Marion good-b'ye in his heart, wipe the filial tear\nfrom his eye, poor man, and try to reconcile himself to his new\nsituation.\n\n\"Do you carry aye that lang gully knife about wi' you, master cow-herd,\nor how do they ca' ye?\" said his master, when they next met after the\nadventure of the bacon.\n\n\"I hae aye carried it yet,\" said Jock, with great innocence; \"and a gay\ngude whittle it is.\"\n\n\"Ye maun gie that up,\" said Niddery; \"we dinna suffer chaps like you to\ncarry sic weapons about our house.\"\n\nJock fixed his green eyes on his master's face. He could hardly believe\nhim to be serious; still there was something in his look he did not\nlike; so he put his knife deeper into his pocket, drew one step back,\nand, putting his under row of teeth in front of those above, waited the\nissue of such an unreasonable demand.\n\n\"Come, come; give it up I say. Give it to me; I'll dispose of it for\nyou.\"\n\n\"I'll see you at the bottom o' the place my mother speaks about whiles,\"\nthought Jock to himself, afore I gi'e my gully either to you or ony\nthat belangs to you.\" He still kept his former position, however, and\nthe same kind of look at his master's face, only his een grew rather\ngreener.\n\n\"Won't you give it up, you stubborn thief? Then I will take it, and give\nyou a good drubbing into the bargain.\"\n\nWhen Jock heard this, he pulled out his knife. \"That is a good lad to do\nas you are bidden,\" said his master. But Jock, instead of delivering up\nhis knife, drew it from the sheathe, which he returned to his pocket.\n\"Now I sal only say this,\" said he; \"the first man that tries to take my\nain knife frae me--he may do it--but he shall get the length o't in his\nmonyplies first.\" So saying, he drew back his hand with a sudden jerk.\n\nGoodman Niddery gave such a start that he actually leaped off the\nground, and holding up both his hands, exclaimed, \"What a savage we have\ngot here! what a satan!\" And without speaking another word he ran away\nto the house, and left Jock standing with his drawn knife in his hand.\n\nThe goodman's stomach burned with revenge against Jock; so that night\nhe sent him supperless to bed, out of requital for the affair of the fat\nbacon; and next day the poor boy was set down to a very scanty\nbreakfast, which was not fair. His eye turning invariably to one\ndelicious object, the goodman perceived well what was passing in his\nheart; and, on some pretence, first sent away all the servants and then\nthe goodwife. He next rose up himself, with his staff in his hand, and,\ngoing slowly away into the little parlour, said, as he went through the\nkitchen, \"What can be become o' a' the fo'k?\" and with that entered the\ndark door that opened in a corner. He made as though he had shut the\ndoor, but he turned about within it and peeped back.\n\nThe moment that he vanished was the watch-word for Jock; he sprang from\nhis seat at the bottom of the table, and, mounting a form, began to\nwhang away at the bacon ham. Some invidious bone, or hard object of some\nsort, coming unfortunately in contact with the edge of his knife, his\nprogress was greatly obstructed; and though he cut and sawed with all\nhis might, before he succeeded in separating a piece of about two pounds\nweight from the main body, his master had rushed on him from his\nconcealment, and, by one blow of his staff, laid him flat on the floor.\nThe stroke was a sore one, for it was given with extreme good will, and\ndeprived Jock of sensibility for the time being. He and his form both\ncame down with a great rumble, but the knife remained buried in the fat\nbacon ham; and the inveterate goodman was not satisfied with felling the\npoor lad, but kicked him, and laid on him with his stick after he was\ndown. The goodwife at length came running, and put a stop to this\ncruelty; and fearing the boy was murdered, and that they would be hanged\nfor it, she got assistance, and soon brought Jock again to himself.\n\nJock had been accustomed to fight for his meat, and, in some measure\nlaid his account with it, so that, on the whole, he took his broken head\nas little to heart as could have been expected,--certainly less than any\nother boy of the same age would have done. It was only a little more\nrough than he had been prepared to look for; but had he succeeded in his\nenterprise, he would not have been ill content. The goodwife and her\nmaids had laid him on a kitchen bed and bathed his temples; and on\nrecovering from stupefaction, the first thing he did was to examine his\npockets to see if he had his gully. Alak! there was nothing but the\nempty sheathe. Then he _did_ lose the field, and fell a blubbering and\ncrying. The goodwife thought he was ill, and tried to sooth him by\ngiving him some meat. He took the meat of course, but his heart was\ninconsolable; till, just when busy with his morsel, his eye chanced to\ntravel to the old place as if by instinct, and there he beheld the haft\nof his valued knife sticking in the bacon ham, its blade being buried\ndeep in sappy treasures. He sprang over the bed, and traversing the\nfloor with staggering steps, mounted a form, and stretched forth his\nhand to possess himself again of his gully.\n\n\"Aih! Gudeness have a care o' us,\" cried the goodwife; \"saw ever ony\nbody the like o' that? The creature's bacon mad! Goodman! goodman, come\nhere!\"\n\nJock, however, extricated his knife and fled, though he could scarcely\nwell walk. Some of the maids averred that he at the same time slid a\ncorner of the ham into his pocket; but it is probable they belied him,\nfor Jock had been munching in the bed but the moment before.\n\nHe then went out to his cows, weak as he was. He had six cows, some\nmischievous calves, and ten sheep to herd; and he determined to take\ngood care of these, as also, now that he had got his knife again, not to\nwant his share of the good things about the house, of which he saw there\nwas abundance. However, several days came and went, and Jock was so\nclosely watched by his master and mistress all the time he was in the\nhouse, that he could get nothing but his own scanty portion. What was\nmore, Jock was obliged every day to drive his charge far a-field, and\nremain with them from morn till evening. He got a few porridge in the\nmorning, and a hard bannock and a bottle of sour milk to carry along\nwith him for his dinner. This miserable meal was often despatched before\neleven o'clock, so that poor Jock had to spend the rest of the day in\nfasting, and contriving grand methods of obtaining some good meat in\nfuture.\n\nThere was one thing very teasing: He had a small shieling, which some\nformer herd had built, and plenty of sticks to burn for the gathering or\ncutting. He had thus a fire every day, without any thing to roast on it.\nJock sat over it often in the most profound contemplation, thinking how\ndelightfully a slice of bacon would fry on it,--how he would lay the\nslice on his hard bannock, and how the juice would ooze out of it! Never\nwas there a man who had richer prospects than Jock had: still his\nhappiness lay only in perspective. But experience teaches man wisdom,\nand wisdom points out to him many expedients.\n\nAmong Jock's fat sheep there was one fat ewe lamb, the flower of the\nflock, which the goodwife and the goodman both loved and valued above\nall the rest. She was as beautiful and playful as innocence itself, and,\nwithal, _as fat as she could lie in her skin_. There was one rueful day,\nand a hungry one, that Jock had sat long over his little fire of sticks,\npondering on the joys of fat flesh. He went out to turn his mischievous\ncalves, whose nebs were never out of an ill deed, and at that time they\nhad strayed into the middle of a corn field. As bad luck would have it,\nby the way he perceived this dawted ewe lamb lying asleep in the sun;\nand, out of mere frolic, as any other boy would have done, he flew on\nabove her and tried if he could hold her down. After hard struggling he\nmastered her, took her between his feet, stroked her snowy fleece and\nsoft downy cheek, and ever, as he patted her, repeated these words, \"O\nbut ye be a bonny beast!\"\n\nThe lamb, however, was not much at her ease; she struggled a little now\nand then, but finding that it availed not, she gave it over; and seeing\nher comrades feeding near her, she uttered some piteous bleats. They\ncould afford her no assistance, but they answered her in the same\ntremulous key. After patting her a good while, Jock began to handle her\nbreast and ribs, and found that she was in good earnest _as fat as\npork_. This was a ticklish experiment for the innocent lamb. Jock was\nseized with certain inward longings and yearnings that would not be\nrepressed. He hesitated long, long, and sometimes his pity awoke,--but\nthere was another natural feeling that proved the stronger of the two;\nso Jock at length took out his long knife and unsheathed it. Next he\nopened the fleece on the lamb's throat till its bonny white skin was\nlaid bare, and not a hair of wool to intervene between it and the point\nof his knife. He was again seized with deep remorse, as he contemplated\nthe lamb's harmless and helpless look; so he wept aloud, and tried to\nput his knife again into its sheathe, but he could not.\n\nTo make a long tale short, Jock took away the lamb's life, and that not\nin the most gentle or experienced way. She made no resistance, and only\nuttered one bleat. \"Poor beast!\" said Jock; \"I dare-say ye like this\nvery ill, but I canna help it. Ye are suffering for a' your bits o' ill\ndone deeds now.\"\n\nThe day of full fruition and happiness for Jock was now arrived. Before\nevening he had roasted and eaten the kidneys, and almost the whole of\nthe draught or pluck. His heart rejoiced within him, for never was there\nmore delicious food. But the worst of it was, that the devils of calves\nwere going all the while in the middle of a corn field, which his master\nsaw from the house, and sent one running all the way to turn them. The\nman had also orders to \"waken the dirty blackguard callant if he was\nsleeping, and gie him his licks.\"\n\nJock was otherwise employed; but, as luck would have it, the man did not\ncome into his hut, nor discover his heinous crime; for Jock met him\namong the corn, and took a drubbing with all proper decorum.\n\nBut dangers and suspicions encompassed poor Jock now on every side. He\nsat down to supper at the bottom of the board with the rest of the\nservants, but he could not eat a single morsel. His eyes were not fixed\non the bacon ham as usual, and moreover they had quite lost that sharp\ngreen gleam for which they were so remarkable. These were circumstances\nnot to be overlooked by the sharp eyes of his master and mistress.\n\n\"What's the matter wi' the bit dirty callant the night?\" said the\nlatter. \"What ails you, sirrah, that you hae nae ta'en your supper? Are\nyou weel eneugh?\"\n\nJock wasna ill, he said; but he could not enter into particulars about\nthe matter any farther. The goodman said, he feared the blade had been\nstealing, for he did not kythe like ane that had been fasting a' day;\nbut after the goodwife and he had examined the hams, kebbucks, beef\nbarrel, meal girnel, and every place about the house, they could discern\nnothing amissing, and gave up farther search, but not suspicion.\n\nJock trembled lest the fat lamb might be missed in the morning when he\ndrove out his flock, but it was never remarked that the lamb was\na-wanting. He took very little breakfast, but drove his kine and sheep,\nand the devils of calves, away to the far field, and hasted to his wee\nhousie. He borrowed a coal every day from a poor woman, who lived in a\ncot at the road side, to kindle his fire, and that day she noticed what\nnone else had done, that his coat was all sparked over with blood, and\nasked him of the reason. Jock was rather startled by the query, and gave\nher a very suspicious look, but no other answer.\n\n\"I fear ye hae been battling wi' some o' your neighbours,\" said she.\n\nThis was a great relief for Jock's heart. \"Ay, just that,\" said he, and\nwent away with his coal.\n\nWhat a day of feasting Jock had! He sliced and roasted, and roasted and\nate till he could hardly walk. Once when the calves were going into a\nmischief, which they were never out of, he tried to run, but he could\nnot run a foot; so he was obliged to lie down and roll himself on the\nground, take a sleep, and then proceed to work again.\n\nThere was nutrition in the very steams that issued from Jock's hut; the\nwinds that blew over it carried health and savoury delight over a great\nextent of country. A poor hungry boy that herded a few lean cows on an\nadjoining farm, chancing to come into the track of this delicious\nbreeze, became at once like a statue. He durst not move a step for fear\nof losing the delicious scent; and there he stood with his one foot\nbefore the other, his chin on his right shoulder, his eyes shut and his\nmouth open, his nose being pointed straight to Jock's wee housie. The\nbreeze still grew richer, till at last it led him as straight as there\nhad been a hook in his nose to Jock's shieling; so he popped in, and\nfound Jock at the sublime employment of cooking and eating. The boy\ngaped and stared at the mangled body of the lamb, and at the rich repast\nthat was going on; but he was a very ignorant and stupid boy, and could\nnot comprehend any thing; so Jock fed him with a good fat piece well\nroasted, and let him go again to his lean cows.\n\nJock looked very plump and thriving-like that night; his appearance was\nquite sleek, somewhat resembling that of a young voluptuary; and, to\nlull suspicion, he tried to take some supper, but not one bite or soap\nwas he able to swallow. The goodwife, having by that time satisfied\nherself that nothing was stolen, became concerned about Jock, and wanted\nhim to swallow some physic, which he peremptorily refused to do.\n\n\"How can the puir thing tak ony meat?\" said she. \"He's a' swalled i' the\nbelly. Indeed I rather suspect that he's swalled o'er the hale body.\"\n\nThe next morning, as Jock took out his drove, the goodman was standing\nat the road side to look at them. Jock's heart grew cold, as well it\nmight, when the goodman called out to him, \"Callant, what hae you made\no' the gude lamb?\"\n\n\"Is she no there?\" said Jock, after a long pause, for he was so much\nastounded that he could not speak at the first.\n\n\"Is she no there!\" cried the goodman again in great wrath, imitating\nJock's voice; \"If ye binna blind, ye may see that. But I can tell you,\nmy man, gin ye hae letten ought happen to that lamb, ye had better never\nhae been born.\"\n\n\"What can be comed o' the beast?\" said Jock; \"I had better look the\nhouse, she's may be stayed in by herself.\"\n\nJock didna wait for an order, but, glad to be a little farther off from\nhis master, he ran back and looked the fold and sheep-house, and every\nnettle bush around them, as he had been looking for a lost knife.\n\n\"I can see naething o' her,\" said he, as he came slounging back, hanging\nhis head, and keeping aloof from the goodman, who still carried his long\npike staff in his hand.\n\n\"But I'll mak you see her, and find her baith, hang-dog,\" said he; \"or\ndeil be in my fingers an I dinna twist your neck about. Are you sure you\nhad her yestreen?\"\n\nO yes! Jock was sure he had her yestreen. The women were examined if\nthey had observed her as they milked the cows. They could not tell. None\nof them had seen her; but they could not say she was not there. All was\nin commotion about the steading, for the loss of the dawted pet lamb,\nwhich was a favourite with every one of the family.\n\nJock drove his cattle and nine sheep to the field--roasted a good collop\nor two of his concealed treasure, and snapped them up, but found that\nthey did not relish so well as formerly; for now that his strong\nappetite for fat flesh was somewhat allayed, yea even fed to loathing,\nhe wished the lamb alive again: He began, moreover, to be in great\nbodily fear; and to provide against the probability of any discovery\nbeing made, he lifted the mangled remains of his prey, and conveyed them\ninto an adjoining wood, where he covered them carefully up with withered\nleaves, and laid thorns above them, \"Now!\" said Jock, as he left the\nthicket, \"let them find that out wha can.\"\n\nThe goodman went to all the herds around enquiring after his lamb, but\ncould hear no intelligence of her till he came to the cottage of poor\nBessie, the old woman that had furnished Jock with a coal every day.\nWhen he put the question to her, the rock and the lint fell out of\nBessie's hand, and she sat a while quite motionless.\n\n\"What war ye saying, goodman? War ye saying ye had lost your bonnie pet\nlamb?\"\n\n\"Even sae, Bessie.\"\n\n\"Then, goodman, I fear you will never see her living again. What kind o'\ncallant is that ye hae gotten? He's rather a suspicious looking chap. I\ntentit his claes a' spairged wi' blude the tither day, and baith this\nand some days bygane he has brought in his dinner to me, saying that he\ndought nae eat it.\"\n\nGoodman Niddery could make no answer to this, but sat for a while\ngrumphing and groaning as some late events passed over his mind;\nparticularly how Jock's belly was swollen, and how he could not take any\nsupper. But yet the idea that the boy had killed his favourite, and\neaten her, was hardly admissible: the deed was so atrocious he could not\nconceive any human being capable of it, strong as circumstances were\nagainst his carnivorous herd. He went away with hurried and impatient\nsteps to Jock's wee house, his old colley dog trotting before\nhim, and his long pike-staff in his hand. Jock eyed him at a distance,\nand kept out of his path, pretended to be engaged in turning the calves\nto a right pasture, and running and threshing them with a long goad; for\nthough they were not in any mischief then, he knew that they would soon\nbe in some.\n\nThe goodman no sooner set his nose within Jock's shieling than he was\nconvinced some horrid deed had been done. It smelled like a cook's\nlarder; and, moreover, his old dog, who had a very good scent, was\nscraping among the ashes, and picking up fragments of something which he\nseemed very much to enjoy. Jock did not know what to do when he saw how\nmatters stood, yet he still had hopes that nothing would appear to\ncriminate him. The worst thing that he saw was the stupid hungered boy\non the adjoining farm coming wading through the corn. He had left his\ndirty lean kine picking up the very roots of the grass, and had come\nsnouking away in hopes of getting another fat bit for his impoverished\nstomach. But, when he saw Goodman Niddery come out of the cot with\nimpassioned strides, he turned and ran through the strong corn with his\nwhole might, always jumping up as he proceeded.\n\nThe goodman called angrily on his old dog to come after him, but he\nwould not come, for he was working with his nose and fore feet among\nJock's perfumed ashes with great industry; so the goodman turned back\ninto the house, and hit him over the back with his long pike-staff,\nwhich made him glad to give over, and come out about his business; and\naway the two went to reconnoitre further.\n\nAs soon as the old dog was fairly a-field again, he took up the very\ntrack by which Jock had carried the carcase that morning, and went as\nstraight as a line to the hidden treasure in the thicket. The goodman\ntook off the thorns, and removed the leaves, and there found all that\nremained of his favourite and beautiful pet lamb. Her throat was all cut\nand mangled, her mouth open, and her tongue hanging out, and about one\nhalf of her whole body a-wanting. The goodman shed tears of grief, and\nwept and growled with rage over the mangled form, and forthwith resolved\n(which was hardly commendable) to seize Jock, and bring him to that very\nspot and cut his throat.\n\nJock might have escaped with perfect safety had he had the sense or\nforesight to have run off as soon as he saw his master enter the wood;\nbut there seems to be an infatuation that directs the actions of some\nmen. Jock did not fly, but went about and about, turning his kine one\nwhile, his nine sheep another, and always between hands winning a pelt\nat one of the ill-conditioned calves, till his incensed master returned\nfrom the fatal discovery, and came up to him. There was one excuse for\nhim, he was not sure if the carcase had been found, for he could not see\nfor the wood whether or not his master went to the very place, and he\nnever thought of the sagacity of the dog.\n\nWhen Goodman Niddery first left the wood, he was half running, and his\nknees were plaiting under him with the anticipation of horrid revenge.\nJock did not much like his gait; so he kept always the herd of cows, and\nthe sheep too, betwixt himself and this half-running master of his. But\nthe goodman was too cunning for poor Jock; he changed his step into a\nvery slow careless walk, and went into the middle of the herd of cows,\npretending to be whistling a tune, although it was in fact no tune, but\nmerely a concatenation of tremulous notes on C sharp, without the least\nfall of harmony. He turned about this cow and the other cow, watching\nJock all the while with the tail of his eye, and trilling his hateful\nwhistle. Jock still kept a due distance. At length the goodman called to\nhim, \"Callant, come hither, like a man, and help me to wear this cow\nagainst the ditch. I want to get haud o' her.\"\n\nJock hesitated. He did not like to come within stroke of his master's\nlong stick, neither did he know on what pretence absolutely to refuse\nhis bidding; so he stood still, and it was impossible to know by his\nlooks whether he was going to comply or run off altogether. His master\ndreaded the latter, and called to him in a still kinder manner, until\nJock at last unfortunately yielded. The two wore the cow, and wore the\ncow, up against the ditch, until the one was close upon her one side,\nand the other upon her other. \"Chproo! hawkie! chproo, my bonnie cow!\"\ncried the goodman, spreading out his arms, with his pike-staff clenched\nfast in his right hand; then springing by the cow in a moment, he flew\nupon Jock, crying out, with the voice of a demon, \"D--n you, rascal! but\nI'll do for you now!\"\n\nJock wheeled about to make his escape, and would have beat his master\nhollow, had he been fairly started, or timeously apprised of his\ndreadful danger; but ere he had run four or five steps the pike-staff\ncame over the links of his neck such a blow that it laid him flat on his\nface in a mire. The goodman then seized him by the cuff of the neck with\nthe one hand, and by the hair of his head with the other, and said, with\na triumphant and malicious laugh, \"Now, get up, and come away wi' me, my\nbraw lad, and I'll let you see sic a sight as you never saw. I'll let\nyou see a wally-dy sight! Get up, like a good cannie lad!\"\n\nAs he said this he pulled Jock by the hair, and kicked him with his\nfoot, until he obliged him to rise, and in that guise he led him away to\nthe wood. He had a hold of his rough weatherbeaten hair with the one\nhand, and with the other he heaved the cudgel over him; and as they went\nthe following was some of the discourse that passed between them.\n\n\"Come away, now, my fine lad. Are nae ye a braw, honest, good callant?\nDo nae ye think ye deserve something that's unco good frae me? Eh? Ay,\nye surely deserve something better nor ordinar': And ye shall hae it\ntoo.\"--(Then a kick on the posteriors, or a lounder with the\nstaff.)--\"Come your ways like a sonsy, brave callant, and I'll let you\nsee a bonny thing and a braw thing in yon brake o' the wood, ye ken.\"\n\nJock cried so piteously that, if his master had not had a heart of\nstone, he would have relented, and not continued in his fatal purpose;\nbut he only grew the longer the more furious.\n\n\"O let me gang! let me gang! let me gang!\" cried Jock. \"Let me gang! let\nme gang! for it wasna me. I dinna ken naething about it ata'!\"\n\n\"Ye dinna ken naething about what, my puir man?\"\n\n\"About yon bit sheep i' the wood, ye ken.\"\n\n\"You rascal! you rogue! you villain! you have confessed that you kend\nabout it, when I wasna speiring ony sic question at you. You hound! you\ndog! you savage wolf that you are! Mother of God! but I will do for you!\nYou whelp! you dog! you scoundrel! come along here.\" (Another hard\nblow.) \"Tell me now, my precious lad, an ye war gaun to be killed, as ye\nken something about killing, whether would you choose to have your\nthroat cut, or to have your feet tied and be skinned alive?\"\n\n\"O dinna kill me! dinna kill me!\" cried poor Jock. \"My dear master,\ndinna kill me, for I canna brook it. Oh, oh! an ye kill me I'll tell my\nmother, that will I; and what will Marion say t'ye, when she has nane\nbut me? Oh master, dinna kill me, and I'll never do the like o't again!\"\n\n\"Nay, I shall take warrant for that: you shall never do the like o't\nagain!\"\n\nIn this melancholy and heart-breaking manner he dragged him on all the\nway by the rough towsy head, kicking him one while, and beating him\nanother, till he brought him to the very spot where the mangled remains\nof the pet lamb were lying. It was a blasting sight for poor Jock,\nespecially as it doubled his master's rage and stern revenge, and these\nwere, in all conscience, high enough wrought before. He twined the\nhapless culprit round by the hair, and knocked him with his fist, for he\nhad dropped the staff to enable him to force Jock to the place of\nsacrifice; and he swore by many an awful oath, that if it should cost\nhim his life, he would do to Jock as he had done to that innocent lamb.\n\nWith that he threw him on the ground, and got above him with his knees;\nand Jock having by that time lost all hope of moving his ruthless\nmaster by tears or prayers, began a struggling with the force which\ndesperation sometimes gives, and fought with such success that it was\nwith difficulty his master could manage him.\n\nIt was very much like a battle between an inveterate terrier and a bull\ndog; but, in spite of all that Jock could do, the goodman got out his\nknife. It was not, however, one like Jock's, for it had a folding blade,\nand was very hard to open, and the effecting of this was no easy task,\nfor he could not get both his hands to it. In this last desperate\nstruggle, Jock got hold of his master's cheek with his left hand, and\nhis nails being very long, he held it so strait that he was like to tear\nit off. His master capered up with his head, holding it back the full\nlength of Jock's arm; yet still being unable to extricate his cheek from\nJock's hold, he raised up his knife in his right hand in order to open\nit with his teeth, and, in the first place, to cut off Jock's hand, and\nhis head afterwards. He was holding down Jock with his right knee and\nhis left hand; and while in the awkward capering attitude of opening\nhis knife, his face was turned nearly straight up, and his eyes had\nquite lost sight of his victim. Jock held up his master's cheek, and\nsqueezed it still the more, which considerably impeded his progress in\ngetting the knife open; and, at that important moment, Jock whipped out\nhis own knife, his old dangerous friend, and struck it into the\ngoodman's belly to the haft. The moment he received the wound he sprang\nup as if he had been going to fly into the air, uttered a loud roar, and\nfell back above his dead pet lamb.\n\nLord, how Jock ran! He was all bespattered with blood, some of it his\nown, and some of it his master's; wanted the bonnet, and had the bloody\nknife in his hand; and was, without all doubt, a wild frightsome-looking\nboy. As he sped through the wood, he heard the groans and howls of his\nmaster in the agonies of death behind him. Every one of them added to\nJock's swiftness, till it actually became beyond the speed of mortal\nman. If it be true that love lends a pair of wings, fear, mortal fear,\nlends two pair. There is nought in life I regret so much as that I did\nnot see Jock in this flight; it must have been such an extraordinary\none. There was poor Jock flying with the speed of a fox from all the\nworld, and yet still flying into the world. He had no home, no kindred\nto whom he durst now retreat, no hold of any thing in nature, save of\nhis own life and his good whittle; and he was alike unwilling to part\nwith either of these. The last time he was seen was by two women on\nKirtle-common. He appeared sore bespent, but was still running on with\nall his might.\n\nThe goodman was found before the evening, but only lived to tell how he\nhad come by his end. All his friends and servants were raised, and sent\nin pursuit of Jock. How he eluded them no man knows; but from that day\nMarion's Jock has never been more seen or heard of in this land.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n    _Cher._ That story of our captain's is rather an odd story. Is\n    it not, Mark?\n\n    _Mark._ Rather of the wonderful.\n\n        _Ford._\n\n\n\"I dinna ken but I could maybe tell ye something about him an I liket,\"\nsaid Tam Craik; \"but I wad maybe be as wise to haud my tongue.\"\n\n\"I wad like very weel to hear mair about him,\" said Charlie; \"for his\nlife has had such a queer beginning, it maun surely hae had a queer\nend.\"\n\n\"But what an it shouldna be endit yet, Yardbire,\" said Tam: \"Marion's\nJock is perhaps living, and life-like, to tell his ain tale. However,\nwe'll say nae mair about that just now, till you tell us what you think\no' Gibbie Jordan's tale. For my part, I never heard a tale I was sae\nmuckle interested in a' my life.\"\n\n\"It is ane o' the best tales _o' the kind_ that ever I heard,\" said\nCharlie.\n\n\"It is a most abominable tale,\" said the poet.\n\n\"In what way, Master Poet?\" said Charlie: \"I dinna like to hear ony body\ncondemned without reason.\"\n\n\"It is for the badness of the moral that I do it dislike,\" said the\npoet: \"The moral is so truly bad, all mankind it must must shock; it is\nto kill this harmless lamb, the flower of all the flock,--to feed upon\nher lovely form that's fairer than the snow,--to eat her flesh and drink\nher blood! It makes mine eyes to flow!\"\n\n\"Gude faith, an I thought that war his drift, I wad brain him,\" said\nCharlie; \"and I confess it looks rather like it.\"\n\n\"There can be no doubt of it,\" said Master Michael Scott: \"The maid\nDelany is the favourite lamb, whom he wishes you to kill and feast on in\nthe same delicious manner as did the hero of his tale; and I am the\ngoodman whom you are to stick afterwards, and fairly make your escape.\"\n\n\"It is a shocking tale I really doubt,\" said Charlie; \"and throws a\ndisgrace and an imputation o' something unseemly on my chief and a' his\nfriends, and I winna put up wi' it.\"\n\n\"I do propose that from the walls the caitiff we do throw,\" said the\npoet; \"or kill and eat for dainty meat the laird of Peatstacknowe.\"\n\n\"I fear if the votes were to be ta'en just now he wad hae an ill\nchance,\" said Charlie: \"But it's fair in ha' where beards wag a'. Let\nilk ane of us hae a fair chance. There may be mae bad morals amang us.\nWha's turn is't next?\"\n\nCharlie himself, being next in point of seniority, was called on for his\ntale.\n\n\"I hae been thinking hard what tale I should tell you,\" said Charlie;\n\"but I find I can tell nought but the thing I hae seen, and I'll be\npinched sair eneuch to make sense o' that. Therefore, gin ye like, I'll\ntell ye my first adventure in war,--for I aye mind it the best, and will\ndo as lang as I live.\"\n\n\nCharlie Scott's Tale.\n\nIt was under the command of Hab Elliot that I made my first raide; a gay\nrough spun cout he was, and nae cannie hand for a southland valley.\nWeel, you see, there was a chap came to my father's house at Yardbire ae\nmorning, and he says to my father, \"Wat,\" says he, (that was my father's\nname, what he ca'ed me Charlie for I dinna ken, for I never spier'd,)\n\"Wat,\" says the chiel, \"ye maun raise your lads, and tie on your\nwallets, and meet the warden the morn at the Hawk-Hass, there's gaun to\nbe a stoure on the east border.\"\n\n\"An there be a stoure on the east border I's be there for ane,\" said my\nfather; \"but the de'il ae man hae I left but auld Will Nicol and the\ncallant Charlie. There hae seven men o' Moodlaw and Yardbire fa'en sin\nBeltan. I canna mak men, but I shall fight wi' them I have. As for\nCharlie, he disna want spirit, but he's unco young and supple, and will\nmak but a weak stand in a strong blast: Auld Will he kens brawly how to\ntake care care o' himsel; and, atween the twa, I may be ill bestedde.\nBut, gae as it will, I'll be there.\"\n\nI was a massy blade that day when I gaed o'er Craik-Corse riding at my\nfather's side. I was sae upliftit I could hardly sit on my yaud; and I\nsaw my father was proud o' his callant, as he ca'ed me,--that made me\nten times waur. The first men we came at were the lang-shankit Laidlaws\no' Craik; and then the Grahams o' Drife they came up wi' us; and when we\ncame to Howpasley, my father got the laird's right hand, and we gaed\nower Skelfhill-swire seven score and ten, but there were only fifty o'\nus had horse, and mine was ane o' the best.\"\n\n\"Wha's this stripling that rides the good dun mare,\" said the laird o'\nHowpasley.\n\n\"That's my bit niff-naff of a callant,\" says my father: \"That's my\nCharlie, cousin John.\"\n\n\"He's a twig of a good tree,\" said Howpasley: \"I like the spark gayan\nweel, if he wad ride a little evener up, an' no haud forrit his head\nlike a woodcock. But, my word, he has a lang arm!\"\n\n\"Ay, a pair o' them, cousin,\" said my father; and the twa carles hotched\nand leuch at my father's joke.\n\nThe warden was lying at the Hawk-Hass wi' twal score o' good men; but\nthere were nane o' them had horses but the Elliots, and some gentlemen\nof the Scotts. When Sir Ringan saw us coming, he came out on foot to\nmeet us; and when the gentlemen of our party saw that, they lighted off\ntheir horses, gae them to their henchmen, and walked out before the men.\nHowpasley walked on the right hand, my father next, and, as he desired\nme, I came slounging up next him. I lookit best on foot, for my legs\nwere sic a length; I was higher in fact by half a foot than either John\nof Howpasley or my father, but a perfect tripe for sma'ness. When our\ncaptain, the brave Redhough, came near to us, I thought I should hae\nswarfed; my heart dunt-duntit like a man humblin bear, and I was maist\ngasping for breath. I had hard sae muckle o' his bravery that I\nexpectit an auld, gruff, austere carle, as proud as Lucifer, to meet us.\nBut, instead o' that, I sees a boardly knight in the very prime o' manly\nbeauty: his cheeks were ruddy, his eyes dark, and the black beard on his\nbooner lip was just beginning to curl upward. My heart was a' his ain at\nthe first look; and I said to mysel, \"Ye're the man that I'll risk my\nneck wi' ony day.\" I likit him sae weel that I mind I thought I could\njust hae lain down in a gutter, and letten him tramp on the tap o' me.\n\nHe first shook Howpasley by the hand, and then my father; and then he\ngave a broad look to my beardless face, turning his eye back to my\nfather's.\n\n\"That's my Charlie, Sir Ringan; my only son now,\" said my father.\n\n\"You are welcome, cousin Charlie, to our camp,\" said he: \"If ye be as\nbrave a man as your father, I shall never want a hero at my side.\"\n\nI should hae said something in return, but the deil a word I could say,\nfor I was like to fa' to the fuffing and greeting. He spake to a' the\ngentlemen in the same kind hamely manner; and then lookit at a' the men,\nand spiered how mony belonged to every ane.\n\n\"And how many are with you, cousin Yardbire?\" said he.\n\n\"They are a' here that I hae, noble chief,\" said my father: \"Last year\nat this time I brought forty to the field, and now I hae nae ane but my\nauld henchman and that lad. We hae somehow been ower rash, and I now get\na' the wyte. They ca' me Wat the Waster,--and not a man will haud land\nunder me.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, Yardbire,\" said he; \"you and your men hae stood the brunt of\nthe battle ower often for me and mine. But you are grown auld, and ye\nmaunna claim the post of honour ony mair till Charlie come to his\nstrength. I'll make you captain this day o' the best troop you ever led.\nYou shall hae the hard-headed Olivers, the grimy Potts, and the\nskrae-shankit Laidlaws; and you shall form my flying party--\"\n\nMy father here interrupted him with \"Na, na, my master, deil a flying\ntroop I'll lead! if it binna a fighting ane, it winna follow me lang.\"\n\nThe warden smiled; and calling out all the men of the families he had\nnamed, he put such of them as had horses under the command of my father.\nOf these there were forty-seven, so that our troop consisted of fifty\nmen in all. We were joined with the Elliots; but Habby having ninety men\nof his own name, the command of the horse devolved on him, and my father\nwas only looked on as the second. I didna like this unco weel; but it\ncoudna be helped, and I was glad to be in the field ony way.\n\nThe first sight we got o' the English was frae the top o' Penchrist; but\na' that day we could only ken where they were by the reek they were\nraising. My blood boiled when I saw them burning the houses o' Scotsmen,\nand fain wad I hae had a hand-shaking wi' them.\n\nThere was ae message came after another a' that day. The Kers had been\nbeat and chased across the river, and the English host had over-run\ntheir territory. Our chief didna seem to care for that sae muckle as I\nthought, nor wad he stir his foot till they crossed the Rule. There war\nmae men came in every hour, for the beacons were a' bleezing; and as\nsoon as the English set foot on the territory of the middle marches,\naway we rade straight to meet them.\n\nIt was on the hill of Hawthornside where I first saw the face o' an\nenemy; and I'll never forget sic queer strummings as I had within me.\nOh, I wad fain hae been at them! There was a kind o' yeuk, a kind o'\nkittling, a sort o' prinkling in my blood like, that I fand wadna be\ncured but by the slap o' a sword or the point o' a spear. Instead o'\nbeing feared for a wound, I wad hae gi'en my horse and light armour\nbaith to have had a good prodd frae an Englishman,--but I wad hae liket\nthat the warden had seen me.\n\nWe kept the hills between them and the border wi' our horse, but the\nfoot kept the straits to the westward. Forbye the Elliots, and my\nfather's troop o' Potts, and Olivers, and skrae-shankit Laidlaws, the\nwarden had three hundred Scotts on horseback; so that in all he had\nshort o' five hundred horse, and about eight hundred foot. At the head\no' his horse he rade straight up to the faces o' the English, and\nchallenged them in our king's name to tell their business in that place.\nUp came an English knight, Sir Robert Neville of Ravensworth, and he\ncrackit baith proudly and saucily, but I didna ken weel what he said. He\nthreatened no to leave a beast or a body atween Borthwick and the\nBorder. Our captain was as crouse as the other, sae there was nothing\nbut ill blude atween them; but the thing that we likit warst of a' was\nthe certainty that he had eight thousand men, being just sax for our\nane.\n\nThe warden then held a council o' friends upon the top of the hill, and\nin view of the English host. Some said ae thing and some said another to\nhim; but at length he turned to my father, and he says, \"What says our\ncousin Walter o' Eskdale to a' this? But I needna speer that,--he never\ngae me aught but ae advice a' his life.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what I wad do, captain,\" says my father: \"Afore yon sun\nwere twa cock-strides down the west I wad fight them.\"\n\n\"I kend what it wad be,\" said the warden. \"But, my brave Yardbire, are\nyou considering the disproportion o' force?\"\n\n\"What's that to think about?\" said he, \"the greater the better!\"\n\nThe warden claspit him in his arms, and the tears came hopping down my\nmuckle soft flobby cheeks.\n\n\"Yes, captain,\" continued my father, \"I hae been thinking o' the odds\nagainst us, and I am thinking o't just now. But ye ken art may do\nmuckle.\"\n\n\"Now, to hear him speaking about art!\" said the warden, pushing him\nplayfully around by the shoulder,--\"To hear a man speaking sagely about\nart, that never thought of ony other art in his life but hard hand\nnevel! Pray now, my dear cousin, will ye let us hear this deep profound\nart o' yours, that will enable ae man to beat half a dozen?\"\n\n\"I wad form our little army into the shape o' a wedge,\" said my father;\n\"and I wad yerk that little wedge into the heart of their great log of\nan army, and split it a' to shivers.\"\n\n\"G--d a mercy, hear to him!\" cried the warden. \"And pray what is to form\nthe point o' this wedge, Yardbire?\"\n\n\"Just my grey naig's head, captain.\"\n\n\"I kend weel what it wad come to, cousin. Your grey naig's head wad soon\nbe cracked; but an ought were to happen yours, what wad come o' me?\"\n\nI thought sae muckle o' my auld father, that I couldna haud my tongue\nnae langer, and that was the first word I ever spake to the warden in my\nlife. \"Never fear, my master,\" quo' I; \"it winna be ilka ane that sal\ncrack his grey crown the day.\"\n\n\"Weel said, Charlie!\" cried the auld hero; and he waved his cap round\nhis head, \"Weel said, little Charlie! Now, captain, for the wedge!\"\n\nThe warden lookit a good while at us without speaking, and I gart mysel\ntrow there was a blink o' admiration in his dark eye; \"Ah, Wat, Wat!\"\nsaid he; \"weel do you ken I'm ower ready to follow your mad schemes!\nBut they have sae often proved successfu', though wi' very hard wark,\nthat I'll e'en take the risk, and sey your skill aince mair.\"\n\nHe then drew his horse from the height into the glen behind, and formed\nthem precisely on my father's plan, with a troop of horse in front, and\none on each wing, the foot being arranged in close column in the middle;\nand as my father claimed the post of honour as his right, he rode the\nfront man: Will Nicol and I were next him, and behind us there were four\nof the Laidlaws. I saw no farther, but was informed after that when the\nhorse made the charge, the foot had orders to run and keep up with them.\n\nWe took a sweep down the water to the north, and appeared all of a\nsudden in the rear of the English army. Their scouts had seen us, but\ncould not guess our intent; for as to a thought of our attacking them,\nthat never entered their heads, so that their host was not new-modelled\nfarther than their columns facing about toward us. They deemed we were\ngoing to retreat toward the north, and were making ready to pursue us,\nwhen all at once the point of the wedge turned at a right angle, and\nrushed with all haste on the centre of their line.\n\nThen there was such a hubbub, and calling, and noise of armour rattling\nthroughout their army as I had never heard! My father spurred on, and,\nafter some few hard blows, opened the line. He had the least to do of\nany, for the ranks opened naturally before him as he heaved his heavy\nsword. But ever as their wedge grew thicker, their columns being pressed\ntogether, lay the heavier on our flanks, and several gallant men of the\nScots fell. I saw naething o' this, but soon fand the effects of it; for\nmy father drove faster on than the flankers could bear up after him, and\nour point lengthened out and grew thinner at every step. I had been unco\nkeen o' fighting, but I got my fill o't then. I trow I gae some o' them\nsome gay good yerks on the chafts.\n\nRavensworth by this time perceiving the danger in which his army stood\nof being divided, brought up his side columns and closed around our\nfront. I heard him saying in a loud exasperated voice, \"For shame,\ncountrymen! for shame! will ye suffer a landward Scots laird, an auld\ncrabbit loun like that, to ride in through your ranks and out through\nyour ranks, as they were files o' thistles? Down with the moorland\nthief! down with him!\"\n\n\"Aha, Robin o' Ravensworth, is that you?\" cried my father: \"An I win\nwithin sword's length o' you I shall settle your crack.\"\n\nAs he said this he raised himself up in his stirrups. Auld Will Nicol\nroared out, \"For Christ's sake, master, stop!\" But, in place of that, he\nspurred up to the captain with all his might, challenging him to come\nforward. Neville kept his ground, and prepared for the attack, but\nrefused to come forward; and, just as my father and he began to measure\nswords, my father was struck by six or seven spears all at once on his\nleft side. Some of these he received on his buckler, but others of them\npierced his side, and, before any of us could lend him the least\nassistance, he was unhorsed. Ravensworth also gave him a wound as he was\nfalling. I, who was close behind him, and a-head of all the rest, was\nnow hard bested. I clove the head of the first spearman on my left; and\nere I had recovered my sword from the stroke, Ravensworth's sword was at\nmy breast; and I have no doubt that stroke would have slain me, had it\nnot been for a plunge made by my father's horse, that came between us\nand marred it. By this time the Laidlaws had come up on my right,--a\nwheen as hardy, determined louns as ever brak warld's bread,--and they\nwere laying about them like incarnate devils. The horse kept the lancers\nfrom reaching me on the left, so that Ravensworth and I met fairly hand\nto hand. Sure am I that I never gae sic a straik sinsyne, nor ane wi'\nsic good will. I dinna think I clave his helmet, but I gae him sic a\ndevil o' a knab on the temple, that he was stoundit, and fell as dead as\na stane at my horse's feet. My father was at that time on his knee, and\nI saw him trying to raise himself up by the stirrup-leather, for he had\nnever yet quitted the bridle of his horse. He saw me bring down Neville,\nwho fell almost at his very side; and he looked to me, and cried, \"Weel\ndone, little Charlie! weel done, my brave man!\"\n\nThat was the last word I ever heard him say. My brave, worthy, auld\nfather! He was sae used to ca' me little Charlie when I was young, that\nhe coudna gie it ower when I grew bigger than him; and he cried to me,\n\"Weel done, little Charlie! Weel done, my brave man!\" I'll never forget\nthat moment. My honest, kind-hearted father! Ye maun forgie me, sirs,\nfor taking a hearty greet at this part o' my tale. Mony a ane hae I\nta'en at the same bit.--Ay--he often ca'ed me little Charlie, and he\ncried, \"Weel done, my brave man!\" That was the hindmost word, and I hae\ngood right to mind it.\n\nThe battle thickened, and thickened round us, and we were borne back;\nfor there was sic a rush made by the English to the rescue, that, an\ntheir captain had been living, they wad hae tramped him to pieces. I\nwas driven clean stupid, and cared nae ae preen for my life, after I saw\nthe ranks rush over my father; but the skrae-shankit Laidlaws defendit\nme, and did most excellent work. I never saw ony men that thought less\nabout fleeing or retreating than the Laidlaws. Pell-mell, swap for swap,\nwas a' that they countit on. I heard Davie o' Craik saying to his\nbrother, \"Take care o' that lang swabble Charlie, and keep by his side.\nDeil hae him, gin he be nae better than he looks like.\" The grim Potts\nwere mair cunning than rash; and the hard-headed Olivers could be led\nbut never driven. The Laidlaws were the men for me. Pell-mell, yank for\nyank. \"Thresh on, Will!\" \"Ay, here's w'ye, Davie; deil tak the\nhindmost!\" I hae stood mony a stoure wi' the Laidlaws, and never wished\nfor better lads--lang-shanks and a' thegither.\n\nBut I'm forgetting my tale; for aince I get into the mids o' a battle,\nit's no easy getting me out again. I canna tell you a' the feats that\nwere done that day, especially by the warden. When he saw the great\nbrulzie in front, he came up with the Scotts, and the Johnstons, and the\nGrahams o' Drife,--and hearing that my father had fallen, and that the\nEnglish captain was also slain, he took the front himself, and scattered\nthe English commoners like crows.\n\nWhen we had thus fairly broke through the centre, we turned to the\nright, and drove that division of the army before us till they took\nshelter in Jed forest; but seeing the rest, who formed the strongest\nwing, marshalling up behind us, we drew off to the hills, and encamped\nthat night at the Brae of Rule.\n\nThere was heavy mourning for the loss of my father, and we buried him\nnext day at Hassendean. The English were as much exasperated. Dick\nNeville, the brother of Sir Robert, took the command, and up Teviot they\ncame, laying all waste behind them. We durst not engage them again in\nclose battle, for they were by far too numerous; but we kept hovering\naround them, and harrassing them whenever we could get a chance. In\nspite of all we could do, they took the town of Hawick, plundered it,\nand burnt it to ashes. The warden was neither to haud nor to bind wi'\nanger then; and, as he durst not leave the country, nor tine sight o'\nthem for an hour himself, he sent off Hab Elliot and me, wi' our hunder\nand fifty horse, to plunder the castle and lands of Ravensworth, by way\nof retaliation.\n\n\"Now, Charlie,\" said he to me at parting, \"Mind what the Nevilles hae\ndone baith to you and me, and neither leave them cow nor ewe, man,\nwoman, nor bairn, blanket nor sheet, dish nor spoon.\"\n\nAweel, aff Habby and I set; he wi' his Elliots, and me wi' my\nhard-headed Olivers, my grimy Potts, my skrae-shankit Laidlaws, and auld\nWill Nicol,--that was my army, and a gay queer ane it was: I hadna a man\no' my ain name but mysel; for the warden kept them a' about him: He\nwadna part wi' the Scotts at no rate. It was clear moonlight, sae we set\noff before sun-set and rade a' the night, keeping aye the height between\nTyne and Reid; and at daylight we fand oursels at the place where the\ntwa Tynes meet. We were terrified for raising the country, and were\nobliged to ride out to a little hollow place in a wild moor, and hide\noursels a' the day, where our horses got nothing but a rive o' heather,\nbut they had plenty o' water, puir things! Habby kept watch himsel, and\nlet us a' sleep; and there was ae camstary English chap that wad be up\nto the tap o' the hill reason or nane, Habby chappit aff his head--he\nwasna very sticking that way.\n\nThe next morning after that, we gae the castle o' Ravensworth and the\nrich domains o' the Nevilles an unco surprise. Habby gaed up by himsel\nto the gate, and asked a word o' the porter. The man came snooving out\nhalf sleeping. Habby had him dead, and the keys in his ain hand, in half\na minute. It was a shamefu' morning that; for we killed, and harried,\nand burnt a' that came afore us; and Lady Ravensworth was burnt, and her\nbairn was trowed to be burnt. That sat sair on my conscience, for she\ncame to me and beggit her life. I had nae thought o' taking her life;\nbut I was sae intent on the spulzie, that I lost her again, and never\nsaw mair o' her. It was rather cruel o' Habby to lock every door when he\nset fire to the castle. I saved ae little chap that morning, though I\nwasna muckle the better. We were flinging blankets, and sheets, and\nthousands o' things out at a large window, when I hears a bairnie\ngreeting most bitterlie, and aye crying out, \"Daddy, daddy! O daddy,\ndaddy!\" \"Poor little English brat,\" says I to mysel, \"there's nae daddy\nnear you.\" Sae I could nae help rinning into the room to see what kind\no' creature it was; and there lay a fine bonnie callant on the bare\nbed-strae, for they had pu'ed the down bed, and blankets, and sheets,\nand a' off him; and when he saw me, he held out baith his hands, and\ncried, \"O daddy, daddy!\" I could nae think to leave him to be burnt, sae\nI rowed him in some blankets and tossed him out at the window; and when\nI lookit out after him to see if he wasna killed, I heard him crying\nlouder than ever, \"Daddy's boy fa'en! Take ye up, take ye up! O daddy,\ndaddy! take ye up, take ye up!\"\n\nWhen we came to pack up our goods he was still lying sprawling amang the\nblankets, and insisting on his daddy taking him up as fervently as\nbefore. I was wae for the poor thing, and didna ken what to do, for I\ndidna like to be nursing a bairn afore my new warriors. But as luck wad\nhae had it, up comes Will Laidlaw o' Craik. Will cared nae what ony body\nthought.\n\n\"What, lad?\" says he to the boy: \"What's the matter, billy? What are ye\nlying yammering there for? Eh?\"\n\n\"Daddy's good boy fa'en,\" says the child; \"O take ye up! take ye up!\"\n\n\"Poor deevil!\" says Will, wi' his muckle een wauling till they were like\nto come out; \"Poor deevil! Indeed and I will take ye up, though I should\nget nae mair o' the spoil for my share but yoursel.\"\n\nWill fauldit a blankit, and rowed the callant carefully up in't like a\nweb. He didna come weel behand at rowing up a bairn; but he did as he\ncould, and had the sense to leave the head out, which was a main\nconcern. Just at that very moment, when Will was at the thrangest, by\ncomes ane o' the Olivers in a great haste wi' his sword drawn, and it\nwas a' bloody. Now, thinks I to mysel', the puir bairn's gane; for I saw\nwhat kind o' chap he was that Oliver. Will unluckily had the boy's head\nout o' the blanket, and was busy speaking to him without regarding ony\nthing else; and ere ever he was aware Oliver heaved his bloody sword,\nand was just coming down wi' a swap on the boy's neck, and he wad hae\ncuttit it through like a kail castock. Will's e'e caught a glimpse o'\nthe sword as it was coming down, and with a dash of his elbow he drove\nit aside. \"Eh? What are ye about, min?\" said Will, speaking over his\nshoulder, and keeping his body between Oliver's sword and the child.\n\n\"Ooh? What are ye about min?\" returned the other, mimicking Will's voice\nand manner: \"Hae ye nought ado but to work on a dirty English paddock\nlike that? Cut the neck o't.\"\n\n\"Will I, min?\" says Laidlaw: \"I'll see you d--d first, and a' the\nOlivers atween Jed head and Tyot stane--humph? A bonnie trick to come\nand meddle wi' me and my bit bairn!\"\n\nOliver went away laughing at Laidlaw, leaving him to manage his nursing\nconcern as he could.\n\nI had witnessed Will's undaunted bravery, and yet I canna say but I was\nas weel pleased wi' this bit kind turn as ought I had seen him do. I\nthink I see him yet wi' the child in his arms foussomly rowed up in a\nblanket, like a web--the head o' the boy out, a great neuk o' the\nblanket hinging down to the ground, and Will glowring back at Oliver's\nface: \"Eh? What are ye about, min? A bonnie story, to come and meddle\nwi' me and my bit bairn!\" Ha! ha! ha! Honest Laidlaw! I can never forget\nhim and his bairn. \"Cut the neck o't,\" says the other. \"Will I, min?\nI'll see you d--d first,\" says Will. Ha! ha! ha! ha!--But then his look!\nthat was the best sport ava; wi' his bendit face and muckle great wulcat\neen turned o'er his shoulder. \"Cut the neck o't,\" says Oliver. They\nthat had seen Laidlaw then! ha! ha! ha! \"Will I, min?\" Ha! ha! ha!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"My son, is there not a time for every thing?\" said the friar. \"If thou\nthinkest at all on our condition and thine own, surely thou wilt refrain\nfrom such a torrent of vain jesting. Remember that the words of thy\nmouth are for death or life; for the possession of maiden beauty, and\nlove, and pleasure; or for the most dismal, and miserable, and wretched\nof all fates--to be killed and eaten up of thy brethren, the companions\nof thy journey.\"\n\n\"Gude faith, the thing's hardly to be thought of, let be spoken about,\"\nsaid Charlie. \"But I beg your pardon, callants, I maun get on wi' my\ntale; for if I stick it in the middle, ye ken it is a' ower wi' me.\"\n\n\"I wish you would get on with it then,\" said Tam; \"for if ye maun aye\nstop to laugh at your ain jests, we'll be a' dead o' hunger or ever the\nvotes be ta'en. Nane but fools laugh at their ain sports.\"\n\n\"Whisht, whisht, Tam,\" returned Charlie,--\"I hae a gay wide wizen when I\nam amang friends, but there are some things that I canna swallow for a'\nthat--Where was I at? Aye at the sacking o' Ravensworth.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe drave the richest prey that morning that I ever yet saw liftit, if we\nhad gotten it a' hame. We had thirty horses laden wi' stuff, and other\nthirty led anes, besides thirteen score o' good cattle; and we gae the\nbanks o' the Teme and the Blackburn an unco singe afore we left them. I\nwas rather against the burning, but Habby wadna be stayed; \"Na, na; tit\nfor tat, Charlie. That will stand for Hawick and Abbotrule.\"\n\nWe drave on, and drave on, as fast as the cattle could gang, and some o'\nthe heavy soft anes we were obliged to leave behind sair against our\nwills. We were terrified for raising the country, for we had sic a far\ndrive: but luckily the Nevilles had ta'en amaist every man with them in\ntheir expedition into Scotland; and the first time that we hovered was\non Tersit-moor in Northumberland, a little before the break o' day. At\nthat place there was the strangest thing happened to us that ever\nhappened to men,--and it was for that that I began my tale.\n\nMy heart had been unco sair a' the night wi' thinking about the bonnie\nLady Neville o' Ravensworth; and I had often been sae grieved about her\ndeath, and her bairn's death, that I hardly kend what I was doing. I\nthought I saw her kneeling on her knee, and begging of me to spare her\nlife, and the life o' her child; and then how cruel it was in me to rin\naway rummaging up the stair, and lose the opportunity of preserving her.\nThese thoughts had made my heart wholly inclined to pity, and, as soon\nas we lighted, I sought out Will Laidlaw o' Craik, to see if he had\nstill been able, amang a' the confusion, to preserve the life of the\nchild. Will had had a great deal o' trouble wi' him, chiefly from his\nassociates, but he had him still safe an' sound. He had stuffed him in a\nhorse's pack o' blankets and sheets, _wi' his head out_, and had kept\nbeside him a' the gate; and now when I found him he had laid the boy\ndown on the heather to sleep, and had him weel happit up, and Will\nhimsel was lying streekit beside him. He thought that I wad gibe him\nabout the business, and tried to waive the subject; but when I told him\nhow much I was pleased wi' what he had done, he grew rather crouser, and\ncould speak about naething else but the boy and his little sayings to\nhim by the way. \"Poor little dear soul!\" said Will; \"I think some body\nhad flung him o'er the castle wa' in an armfu' claes, and never kend;\nand wha kens but he may be the heir o' Ravensworth himsel. He has been\nsae miraculously saved that he will surely come to something. But do ye\nken, Charlie, my heart is already sae closely knitted to that bit\nhelpless bairn, that I wadna see ony ill come ower him for a' the kye on\nthe Crib-Law.\"\n\n\"Laidlaw, you shall never rue your kindness o' heart and attentions to\nthat puir misfortunate bairn,\" quo' I: \"The moment that I saw you take\nhim up, and row him in a blanket, _wi' his head out_, as ye had been\nrowing up a wab, I resolved to reward you wi' my hale share o' the\nspulzie.\"\n\n\"Never speak about that, Charlie; if we get safe hame wi' every thing\nwe'll no differ about the spulzie.\"\n\n\"Ha, but Will, your rowing up o' the bairn was a rare scene! ony other\nbody but you, ye ken, wad hae taken the creature up in their arms and\nrowed a blanket about it: but instead o' that you doubled a pair o'\nblankets their hale length on the green, laid the bairn across the one\nend o' them, and rowed it ower the body, and ower the body, and ower the\nbody, till ye came to the far end; and it was but ill rowed up after\na'--ha! ha! ha!\"\n\n\"Hout, Charlie! deil a bit but ye're ower muckle ta'en up about trifles.\nI wish ye wad think mair about the perilous situation we are in. Watch a\nwee while, and let me get a sleep.\"\n\nWill then laid his arm over the boy and the hott o' claes, and fell\nsound asleep. Our men were a' placed two and three around the hale muir\nto guard the cattle, and all were resting on their arms, to be ready to\nrush together on any alarm. I was sitting and keeping a good look out\na' round about, and Will he was swuffing and sleeping. Every thing was\nquiet, except now and then that the hum of an ox was to be heard which\nmissed his neighbour, or the eiry whistle o' the moss-plover. It was a\nwhile before the day-sky, and I was just beginning to turn drowsy, when\nI thought I saw something white on the muir, about two hundred strides\nfrom me. \"St Mary be my buckler!\" said I to mysel: \"What can you be? It\nis surely a flight o' white mist risen out o' the earth, for I see it\nmoving. If it be a mist fawn, as I dare say it can be naething else, it\nhas drawn itself up into a form the likest that of a woman of ought ever\nI saw.\" As I was mumbling and speaking this to mysel, I perceived that\nit still drew nearer, and that it wasna ane o' the fairy fawns o' mist\nwhiles to be seen stealing about i' the night-time, but a lady a' clad\nin white. It glided athort the moor, and athort the moor, as if it had\nbeen looking for something it had lost; and at last I saw it spring away\nfrom one point to another at a considerable distance, as swift as a\nflash o' fire, as if something had startled or offended it. I learned\nafter that the point from which it fled was the very spot where Habby\nElliot lay, and who at that time was lying in a sound and troubled\nsleep. When it again stopped, its motions were very extraordinary,--for\nthough the morning was dark, there was such a pale and a pure whiteness\nabout it, that I saw it the better. It was like a streamer o' light, or\nthe reflection of a starn in the water, that aye in the darkest nights\nappears brightest. When it paused at the place I mentioned, it bent its\nbody backward, its arms were crossed on its breast, and I saw like its\nhair streaming in the air behind it. Then it spread both its hands\ntoward heaven, as in the act of making fervent supplication. From that\npoint it came straight toward me, after giving a shiver that made all my\neen dazzle.\n\n\"Will Laidlaw!\" cried I, but in a violent whisper below my breath; \"Will\nLaidlaw o' Craik! for God's sake waken up, and see what this is.\"\n\nI was sitting, but Will sprang to his feet, and seized his sword.\n\"Where? where? where? Where is it, Charlie? Where is it, callant?\"\nwhispered he. I pointed to it, but durst not speak. Will rubbed his een\nand rubbed his een, and at length perceived it. \"I do believe, lad, that\nis some hizzy--and a weel dressed ane she is,\" said he; still speaking\nin a whisper, and sitting down close beside me. \"What on God's earth can\nshe be seeking on this waste at sic an untimely hour?\" I durst hardly\ndraw my breath, let be to answer him; and sae he continued, \"I think it\nwad hae been as decent-like an she had lain still in her bed rather as\ncomed raiking out amang a wheen wild men on sic a wild height. Oho! I'll\nwager my neck it is some spy in disguise.\"\n\nShe was by this time within ten paces o' us, and we both sat still in\nbreathless suspense till she came close to us. I thought I had seen the\nface before, but couldna tell where, till she kneeled on one knee at my\nfeet, crossed her hands, and looked me in the face with the most piteous\nexpression of countenance. Then I saw it was the lady o' Ravensworth,\nand in the very posture that I had seen her for the first and last time.\nYet there was no anger in her face; it seemed merely a look of\nsupplication; and at length she touched her lips three times, as an\nintimation that she wished to speak and could not. As for me, my mouth\nwas sealed; and that I might see nae mair than I had seen, I threw mysel\nagroof, wi' my face to the ground, and held by the heather firmly wi'\nbaith my hands.\n\nHonest Will had nae suspicions o' ony thing beyond nature; and at length\nhe says, \"What are you wanting wi' us, Madam, that ye're making a' thae\nmurgeons?\"\n\n\"You do not know me,\" returned she, \"but that young warrior beside you\ndoes. He has been guilty of a neglect that he will rue till the day of\nhis death. But, for another deed of mercy that you and he have done,\nyour fates are averted, and your heads shall be covered in the hour of\ndanger, which is fast approaching. You have saved a child from the\ndevouring flames;--if you dare to wrong a hair of that child's\nhead, how dreadful will be your doom! There is a terrible hour\napproaching;--look at his breast that you may know him again, for I\ncannot see the fate of the day. But if you would thrive on earth and be\nadmitted into heaven, guard and preserve that dear child--That child is\nmine--\"\n\n\"Say nae mair, honest woman,\" says Will, perfectly undismayed, \"an the\nchild be yours you're perfectly welcome to him. It was to save his bit\ninnocent life that I brought him away, and no for ony greed o' other\nfolks bairns. I kendna wha was aught him, but sin he be yours I'll\ndeliver him safe into your hands. Take care an' no let him get cauld,\nfor the morning air is no gude for a bairn.\"\n\nSo saying, Will howked the boy out o' the mids o' a great heap o' claes,\nrowed him up as weel as he could, and then said, after two or three\nsobs, \"I like ill to part wi' him, but a mother's aye a mother.\" Then he\nkissed him, and added, \"Fare-ye weel, my wee man! You and I will may-be\nnever meet again; but, whether or no, you will be nae the waur o' a\ntrooper's blessing. An ye be spared ye'll be a man when auld Will\nLaidlaw's head is laid i' the grave. Hae, honest woman, there's your\nson, and God bless you baith!\"\n\nShe bent her body over him in the most affectionate way, and stretched\nher arms as if to embrace him, but she neither touched him nor any part\nof Laidlaw's claes. The boy had awakened, and when Will held him out to\ngive him up to his mother, he cried out, \"No-no-no-no. No go ty'e, no go\nt'ye. Daddy's boy feared, daddy's boy feared.\"\n\n\"Gude faith, sae ye may, my man! thinks I to mysel, \"an ye kend about a'\nthis as weel as I do!\"\n\nI saw naething that was passing, for I was lying close on my face, and\nhinging by the heather; but I heard a that was said, and Will tauld me\nthe rest afterwards. He said, she made the sign of the cross above her\nchild's breast, then over his own head, as he stooped forward with him\nin his arms. Then she glided aside, and made the cross over my head and\nshoulders, and it was heaven's grace that I didna ken, else I wad hae\nswarfed away. Last of all, she again bent herself over her child, and\nstretched out her arms on each side of him; then, leaning herself back\non the air, she arose gently from the ground, and sailed away through\nthe dim shades of the morning toward the verge of the heaven.\n\nI wondered what was asteer then, for I heard Will crying on the Virgin\nMary to preserve him, and rhaming o'er the names o' a' the saints he had\never heard of; and at length he gae a great gluther, like a man\ndrowning, and fell down wi' sic a dunt he gart a' the moss shake again.\nThe bairn screamed and grat; and I didna ken what to do, for I durstna\nlook up for fear o' seeing the ghost; till at length I heard that the\nrest of the sentinels had caught the alarm, and were passing the\nwatch-word frae ane to another, and then I ventured to set up my head.\nBut, gude and gracious, sic a grip as I did haud by the heather!\n\nI took up the child, covered him with my cloak, and soothed him; and\nthe poor little harassed thing hid his face in my bosom. Will lay\nquivering and struggling like ane in a dream, or under the influence of\nthe night-mare; and, after I had rolled him three times over, he awoke\nin the most horrid consternation. \"Charlie, where are ye? Speak to me,\nCharlie, and tell me where I am.\" Then a whole string o' saints and\nangels were a' invoked, one after another, ower and ower again. \"Mercy\non us, Charlie! I hae had sic a dream as never mortal man had; and a'\nsae plain and sae particular, I could amaist swear it was real. What do\nye think, Charlie? Didna this bairn's mother come to me in my sleep? and\nshe says to me, 'That bairn's mine.'--Na, that wasna what she said\nfirst. 'Ye dinna ken me,' says she.\" And then Will began and told me all\nthat I had heard pass between them before, and all that I had seen, and\nsome part that I had not seen; but a' that I could do, I couldna\npersuade him that it wasna a dream. And it was better it was sae; for if\nhe had kend and believed that he had conversed with a spirit, it wad\nhae put him daft. It pat me clean out o' my judgment; and for that day,\nand mony a day and night after, I kend nae mair what I was doing than\nane dreaming, and remembered nae mair what I had been doing than if I\nhad been asleep all the time. I can therefore gie but a puir and a lame\naccount o' what followed, for it is maistly from hearsay, although I was\ntauld that I bure a principal hand in the fray.\n\nWe started at the scraigh o' day, and drove on. There were always four\nor five light horsemen, well mounted, who rode before our array to see\nif the coast was clear; and as we went round the head of the Gowan Burn,\nabout mid-day, ane o' these came galloping back, and told us that the\nEnglish were awaiting us at the fords of Keilder, with an army of a\nthousand horse.\n\n\"Aha!\" quo' Habby Elliot! \"I thought we warna to get hame this way. We\nhae just twa choices, callants, either to fight or flee.\"\n\nThere was not a man in all our little army that could think of\nscampering off for bare life, and leaving such a prey behind him; so,\nwith one assent, we rode forward in a body to the brow of the hill that\noverlooks the fords of Keilder. The English were stationed on a rising\nground to the west of the river, and that being passable only by one\nford, which was very rough, we could not attack them without the\ncertainty of being cut to pieces; so we kept our station on the steep\nbrae over against them, and sent some few of our oldest and weakliest\nmen to be moving the prey out toward Keilder-head.\n\nWe calculated the English to be about five hundred; but neither durst\nthey cross the ford to come to us. They sent a few flights of arrows\namong our men, which we regarded very little, and determined, if\npossible, to keep them at bay there till our rich prey had crossed the\nborder fell. But just at the fall of the evening, to our great surprise,\nthe English rushed at once into the ford, with loud and reiterated\nshouts; and scarcely had we begun to advance down the steep to meet\nthem, when we were attacked by another body of horsemen behind.\n\nThese men were led by a great priest whose name was Bishop Boldone, but\nwho was always called Bloody-Sark; and at the very first encounter Hab\nElliot rushed among the English ranks and slew the Bishop with his own\nhand at the first blow. But it cost Habby dear, for he was cut down in\nendeavouring to retreat, and fell under a dozen of spears. In short, our\nsmall band, being inclosed between two stronger bodies, was literally\nhewed in pieces, but not before they had slain a great number of our\nenemies. Will Laidlaw and I fought side by side; and though enclosed in\nthe very middle of our foes, we cut our way through, and escaped without\na wound, and with short pursuit.\n\nOur prey was gone. We saw a great part of them scattered on the hills,\nand heard them lowing, as they returned toward their native pastures.\nOur drivers, having watched the fate of the day, made their escape when\nthey saw us surrounded, abandoning the spoil. We two fled in silence\ntoward the north-east, and could not even get time to look for the\nchild, in whom we were both so much interested. We had lost our well\nearned prey; we had lost our friends and companions in arms, and we had\nlost our honour by suffering ourselves to be surprised by the ambush\nbehind; yet we both felt as if the loss of the child sat heavier on our\nhearts than all. There was something so mysterious in our connection\nwith him, that it could not fail making a deep impression on our minds.\nThe vision that we had seen, and the promise that had been made to\nus,--that \"for what we had done our heads should be shielded in the day\nof battle,\"--soon recurred to us, and we both agreed that our escape was\nmiraculous, and perfectly unaccountable to ourselves. There were not two\nin the battle who exposed themselves more, and Laidlaw averred that he\nsometimes saw twenty weapons raised against us at once, and that still,\nas we approached, the bearers of them seemed to lose the power of\nstriking. It was no wonder that we were impressed with deep awe, nor\nthat we both wished it had been in our power to have preserved the boy,\nover whose life there seemed to be some good guardian spirit permitted\nor appointed to watch. Our conversation was all about him. There had\nbeen a nest made for him in a pack of clothes. Laidlaw had led the horse\nhimself all the way, and the child had chatted to him, till the alarm\nwas given that we were waylaid, and he had then given the horse in\ncharge to one of the drivers, with particular injunctions to take care\nof the child; but he could not even remember who that driver was. I came\nup immediately after, and charged the lad to take care of the child;\nand, in the hearing of several of my followers, said that I would rather\nthey lost the whole drove than that ought should happen to him. But now\nwe had lost him; we had lost all but our horses and our swords.\n\nWe jogged on all the night in melancholy mood, crossed the Border, and\nthen turned westward toward the Cowd-Peel, which we reached about\nsun-rise. A little after the break of day, as we were coming through a\nhollow of the height, called the Spretty-Grain, we perceived something\nbefore us that appeared to be moving, and of a prodigious bulk, which,\nafter some hesitation we made up to, and found that the phenomenon\nconsisted of eight horses, all well loaden, and every one with its head\nyerked to the tail of the one before him; and all these were driven by\none yeoman on horseback, who rode beside them with a long goad in his\nhand.\n\nWe soon overtook and examined him; and never was I so much astonished in\nmy life as when I found it was my own henchman auld Will Nicol. He was\nvery dour and shy of communication at first.\n\n\"Will Nicol! Is it you?\" said I. \"How in the name of wonder did you\nescape?\"\n\n\"Humph! I think I may as weel speir that question at you: Humph!\" says\nWill.\n\n\"I thought you had fallen with the rest in the battle,\" said I.\n\n\"Humph! but I'm here,\" says Will. \"And I think there's mae here nor me:\nhumph! and I rather think I hae brought mair wi' me nor some fock:\nhumph! I'm comed as fu' handit as some fock, I think. Humph!\"\n\n\"But, Will, were you in the engagement?\"\n\n\"What need ye speir that? humph! Where was I else but in the\nengagement?\"\n\n\"And did you stay till it was over?\"\n\n\"Humph! I stayed lang aneuch, I think! humph! It is needless to wait\nower lang on a seen bad job. Humph!\"\n\nBut the real truth of the story was, that instead of staying till the\nbattle was ower, Will didna stay till it began, nor near that time. He\nwas an auld-farrant chap Will, and had a great deal o' foresight; and\nwhen he saw us begin to stop, and the English standing peaceably before\nus, _herding us_, as he ca'ed it, he was sure there were more enemies\ncoming up behind.\n\n\"Will, if I were sure that ye deserted our cause, and came off before\nthe engagement began,\" said I, \"although I have not a man left that I\nken o', but Will o' Craik and yoursel, may I be a coward and a traitor\nif I wadna cut you down i' the place where you stand.\"\n\nWill had nothing to say for himself but \"Humph! humph!\" and he scratched\nhis head and grumbled. I was quite indignant at the old fellow, and was\ngetting into a greater rage than ever I hae been in at a friend sinsyne,\nwhen all at once I heard a weak tremulous voice say, \"Daddy's boy cold.\"\n\n\"Aih-hay-hay!\" shouted Will Laidlaw, as loud as he could yell: \"Hilloa,\nhilloa, hilloa!\"--and he sprang first on the back of his own horse with\nhis feet, and from that he darted upon one of those that carried the\npacks. When I rode up he was sitting on the rumple o' the beast, hugging\nthe child, that he had deemed lost, in his bosom, kissing him, and\nexclaiming,--\"Aih, my man! my dear man, are ye safe? are ye safe? God\nbless auld Will Nicol! God bless auld Will Nicol!\"\n\nIt was impossible for two down-cast and broken-hearted warriors to be\nmore uplifted at any incident than Will Laidlaw and I were, at\ndiscovering that the boy was safe; and even auld Will Nicol began to\nrecover some confidence.--\"I heard you giving a chap some charges about\nhim, that I kend weel caredna if his head were off,--od, he was ane o'\nthe hard-headed Olivers. What cares an Oliver for a man's life, or a\nbairn's either?--Sae I thinks, sin my young master has ta'en a liking\nfor the bairn, I's e'en gang and look after him. It is a good sign of a\nyoung warrior to like to save women and bairns. Sae I gangs, and sae I\nthinks sin I is bringing away this wee chap out o' danger, I may as weel\nbring something wi' me as naething; sae I brings aught o' the best\nhorses, and the best laden anes that I could wale, and bound for the\nBorder. A fashous job I hae had wi' them a' night.\"\n\nIt is needless to tell how frankly auld Will was forgiven.\n\nThe Cowd-Peel being a rallying point on all Border raides, we stayed\nthere a whole day and a night, in hopes that some part of our men wad\ncome up; but out of all my fifty men there were none appeared but three\nof the Potts. The hard-headed Olivers had been slain to a man, and all\nthe Laidlaws save my brave companion. Out of ninety valiant Elliots\nthere were only twelve remaining, and some of these were of the drivers.\n\nThere were fifty-seven Scots, and nearly as many English, with\nBloody-Sark at their head, buried in one cairn; and, for the sake of the\nBishop, the English raised a heap of stones above them as huge as an\nabbey church, which will be seen on the height above the ford of Keilder\nfor ever.\n\nLaidlaw slept that night in a good bed with the boy in his arms, for we\nhad no lack of the finest blankets and sheets; and that night the white\nlady appeared to him again, claiming her child, yet still declining to\naccept of him, and promising Will protection on earth and a reward in\nheaven if he continued to guard and protect that boy. Whether this was\nin a dream or not, Laidlaw could not be positive; but he rather inclined\nto think he was wide awake, for he remembered of speaking to her\naudibly. Among other things, she asked him if he knew it was the child\nthat had slept by him on the waste the night before the battle. Will\nsaid he was sure. She asked him how. He answered, that \"unless the\nfairies had changed him it could nae be ony other.\"\n\n\"But the fairies or some one else may change him,\" said she. \"You may be\nseparated amid the confusion and uproar now on the Border; and when you\nmeet again, you may not be able to prove the identity of my child. I\nbade you the other night examine his bosom, but you neglected to do so.\nIf you had, you would there have found the spur of Ravensworth,\ntestifying his lineage and descent to all the world.\"\n\nWill came to me in a great ferment the next day, and told me of all\nthis. I had heard the same words the night before the battle, but had\nquite forgot them among other matters, and wist as little what they\nmeant as Will did.\n\n\"I hae lookit a' his bits o' claes, and graepit them a',\" said he; \"but\nI can find nae spur. How could there be a spur about a nakit bairn? It\nis may be in amang the blankets.\"\n\n\"It is perhaps some private mark,\" said I. \"Let us examine the child's\nbody very narrowly.\"\n\nOn doing so we found a slight mark on his breast, that seemed to have\nbeen made by applying a hot iron at some time previous, and it was\nexactly in the form of a V with the wrang end uppermost. So we both\nconcluded that this was a private mark of some family, that neither\nfairies nor men kend o', and that it was perhaps a stamp that keepit\nthem a' away.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"It is the stamp of the heirs lineal of the house of Neville,\" said the\nfriar; \"I have impressed it with my own hand, after many masses and Ave\nMarias said. What became of that child? or whither is he gone? I pray\nthee to inform us in the words of truth not lengthened out.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAlas, I cannot tell! He was visited by the white lady of Ravensworth\nevery night, and when the gloaming came she would be seen hovering on\nthe skirts of the wood near to him. I grew that I durstna sleep a night\nwithin ten miles o' him, and Will Laidlaw turned clean bumbazed about\nthe thing; sae we were obliged to send him to board wi' auld Lady\nLawder, her that was put out o' the convent for witchery and the ill\narts. She cared nought about spirits, and conversed wi' the white lady\nas she had been her door neighbour; and it was said there were strange\nmysterious sayings past between them. She book-learned the boy,\npen-learned the boy, and learned him mony other things foreby that were\nthought to be nae better than they should hae been. She chauntit sangs\ntil him, and tauld him tales, and, there was little doubt, meant to\nbreed him up to be a terrible enchanter; but afore that could be\neffeckit, the white lady came and took him away a' thegither.\n\nFrom that day he has never been seen or heard of in this world, neither\nas boy nor man. And now, sirs, I find that my story's worn to a head\nhair, and that I maun cut it short. So it is done, and that's an end\ntil't.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n    I have been a skipper in my time,\n    And something more. Anon, I'll tell it you.\n\n        OGILVIE.\n\n\n\"It is nae worth the name of a story that,\" said Tam Craik; \"for, in the\nfirst place, it is a lang story; in the second place, it is a confused\nstory; and, in the third place, it ends ower abruptly, and rather looks\nlike half a dozen o' stories linkit to ane anither's tails.\"\n\nThe poet was by this time on his feet, and, coming forward to Charlie,\nhe looked him sublimely in the face, stretched out his hand, and spoke\nas follows: \"There is some being, wheresoe'er he dwells, that watches\no'er the fates of mortal men: now do I know it. Yea, and that same being\nhas spirits of all casts at his command, that run, and fly, and trim,\nand trim, and trim about this world. And it is even true that I have\nseen of these, yet knew them not. Look here, brave hero, man of heart\nand hand! and see if thou canst note thy mark once seen? Thy spur; thy A\nwithout the crossing stroke; thy V with the wrong end upmost,--is it\nhere?\"\n\nThe poet bowed his breast, and exposed it to Charlie's eye, which, at\nthe first scrutinizing look, discerned the mark he had formerly\nseen,--the mark of the spur of Ravensworth. Charlie's visage altered\ninto lengthened amazement. It could scarcely have been more strongly\nmarked when he was visited by the white lady on Tersit moor, even when\nhe was glad to hide his face in the moss, and hold by the heather with\nboth his hands.\n\n\"And are you really the chap that I threw out at the window in the\ncastle of Ravensworth,\" said he, \"and boarded wi' auld lady Lawder? The\ncreature that had a ghaist for its guardian, and a witch for its nurse?\nBut what need I spier? My ain een convinces me. Gude faith but we are a\nqueer set that are prickit up on the top o' this tower thegither! I am\namaist terrified to enquire where you have been since the white lady\ntook you away; for ye must have been in the fairy land, or the country\no' the gruesome ghaists, or perhaps in a waur place than either.\"\n\n\"We are a queerer set than you are thinking of,\" said Tam; \"for here am\nI standing, Tam Craik, liege man and true to the brave Scottish Warden,\nand I carena wha kens it now; but I am neither less nor mair a man than\njust Marion's Jock o' the Dod-Shiel, that sliced the fat bacon, ate the\npet lamb, and killed the auld miser, Goodman Niddery. Here's the same\nwhittle yet, and ready at the service of ony ane that requires it for\nthe same end. Od, we seem to ken mair about ane anither than ony ane o'\nus kens about ourselves.\"\n\n\"The day wears on apace,\" said the Master; \"and I foresee that there is\nrelief approaching from more quarters than one.\" (This made all the\nparty spring to the windows to look.)--\"It is not yet visible to your\neyes, but it will come time enough. In the meanwhile, it would be as\nwell to get through with the stories, that we may know and fix on our\nvictim, for, perhaps, we may need a mart this night. And, it being now\nyour turn, liegeman Thomas, or John, by right of seniority, if you know\nof nothing better I should like much to hear the adventures of such a\npromising youth, from the day that you made away with the farmer to this\npresent time.\"\n\n\"Better, Master Michael Scott?\" said Tam. \"Better, does your honour say?\nNay, by my sooth I ken o' naething half sae good. I hae been an\nill-guided chap a' my life; but, as you will hear, I hae guided others\nat times but in a middling way.\"\n\n\nTam Craik's Tale.\n\nMy friend, the laird, has given you my early history, perhaps better\nthan I could hae done myself, but that is to judge of. He hath added and\ndiminished,--but yet he told his story wi' some life, and a' the better\nthat he didna ken wha heard him. In one thing he was wrong informed, for\nI was not seen on Kirtle-common that night I fled from the slaughter of\nthe old inveterate wretch. I ran in a contrary direction, and slept that\nnight in a moss-hagg, at the head of a water called Lanshaw Burn. Many\na hard night I have had, but that was one of the bitterest of them all.\nI did not rue having killed the goodman, for I rejoiced at having let\nout his dirty miserable life and saved my own,--but then I was sure to\nbe taken up and hanged for a murderer; and I was chased away from my\nmother and my country, and durst not face a human being. I saw some\ngoats and some sheep, and would gladly have killed one to have eaten,\nfor I saw hunger staring me in the face; but they would not let me come\nnear them. I likewise saw a shepherd's or forester's house, but kept\naloof; and going up into a wild bushy glen, I cried myself asleep, half\nnaked as I was, and slept till about the break of day. When I awakened,\nstarving with hunger and cold, I had no shift but to pull rashes and eat\nthe white ends of them, which I continued to do all that day whenever I\ncame to a rash bush. The next night I came to a solitary house, where I\nventured to go in, and there I first gave myself the name of Tam Craik,\ntelling abundance of lies as to my origin. The master of the house was\na wealthy vassal, and had great numbers of fat oxen, with cows and\ncalves, besides a few sheep, and he kept me to help him to herd these,\npromising me a grey coat if I attended to his satisfaction. He was a\nmost extraordinary man, and none of the best,--for his words and actions\nwere at variance: Though he conversed with me, or any one, with the\nutmost familiarity, I never found out that he had told me one word of\ntruth. The first friend that came to visit him after my arrival, he\noverloaded so with kindness, professions of friendship, and respect,\nthat I believed he loved him as his own soul; and, after he was gone, as\nmy master and I went out to the fields, I observed what a treasure it\nwas to have so good and so valued a friend as he had in that neighbour\nof his. What was my astonishment to hear from the same tongue\nthat had lauded him to the skies, that he was a cheat, a liar, and a\nscoundrel;--a greedy sordid wretch that robbed his own hinds, and such\nwandering pedlars as came by that road, not daring to venture on higher\ngame; one who seduced men's wives and daughters indiscriminately; and\nwas, in short, a perfect demon, and a pest to the whole neighbourhood.\n\"But, master, why did you caress and commend him so much to his face?\"\n\"O! that is all very well; that goes all for nothing. He is to be sure a\nvile scoundrel!\" \"There are queer people in this world,\" thought I:\n\"There is nothing for it, I see, but, _Tam, mind yoursel_.\"\n\nThe farmer continued very kind to me in his own deceitful way; but the\nmeat that we got was very bad. It consisted of lean beef, and venison as\nblack as soot, with plenty of milk; but as for bread we had none of any\ndescription. So, from the day that I entered to his service, I\ndetermined to kill a lamb, or a sheep of any sort, the first time I\ncould get one; but I never could get the least chance, and might as well\nhave tried to get hold of a deer. I could not help thinking of the\ndelicious feasting that I had in my little shieling, dear as it had like\nto have cost me; and every day my appetite for fat flesh became more\ninsufferable, till at last, by a grand expedient, I got satisfaction of\nit. I had thirty fat stots in my herd, and I observed that, in hurrying\nthem through a bog, they sunk, and stuck quite fast: so, having no other\nresource, I drove a few of them one day, when I was very hungry, into a\nmire in a wood, and rushing forward on them while they were struggling,\nI sticked the fattest among them to the heart, so that he floundered and\nbled to death in the slough. \"Well done again, Marion's Jock!\" said I to\nmyself. \"Here is feasting for you now! Here is a feast that will last\nyou a twelve month at odd times, if you can but preserve it.\" I declare\nwhen I began to cut up that huge animal, I almost trembled at my\natrocity; but these kind of feelings soon wear off. I was obliged to eat\nsome collops that day without any cooking, and never relished ought\nbetter; I wish we saw such a meal again! My thin yellow beard was a\nlittle discoloured to be sure, but that was nothing; I washed it, and\nwent home as boldly among the rest as if nothing wrong had been done.\n\nWhen I returned to my prey, I found to my great grief that the foxes,\ndogs, ravens, and every savage beast and hind on these mountains, were\ndetermined to share with me; they had actually eaten more in that one\nnight than would have served me a week;--so the next day I employed\nmyself in cutting off all the good, fat, and savoury pieces, and\nsecreted them in well-springs, covering them up with stones; this I did\nto preserve them from the beasts and from putrefaction; and that day I\nam sure I had at least ten stones weight of excellent beef,--the white\nand red were so beautifully mixed, it did one's heart good to look at\nit.\n\nPleasures are of short date, and the greatest pleasures have the\nshortest! My master went over the lake next day to look at my herd, and\nI knew the ox would be missed. Had it not been for my beloved beef I\nwould have made my escape forthwith; but my heart was knit to it, and\nfor my life I could not leave it. I went home at night in great terror,\nbut to my joy I never saw my master half so kind. He told me I had\nsuffered one of my stots to be stolen, but what could the like of me\nhelp it: he had a rough guess who had taken him, and would perhaps make\nhim repent it. I was perfectly overjoyed at this construction, and\nresolved to revel in feasting and gladness; but next day when I went\nback to my ox, the hide was neatly taken off him, so also was the head,\nand both were taken away. This was perfectly unaccountable to me; and I\nsaw the marks of men's feet in the mire, confirming the fact that some\nbody had been there stealing the head and the skin of my ox, which were\nin my eyes not worth half the labour of taking them off. I knew not what\nto make of this, but it was evident that my prey had been discovered by\nsome one; and all that I could calculate farther on was, that the hide\nhad been stolen by some body who stood in need of it for shoes, and the\nhead by one who wanted bugle-horns. It was all one to me, as I grew more\nand more a favourite with my master, who now began to caress me more\nthan his own sons. No young lad in the land could be more thrifty about\nmeat than I was. Being anxious to have the remainder of my bullock out\nof sight, I stole salt and a small barrel, and salted my stuff in a hole\nbelow ground; then, when no very good meat was going by day at my\nmaster's house, I often fasted the greater part of it, and then taking a\ncoal by night, I stole away into the wood, and roasted, and boiled, and\nfeasted the whole night. The beef was delicious, and it was amazing what\ngreat quanties I sometimes snapped up at once; for even after I thought\nI could eat no more, there was a part of white marrowy substance about\nthe joints, and the sides of the bones, that I could not give over--no\nman could give it over. Marry, how delicious it was! I account that fine\nmeat mixed with white, that lies wedged in along the doublings and\nshelves of the bones, as the most glorious species of man's food;--round\nthe broad shoulder-bone, for instance, the spool-bone,--that through\nwhich we look for the storms. Think but of the layers of the red and\nthe white that lie bedded around that. Peatstacknowe, let me feel your\nshoulder. I suppose a man has no spool-bone,--ah no!--none! Blessed\nVirgin! when shall I again shire the long crooked slices of the red\nmeat, mixed with white, from the flats and the hollows of a broad\nspool-bone!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"He is hungering and yearning to pick my bones, the cannibal dog,\" said\nGibby. \"But it brings me in mind of a good saying and a true: The swine\nthat is most eager to feed itself is the first slaughtered to feed\nothers.\"\n\n\"The horse-leach hath drawn thee aside from thy onward relation, thou\nfroward and voracious one,\" said the friar: \"Verily, it is better for\nthee that thou return to thy tale, before thy strength be consumed\nwithin thee.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe loss of this sturdy ox of my master's gave rise to strange matters;\nmatters which quite confounded my judgment, and which to this day I do\nnot comprehend. My master went away to the sheriff, and the lord of the\nmanor, and made a complaint that his neighbour before-mentioned had\nstolen one of his cattle, the best that he had on his farm. This was the\nman that he caressed so much, yet knew to be a scoundrel. The complaint\nwas attended to, and the injury deeply resented. My master returned with\na strong body of men, and orders to seize Glendairg, and search all his\npremises; and if evidence appeared against him, he was to be carried\nbefore Lord William, called the Severe, and there imprisoned in the\ndungeon till time should be given him to clear himself, which, if he\nfailed to do in a certain period, he was to be swung. All my master's\nservants, men and women, were ordered to proceed with the party; I went\namong the rest, and certainly never witnessed so curious a scene.\nGlendairg came out and met the party with all the consciousness of\ninnocence; and even when he was seized and bound, he still appeared to\ndoubt of the sincerity of the men, espepecially when they told him it\nwas at the instance of my master.\n\n\"If that is all, it is well,\" said he; \"I am sure my kind friend and\nneighbour can mean me no ill by it.\"\n\nMy master took him aside, and said to him in the kindest and most\nsoothing manner, \"Do not be the least disheartened, my dear friend: You\nknow how far I would be from injuring you. I would not do it for all the\ncows in my byre. I ken weel wha has the ox. There is little doubt but he\nis in our neighbour Bauldy's beef stand. I have long suspected him, and\nmany is the good beast I have lost. You little know how many good beasts\nI have lost, and was still so loth to make it public. But I can suffer\nit no longer. Let the skaith fall upon the skaither. In the mean time I\nknow you are quite innocent, but I instituted this search as a blind to\nhim: You must just submit and never mind it.\"\n\n\"O, very well, neighbour, very well,\" said Glendairg; \"I knew you could\nnot intend me any ill,--search all out and in, and welcome.\"\n\nThey did so; they searched all out and in, and at last, when about to\ngive up, they found the individual ox's hide that I slew in the bog,\nlying hid deep below some hay and corn in the corner of a barn. In\nanother place still more unfeasible, they found the ox's head. They were\nboth laid upon the green, and my master and all his servants, myself\nincluded, swore to their identity, as we could not do otherwise.\nGlendairg looked like one bewildered, and said there was a plot laid\nagainst his life, which he neither understood, suspected, nor merited.\nThe shrieve's officers laughed him to scorn, and proposed to hang him up\non the nearest tree; and I believed they would have done it, had it not\nbeen for the kindness of my master, who came forward with tears in his\neyes, and addressed them somewhat thus:\n\n\"Alas, my masters, this is a heavy and a sorrowful sight for me! This is\nthe bitterest day of my life! I have lost many and many good cattle, and\nyet I would not,--I could not, let myself suspect my intimate friend.\nThink how I am grieved to see these proofs. Yet perhaps he may be\ninnocent, and this may be some vile plot laid against his life. I beg,\ntherefore, that he may be set at liberty, and the whole business hushed\nup.\"\n\n\"You are a good man and a kind,\" said the men; \"but this thing must not\nbe. With our lord and master, justice must have sway; but we will report\nyour goodness and generosity to him, and be sure it will not go\nunrewarded. We can assure you, that this man has not only forfeited his\nlife, but all his farms, as well as his stock of cattle and sheep to\nyourself.\"\n\nFor all this my master refused to be comforted, but wept and followed\nafter the men, pleading for the life and the freedom of his friend, but\nhe pleaded in vain; the men bound him on a horse, and carried him away\nwith them to the dungeon of the castle of Coombe. I marvelled greatly at\nthe great kindness and generosity of my master, knowing, as he did, that\nthe man was a scoundrel; but I wondered far more what could induce the\nman to steal the hide and the head from off my ox.\n\nMy master was a married man, and had four children; and though he\nwas apparently a kind husband, his wife seemed quite unhappy and\ndiscontented, which I thought highly unreasonable on her part. She knew\nmore, however, than I did; and there are some small matters that women\nnever patiently put up with. He had a number of servant-maids for the\npurpose of milking cows, making hay, and cheeses, and such things; and\namong them there was a very pretty one named Kelly, with whom he had\nfallen in love; and, after long toying and courting, he had seduced her.\nI knew nothing about these sorts of concerns; but I thought Kell, as we\ncalled her, the most beautiful, sprightly, and innocent being that\nlived, and I liked to look at her and hear her speak; and whenever she\ncame near me, I was like to fall a-trembling. She slept with a little\nchild in a large open loft, above the room where my master and mistress\nslept; and it so happened that something came by night and frightened\nher, and she refused to sleep there any longer without some one beside\nher. I slept by myself in one of the out-houses; and it was immediately\nproposed by my master that my bed should be removed, and put up in the\nloft beside Kell's. I was drunken with delight at hearing this\nintelligence; yet I pretended to be very averse to the plan, hanging my\nhead, and turning about my back, when any one spoke of it, nor would I\nanswer a word to one of them but \"Tutt,\" or \"tutts.\"\n\n\"Tam Nosey, it seems ye're gaun to be bedded wi' bonny Kell the night?\"\n\n\"Tutt!\"\n\n\"Ye're gaun up to sleep beside her, and do ye think ye'll never brik\nlair?\"\n\n\"Tutt!\"\n\n\"She's a bonny burd yon, Tam, ye maun tak care.\"\n\n\"Tutts!\"\n\nWell, up I went the next night to sleep in a bed that stood side by\nside, or rather end by end, with that of Kell. Oh I was so terrified for\nher, or for having any communication with her, that I would not speak a\nword even when she spoke to me, but covered myself over the head with\nthe bed-clothes, and lay puffing till I was like to choak for want of\nbreath. I did not sleep well at all. I could not sleep, for she was\nalways yawning, and then saying, \"Heigh-ho!\" and then hushing the child\nto sleep. The next night I ventured to lye with my head out from beneath\nthe clothes, unless when she spoke, which alarmed me exceedingly; and so\nI did the next night again, behaving myself with great magnanimity. At\nlength I came to that pass, that when she spake to me I did not creep\ndown beneath the bed-clothes, but only made a great bustle and flinging\nas if I _had been_ hiding myself. This practice of deception I continued\nfor several nights, always making more and more pouncing and scraping\nevery time she addressed me. She laughed at me, and seemed highly\namused, which made me still the worse. At length she said one night,\n\"Pray do not creep through the house for fright; what makes you so\nafraid of me? what ill do you think I will do to you? Heigh-ho, Nosey! I\nwish the bogle may not come to-night. I am afraid it will come, for I\nthought I heard it. Look that it do not rise at the back of your bed,\nfor that is a very dangerous place. If it come, Nosey, I must either\ncome in beside you, or you must come in beside me.\"--\"Tutts!\" said I,\nand that was my first word of courting; the first syllable that I spoke\nto Kell in that luckless loft. I said, \"Tutts!\"\n\nI suspected no evil intention on the part of my kind and indulgent\nmaster, and far less on that of Kell; indeed, how could I suspect\neither? One day he said to me in the fields, \"I do not know what to do\nabout you and that wench Kell: for both your sakes I believe I must\nseparate you. She is fallen in love with you, quite over head and ears,\nand has been complaining to our dame of your unkindness to her. We have\na great regard for the girl, and cannot part with her,--but, out of\nrespect for you both, you must be separated. I will, however, trust you\ntogether until next week; and if she do not complain any more, you may\nremain where you are; but I suppose I will be obliged to part with you\nthen, though against my will.\"\n\nThis was a terrible stound to my heart, and shewed my master's masterly\npolicy; for, notwithstanding of all my pretended aversion to the company\nof women, and to that of pretty Kell in particular, I would not have\nbeen parted from her at that time for all the world, not even for all\nthe beef and bacon that was in it. I did not know well how to make up\nmatters with her so as to retain my place, but I thought I would try. So\nthat night I sat down on my own bed-side with my clothes on, and\nscratched my head, and beat with my bare heel against the loft; but she\nhad lost all hope of gaining me to the measures agreed on between her\nand her master, and took no heed of me till I was obliged to speak first\nmyself, when the following highly interesting dialogue passed between\nus:\n\n\"I'm unco feared the bogle come the night, Kell.\"\n\n\"So am I!\"\n\n\"I wasna sure, but I thought I heard it yestreen!\"\n\n\"I aince thought that I heard it a wee too!\"\n\n\"How does it play when it is gaun to rise?\"\n\n\"It begins a scart, scarting, like a rattan, making holes, I fancy, to\ncome out and take us away.\"\n\n\"Aih! then it has just been it that I heard!\"\n\n\"Oh! I'se warrant it was, and that I heard too!\"\n\n\"Ay; O it's terrible! we're ill, ill set here! but I'll watch a' night,\nand keep it aff you, Kelly.\"\n\nWith that I came and sat down on the side of her bed, to keep the\ninvidious scratching bogle away from her; but I soon became drowsy, and\nwas like to fall down. She begged me to lay down my head on her pillow,\nbut I would not hear of that. Oh! no, no, I durst not lie down there; so\nI stretched me on the loft at her bed-side, and fell asleep. Awakening\nbefore day, the first thing I heard was the bogle scratching. Kell had\nstretched her arm below the bed, on the side opposite to me, and was\nscratching slowly and fearfully; then, pretending to awake, she hid\nherself among the bed-clothes, muttered prayers, and cried, \"Heigh-ho!\"\nI groaned; and, stretching my hand round the corner, scratched on the\nother side, even more solemnly, and at more awful intervals than she\nhad affected; so that we lay in great tribulation till the dawning of\nthe day.\n\nAfraid that I had still been too slightly obliging, and that I run the\nrisk of being separated from her, I studied the whole day on the most\nbecoming way of conducting myself, and entered on several most amorous\nresolutions; but the higher my resolves were, the more pusillanimous was\nmy behaviour when put to the test. I durst not even touch the side of\nher bed that night; but the wicked unsonsy bogle still continued its\nscratchings, sometimes on the one side of the bed, and sometimes on the\nother, I was therefore obliged once more to sit down on her bed side, to\nguard her from its inroads. In sitting there I dropt asleep, and my head\nfell down on her pillow--it was impossible I could help that; and then\nshe kindly laid the uppermost coverlet over me for fear of my catching\ncold; but I was by far too sound asleep to perceive it. She had to pull\nthe covering from below me, in order that she might lay it above\nme,--for all that I did not awake, which was a great pity, but always\nas she made the greatest stir, I sniffed the louder. A while after, I\nturned myself about, and gave my head a ketch toward the back of the\nbed, till my cheek came in contact with something soft; but it was in my\nsleep,--and I was in one so so profound, that I could not possibly know\nwhat that thing was. What a fright I got next morning on perceiving my\nsituation! I sprung from the bed, and ran away to the hills to my\ncharge, without speaking a word.\n\nI was, however, quite intoxicated with delight, and endeavoured to\ningratiate myself with my master, by paying every possible attention to\nhis behests, lest I should lose so delightful a place both for stolen\nmeat and approaching pleasures, which I perceived would still grow more\nand more sublime, and was glad when he said to me one day that Kell had\ngiven over complaining of my rudeness and incivility, and he would trust\nme as her companion for a little while longer. In the mean while, I was\nto take care and do nothing improper; but he had such trust to put in\nme, he was not afraid of that.\n\nHe was informed every day by this subservient beauty how matters\nproceeded; so he let them go on by degrees till they arrived at such a\ncrisis as he desired, which was no more than a boy lying on a girl's\nbed-side with his clothes on. He then came up with a light one night at\nmidnight to see how his child was resting, pretending that he thought\nher ill, and found me lying sound asleep, where perhaps I should not\nhave been, though I was as innocent and as free of his mistress as the\nchild that lay in her bosom. He was in great wrath, and pulled me over\nthe bed, giving me two or three gentle thwacks with his open hand: he\nalso rebuked her very sharply, but said to us before going away: \"Keep\nyour own secret. For both your sakes I will conceal what I have seen,\nalthough you have acted so _very_ improperly; but let me never catch you\nin the like fault again. If the church get hold of you, you are both\nundone.\"\n\nI was dreadfully ashamed; and thence-forward felt my heart quite\nreckless and desperate, disregardful of all danger or propriety; and my\nmaster made me still worse by telling me that I was to part from Kell in\na few days, but that he did not like to put me away just then, for fear\nof awakening suspicions against us, for he had a great regard for us\nboth! I laid all these things to heart, and could not then have staid\nfrom Kell's bed-side a night, if my head had been to answer for it next\nday. One night we were informed that some strangers had come to the\nhouse and were making merry, and before we went to bed our master sent\nus something to eat and drink. I thought there was something going on\nthat night, for I heard a great deal of muttering and saying of\npaternosters till a late hour. However, I took up my old birth, and\nafter a while fell sound asleep. About midnight we were awaked by four\nor five gruff looking fellows, with long beards, and staves in their\nhands, who ordered us both to get up and dress ourselves. Our master\nmade a speech to them, lamenting our guilt, and, with tears in his eyes,\nbeseeching their clemency toward us; but at the same time said, that he\ncould not suffer such immoralities under his roof: he had a family of\nhis own coming up, and bad example was pernicious. Then he related what\nstrict injunctions he had given us, yet we had continued to persist in\nour wicked unlawful courses; that, therefore, he had been obliged to\ngive us up as lawless and irreclaimable delinquents.\n\nAll that he could now do was to intreat theirs and the holy fathers'\nmerciful clemency towards the youthful offenders; for that, although we\nhad both mocked and set at defiance the statutes of holy church, he had\nhopes of our repentance and amendment: And with that he delivered us\nover to the officers of the church, whom he had trysted and suborned for\nthat purpose. They said he was a good man, but that the offenders must\nneeds suffer a heavy penance, in order that they might be again rendered\npure and without blame, in the eyes of their fostering and protecting\nparent.\n\nWhen Kell saw that she was betrayed and abandoned, her grief and\ndespair knew no bounds, and she would doubtless have accused her master\nto his face had she been able to articulate aught distinctly,--but she\nfell into fits, and they hurried her away. We were confined to cells in\ndifferent religious houses, but both in the same ward. It is well known\nwhat tyranny prevails here, and what vengeance is wreaked against all\nthose guilty of breaches of morality, especially if those possessed of\nriches or power desire it; but it is nothing to that which predominates\nover the west country, where I then was. They fed me on bread and water,\nthough I asked for fat flesh, and longed for it every hour of the day:\nand always when the people assembled to worship, I was put in the juggs;\nthat is, I was chained to the kirk wall with an iron collar about my\nneck, and every boy brought a rotten egg, or some filth, and threw at\nme, till I was all over bedaubed and plastered like a rough stone wall.\nThe men gave me a kick, and the old maids spit upon me as they passed,\nbut the young women looked on me with pity; and the old wives, before\nmy time of penance was expired, espoused my cause, and defended me from\nthe rabble. I heard them saying to one another, \"Poor fellow, somebody\nmay be the better o' him yet. What wad the mother that bore him say if\nshe saw him standing in that guise? Surely she wad think the punishment\nfar outwent the crime.\"\n\nOne day, just when I was about to be set at liberty, I saw my kind\nmaster speaking to some of the holy brethren, and was glad when I saw\nhim, thinking I saw the face of the only man on earth that cared for me.\nBut he came with a different intent from what I supposed, namely, with\nthe benevolent one of getting me hanged. He said he had missed some\nmoney out of his house ever since I came away; and though he should be\nsorry indeed to find any part of it on me, for his own satisfaction he\nrequested to search my clothes in their presence, to which I submitted\nwithout reluctance, being conscious of my innocence. But he that hides\nknows best where to seek. It was not long before my kind master took out\nfrom between several of the button-holes in the breast of my grey coat,\ntwo gold moudiwarts, three silver merks, and several placks and bodles.\nIn vain did I protest that I knew nothing about them; the brethren\npronounced me the most incorrigible wretch and vagabond that traversed\nthe face of the earth; and, as their jurisdiction extended not to such\ncrimes as this, they sent me off with the proofs of my guilt to Lord\nWilliam for judgment and execution. I shall never forget the figure I\ncut that day when brought before Lord William, and accused. I was in a\nwretched state as to clothes, having stood so long in the juggs. I had\nbeen hungered almost to death, and maltreated in every way, and\naltogether looked extremely ill. He asked them to go over the charges\nagainst me, when one of the brethren came forward and spoke to him as\nfollows:\n\n\"My noble Lord and benefactor, a worthy gentleman within our bounds of\ncensure and controul, lodged a complaint with us against two of his\nservants that had been tempted by the devil to fall into lawless and\nsinful communication; and notwithstanding of all his admonitions and\nthreatenings of church discipline, they not only continued in their\nmal-practices, but every day grew worse and more abandoned. He therefore\nprayed us to take cognizance of the offence, which, for the sake of\ntheir souls, and the general benefit of our community, we undertook.\nAccordingly, my lord, as he suggested, we went disguised as strangers,\nand at midnight we found this same young gentleman lying snugly in bed\nbeside our friend's principal maid-servant, the very maiden to whom he\nhad entrusted the care of his children, one of whom lay in the bed with\nthem. Think of the atrocity of this my lord, and look at the man!\"\n\nThe judge did so, and could not help smiling.\n\n\"What do you say to that master?\" said he, \"Is it truth?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said I.\n\nThis answer made him burst out a laughing. \"Upon my word,\" said he,\n\"you are a most extraordinary youth! Was the girl pretty, say you,\nmonk?\"\n\n\"The woman was indeed very beautiful, my lord.\"\n\n\"She has been blessed, however, with a singular taste. I think the\nstripling may almost be excused for this crime.\"\n\nThe monk then related the circumstances of the stolen money having been\nfound on me, at which the judge shook his head, and said, \"Alak, it is\nall over with him. He is unfit to live. What do you say to this, sirrah?\nIs it true?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said I.\n\n\"True that you stole your master's money?\" said he.\n\n\"No, I never stole it, but it is true that it was there.\"\n\n\"What? you found it I suppose? Tell me the truth, did not you find it?\"\n\n\"No, I never found it, nor ever saw it till it was taken out of my coat\nyesterday. I never had either gold or silver in my hand in my life.\"\n\n\"Your woman took it and sewed it in for you, then, I suppose?\"\n\n\"I do not know who took it, or how it came there, but there it certainly\nwas.\"\n\n\"Did you ever part with your coat to your sweetheart? Did you ever lend\nher it to mend, or leave it at home with her?\"\n\n\"I have often on warm weather left my coat at home for three or four\ndays rinning.\"\n\n\"But you declare you did not take the money?\"\n\n\"I never saw the money, nor heard of it till yesterday.\"\n\nWhen I said this, he looked stedfastly on me as if he had discovered\nsomething he saw not before. There was no man on earth could discover\ntruth like Lord William. \"Who is this youth's accuser?\" said he. They\ntold him it was sleeky Tam.\n\n\"I have observed of late,\" said he, \"that that gentleman never searches\nthat he does not find, and never accuses that he does not bring proof. I\nhave caused several to be executed on the evidences raised by him, and\nhave always remarked that he is the only profiter by their being put\ndown. We must move with more caution. Let that wench be brought before\nme, and stop the execution of Jock's Sandy, whom I ordered to be hanged\nto-morrow.\"\n\nMy late benevolent master was watching the course of these events with\npunctuality, and was terribly chagrined when he heard that his neighbour\nJock's Sandy was reprieved. He was almost beside himself; but, having\ngreat influence with the holy brethren, he persuaded them to retain Kell\nunder their jurisdiction, and not give her up to Lord William. In the\ncourse of his scrutiny he had likewise discovered some of his gold\npieces on her, and had doomed her to destruction with the rest; yet, at\nthe same time, he told the holy fathers to be lenient, and altogether to\noverlook that fault, which had originated from the first, and that was\none to which youth was liable. He conjured them not to give her up to\nWilliam the Severe, who would infallibly doom her to an ignominous\ndeath. If she had deserved that, he said, it was much better that she\nshould die privately, in which case he would pay seventy merks annually\nto the church for the securing of her soul. He was frightened for the\nmeeting of so many criminals before Lord William, wicked as we were; and\nso high was the influence of the convent, of which this was a branch,\nthat the brethren refused to give up the offender to Lord William's\nofficers.\n\nAfter my first examination was over, I was thrust into a dungeon beside\nJock's Sandy, who had been cast to die for stealing the ox which I\nmyself slew; and, when we began to converse freely together, what a\ntissue of deceit was unraveled! He asked me if I knew any thing about\nthat ox for which he was to lose his life! I said I knew very well about\nthe ox, for I had killed him myself: \"And what a great fool you were,\"\nsaid I, \"to incur so much danger for the sake of a nout's hide and a\npair of horns, for these you certainly did steal.\"\n\nThe man was perfectly amazed when I told him all the truth, and promised\nto procure me as much fat flesh as I could eat every day, if I would\ntell the truth of the story to Lord William. I catched at the offer, for\nI had suffered so much in my stomach of late, that I would have done\nfar more than he required of me for such an advantage. Indeed I would\nhave done any thing, or said any thing in the world, that I might once\nmore enjoy my beloved mess. He proved as good as his word, for before\nnight the keeper brought me a whole apron full of bits and scraps of the\nfattest meat that I ever saw,--beef, mutton, and pork. There were some\nsquare pieces of perfect, pure white fat, that I sliced down like\ncheese! They were from the flanks of fat beeves, the briskets of\nwedders, and the ribs of fatted hogs; and I could not but admire the\nwant of good taste among the gentles who had left these savoury bits to\ntheir slaves and prisoners. I was so delighted that I could not sleep by\nnight, but always awakened from my straw and fell a-munching. I wish we\nsaw such a feast again; but, indeed I saw nothing, for our house was in\nutter darkness; but it was a good meat-house, and I could have been\ncontent to have lived in it all my life.\n\nIn a few days I was once more carried above ground for examination,\nwhere I told the whole truth boldly, but was not believed. No one would\ngive credit to the tale, that I had slain one of my master's fattest\noxen for the sake of good cheer; such a thing, they said, would never\ncome into a stripling's head, and I had been suborned to my evidence by\nmy fellow prisoner. Lord William asked if there was any proof remaining\nthat I could produce in support of my assertion? I said I had a part of\nthe beef remaining, well salted up in a barrel below ground, and covered\nwith a moss divot; and that I had likewise some hid for fresh meat in\nsome cold well springs, and I would shew them these if they liked. I was\nsent with a guard, and shewed them the remains of my ox; and when this\nwas reported to Lord William, he called me a rogue and a glutton, and\ncaused them to tie a rope about my neck and lead me through the streets\nof the town naked, lashing me with a whip all the way. He then bade me\nmake off with myself, for if I was found within twenty miles of that\nplace where I stood, he would cause me to be hewed in pieces.\n\nMy late master was taken up, and examined face to face with those he had\naccused; but how he contrived to elude justice I never knew: ten years\nafter, one informed me that the dame Kelly had accused him before Lord\nWilliam of having seduced her, and that in the most disgraceful way, and\nthen of forcing me into the situation in which I was caught, for a\nscreen to his own guilt and shame. For all that, it seems poor Kell was\nreturned to the convent, and never more heard of, and sleeky Tam\npossesses both his own and his neighbour's farm at this day.\n\nI had begun to think that ill deeds throve best; but I now conceived\nthat I had paid very dearly indeed for my late pleasures of feasting and\nlove, being almost flayed alive. I cried bitterly as I fled, and cursed\nLord William and his raggamuffians that had scourged me, and vowed to\nmyself, if I lived to be a man, that I would be revenged on them. I\nlikewise cursed my deceitful master, but I did not curse poor Kell;\nindeed I found that it was for her I wept most bitterly, thinking\nmyself the cause of all her shame and suffering.\n\nI fled next into a country called Galloway, a place which some of you\nmay have heard of by chance; but I found it the worst meat country, and\nthe worst country altogether, that I had ever seen. I lived there for a\nnumber of years, leading a sort of vagabond life, but quite an\nhonourable one. I learned naturally among them to be a great thief, and\nan acute liar; but I never stole any thing but fat flesh, nor do I\naccount any thing else worthy of running the risk for--from that no\ndanger ever could, or ever shall debar me. I care not much what sort it\nbe, provided it be juicy, and a layer of white next the bone. I wonder\nwhether men's flesh is likest to beef, or mutton, or venison?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"I wish ye wadna always turn your green een on me that gate when you\nspeak about your fat flesh,\" said Gibbie. \"I assure you, mine is neither\nlike beef, nor mutton, nor venison; and, what is more, you shall never\ntaste it. I appeal to you all, masters and friends, if this man has not\nfairly fallen through his tale.\"\n\n\"I suppose it must be very like veal, then,\" continued Tam; \"and if so,\nI have seen a joint of cold veal very excellent meat, more especially\nthat adjoining the white gristly part; with a little salt, a man can eat\na great deal of that without being any thing the worse.\"\n\n\"My masters, I do protest against these carnivorous looks of the\nstory-teller,\" rejoined Gibbie; \"they make ane feel so queerly. It is as\nif he were tearing my flesh quick from the banes with his teeth. And I\ncall you to note that he has sticked a story, which, from the beginning,\nis no story.\"\n\n\"Stay till it be done, an you please,\" said Tam; \"the best of my tale is\nyet to come; and any man may be allowed a breathing space and a little\nrefreshment.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt Castle-Fern I fell in with an old man called the Gorb, an itinerant\nfencer, who travelled the country teaching the art of the sword. To him\nI attached myself, somewhat against his will; for I saw that, though he\nwas not everywhere a welcome guest, he was nevertheless a privileged\none, and always admitted. He was six feet high, with a beard that hung\nto his middle, and his frame was entirely composed of bones and sinews.\nThe feats that he described to me of warrior prowess first raised in me\na desire to learn his noble art; and as soon as I began to manifest a\npartiality for his profession, he began to attach himself to me, but in\na manner so ungracious, that if I had not been a being quite desperate,\nI never could have borne it. We moved on from place to place; the young\nmen of the country assembled in parties, as we passed, to attend his\nlessons; and at night we had free-quarters wherever we went; that is,\nthe Gorb was a free man,--but many pointed inuendos were thrown out\nagainst my introduction as an additional burden. These people had better\nhave let the matter pass over, for he did not fail to pay them back with\ninterest in bitter and sarcastic retorts. On some of these occasions he\ngave me a terrible character of the country and its inhabitants.\n\n\"You are come, poor man, to sojourn in the worst country under the cope\nof heaven,\" said he, \"into a place where there is no faith, no honour,\nno money, and very little meat.\"\n\n\"What do they live on in general?\" said I.\n\n\"On some wretched roots, pulse, and black corn,\" said he; \"some lean\nunhealthy fish, and still more lean and sapless cattle.\"\n\n\"I like the country a great deal the worse,\" said I. \"Is the flesh here\nso very lean?\"\n\n\"Why ask?\" said he; \"have you not witnessed it?\"\n\n\"No, I am very sorry I have not,\" said I. \"I supposed it had been lent\nin this country. As for their faith or honour I care not a pin. Their\nmoney is of little avail to me; but I hate to stay in a country where\nthere is no meat: and how they can transact business without money is\nbeyond my comprehension.\"\n\n\"They have none, however,\" said he, \"nor was there ever any in this\ncountry. They transact all their business on a thing called credit,\nwhich commonly attaches itself to a man for a number of years, sometimes\nfor a long, and sometimes a very short term. This enables him to cheat\nhis neighbours for a time, and all his exertions tend only to this,\nnamely, how many he can take in, and to what amount; and when he has\ngone as far as this ideal quality of his can carry him, he takes to the\nbent, and leaves them all in the lurch. This is the exact state of this\nblessed country called Galloway, and will be its state as long as it\ncontinues to exist. The only rational hope concerning it is, that, as it\nis a sort of butt-end of the creation, it will perhaps sink in the\nocean, and mankind will be rid of it.\"\n\nHe then took a hearty fiendish laugh at the conceit of the country being\nsunk, and went on.--\n\n\"After all, I cannot help being amazed at the rascally crew. Do not you\nsee how suspicion and distrust are stamped on every countenance? Every\nman makes a bargain with apparent reluctance, and with a dread that his\nneighbour is going to cheat him; and he is never mistaken. Such is the\ncountry, and such are the people to whom you have now come, and such\nmust they ever continue to remain. It is in their nature to be so, and\nthey cannot be otherwise. Here am I, their master and benefactor, who\nhave spent my life in teaching them the noblest of all sciences, without\nwhich they could not have defended their country. I have taught every\nchief in the country, and every one of their vassals, and how am I\nrequited? Ill-clothed, worse fed, and not a bodle in my purse. All my\nrecompense is the freedom of living a life of fatigue and wretchedness.\"\n\n\"I will not stay another night in the country of such a parcel of\nrogues,\" said I.\n\n\"You are wrong,\" answered he: \"It is the best country you can be in. You\nhave nothing to lose, and you may gain much. Experience is a man's\ngreatest riches; and of that you will gain abundance. You will here\nlearn hourly how to oppose cunning to cunning; and I will teach you the\nnoble art of opposing masterly skill to brutal force, until you may\nhaply be established as my assistant and successor.\"\n\n\"I would rather dispense with the honour,\" said I: \"You are too lean for\nme to think of being your successor. Were you a fat full-fed man, I\nwould not say what I might do to attain the distinction; but I have made\nup my mind to one thing, which is, always to have my meat, honestly if I\ncan, but at all events to have it.\"\n\n\"You are so far right in your principle,\" said he: \"For when we consider\nof it, a man can have very little more than his meat in this world, for\nall the struggling and strife there is in it. But since you set so high\na value on good living, I can, if I please, assist you to it; for, poor\nand wretched as I appear, and as I am, I have a right to call for and\ncommand the best in every house. I could likewise take their clothes,\nfor money they have none; but it would be like tearing the hearts out of\nthe dogs,--so I content myself with the meanest fare, rather than humble\nmyself to ask ought of them.\"\n\n\"You are an extraordinary man,\" said I: \"But when I look at you, I\ncannot conceive this privilege of yours to exist in aught but in\ntheory.\"\n\n\"You shall see,\" said he. \"What sort of meat would you prefer?\"\n\n\"Fat flesh at all times and all seasons,\" said I: \"There is nothing like\nthat. Whether it be the flesh of bullock, hog, or wedder, the fattest is\nalways the best.\"\n\n\"What a kite! What a raven! What a dog!\" exclaimed he: \"Well, you shall\nhave it, if it were but to kill you of a surfeit.\"\n\nWe were lying in a barn when this discourse occurred, and I could not\nbut wonder what the old fellow would do. It was customary for us to take\nour breakfast at the place where we lodged, and if I might judge from\nour supper, the place where we then were gave no prospect of very rich\nfare.\n\nThe breakfast was produced; a quantity of black brochen and lentiles.\nThe master of defence wist not how to break the ice by introducing a\nrefusal of the proffered meal! but he considered himself as pledged\nto me, and his haughty spirit would not succumb. His looks were\nparticularly embarrassed and amusing, and I saw that he would gladly\nhave been free of his engagement, as he began a long palaver of general\nremarks. I kept up my good hopes, and gave him always an expecting look\nnow and then, to make him hold to his resolution. The people of the\nhouse paid little attention to his harangue, till at length he concluded\nwith these words:\n\n\"Such being the case, and such the state of the country, I am obliged\nnow to claim all my rights, privileges, and dues from every vassal of my\nlord of Galloway, as well as from every subject of our liege lord the\nking, whose commission I bear. Goodman Latchie, I accept no more of\nblack croudy and lentiles for breakfast: I claim, order, and command the\nbest that is in this house. In place of that hog's meat, let us have a\nrasher on the coals, if you so please.\"\n\n\"The muckle fiend be atween your teeth, then, to choak you wi' the first\nbite!\" said the goodwife.\n\n\"Farmer Latchie, I contend not with women,\" said the man of the sword:\n\"Are you aware of my rights, or do you know and dispute them?\"\n\n\"I consider yours as merely a nominal right,\" said he, \"which no man is\nbound to fulfil, because no man does it. All my lord's vassals treat you\nwith common fare. Why should I do more?\"\n\nWith that a raw-boned young man stepped forward, with a black beard and\na ruffian look. He was the farmer's eldest son, and his name was John.\n\n\"What is all this din about,\" said he: \"Let me speak, will ye, Master\nGorb? Either take that which is set before you, or go away without it. I\nsay that.\"\n\n\"You say that? Do you, sir?\" said my master.\n\n\"Yes; sure I do,\" said he: \"I says that, and I'll say it again too, to\nbe sure I will.\"\n\n\"Then there is my gage, sir. Do you know to what you have subjected\nyourself?\" said my master, pulling out his sword, and laying it on the\nboard: \"You have given the king's ordained swordsman the denial; you\nmust fight him, or find one on the instant to do it for you. If he kills\nyou, he is entitled to take off your head and send it to the king; and\nif you kill him, you lose your head, and all the goods and chattels of\nyour house are to be confiscate. Rescue or no rescue? Draw, craven! or\nyield me up the keys of your pantry, your chest, and your sunken cellar,\nyou dog.\"\n\n\"I does nae see the sense o' that, Master Gorb,\" said John, with a\ncountenance right sorely altered: \"that a man maunna say his awn's his\nawn, or what's his father's is his father's, but that he maun tak up\nsword and swordsman. I does nae fear thee. It's no to say that I fears\nthee; but I winna be bullied intil aught; and I just tells thee, that\nI'll neither fight thee nor suffer thee to get a scrap o' aught better\nthan is set afore thee; and gang and seek thy mends. Now I says that.\"\n\n\"Thou art a craven and a nincompoop,\" said my master, with the highest\nindignation; \"and I lift my pledge, and will report thee to thy\nbetters.\"\n\n\"Do if thou mayest,\" cried old Latchie, running to an armour chest, and\ntaking from thence a sword and buckler. \"Disgrace of my house! To give\nthe challenge, and then to flinch. Have with thee, Bellwether! I will\ngive you to know, that old masons are the best barrowmen.\"\n\n\"I ground my pledge again, and I take thee,\" said my master. But now the\nold woman came running between them, crying out, \"Deil be i' your teeth!\ndeil be i' your teeth! Tak a' that's i' the house an' haud you wi't:\nthere are the keys; there are the keys! deil be i' your teeth, take\na'--and let us alane o' your din.\" The Gorb waved the keys aside with\nhis arm in high indignation; but the wife clung to her point. \"I take\nyou a' witnesses,\" cried she, \"I take you a' witnesses, I have offered\nhim the keys, and he has refused them. Here, young Gorb; young\nhing-by-the-gut, take ye them, take ye them. Deil be i' your teeth, take\na' that's i' the house.\"\n\nI took the keys lest they should be forgot in the hurry; the two old\nfellows took to the field with sword and buckler, while both the old\ndame and her son John strove to interfere; but the old yeoman silenced\nthem both with a word, and I thought he would have struck his son down\nwith the sword, so much was he enraged at his behaviour.\n\nI had seen much sword play by this time in the way of amusement, or\nlesson-taking; but I had never seen two men meet in deadly foil, and I\ntrembled for the event; for I judged, that if the old Gorb was killed,\nit would fare hardly with me, being conscious that I was the moving\ncause of the combat. My master's demeanour was altogether inimitable. He\nwent through every thing as if it had been a matter of mere ceremony,\nfirst slipping gracefully to one side, crossing his hands on his breast,\nbowing profoundly, and then shaking hands with Latchie: then swimming\ngracefully to the other side, and repeating the same manoeuvre. Last of\nall, he wheeled about, cut some wild flourishes with his sword, and took\nhis distance. The yeoman bit his lip, and appeared to be viewing all\nthese things with disdain; but he set himself firm on his legs with his\nleft foot foremost, and setting up his broad bonnet before, waited the\nonset. The Gorb on the contrary advanced with his right foot foremost;\nand, instead of availing himself of the buckler as the former did, he\ncame forward bearing it up behind him as high as his head. He seemed to\nwear it merely because the other did, but he was too proud to make any\nuse of it. Nothing ever did, or ever will exceed the singularity of that\ncombat: the figures of the men, and their manner of fighting, being so\ndifferent. Latchie was short and squat, the Gorb somewhat like the\nskeleton of a giant. The art of fighting which the former pursued was to\nshield himself behind his broad buckler, peep over it, and now and then\nmake dreadful blows around it with the full swing of his body, as if he\nmeant to cut my master through the middle, or shear off both his thighs.\nOn such occasions the Gorb, beside parrying the stroke, made such\ntremendous springs off at a side, that he rather appeared like a spirit\nthan any thing of bones, sinews, and blood, for as to flesh there was\nnone on him; and at every one of these leaps he uttered a loud \"Hoh!\" as\nif he had been mortally wounded, or in great danger of having been so;\nyet all the while his face was so sublimely grave and serious as if\nevery movement were to have been his last. He never attempted to hit the\nyeoman, and had apparently no other aim in fighting, than merely to show\nhis dexterity in fencing, retreating, and advancing. I deemed that all\nwas over with him, and began to be mortally afraid of myself; and any\nman would have acknowledged what good reason I had, if he had witnessed\nwith what looks the wife and son regarded me. Every one of them thought\nthe Gorb had the worst of it, and that the farmer was sure of the day.\nIndeed by this time there was little doubt of it. The old wife thrice\nclapped her hands, and screamed out, \"Weel proven, goodman! that gars\nhim scamper? Weel proven, Daniel Maclatchie! Lie to the breastleather.\"\nAt these words I began to look over my shoulder, and meditate a most\nstrenuous flight. But now the most novel scene of all occurred: my\nmaster still continued to change his ground, and to skip and fly about,\nuntil at length the yeoman, encouraged by his wife's words, came hard\nupon him, and, heaving up his shield a little, he came with a deadly\nstroke round below it, ettling to cut off both my master's legs. \"Hoh!\"\ncried the Gorb, as loud as he could vociferate; and as the little squat\nyeoman stooped to the stroke, he made such a spring into the air that he\nleaped fairly over his head; and as he passed like a meteor over above\nhim, he gave him such a slap with the broad side of his sword on the\nhind cants of the head, that it made the farmer run forward and fall\nwith his nose on the ground. He was again on his feet, however, in an\ninstant, and faced about, while his eyes streamed with water from the\nsharpness of the stroke. This feat astonished the Latchies; but the wife\ncried out, \"A barley! a barley! foul play!--he's fighting on springs.\"\n\n\"Emblem true of thy accursed country!\" cried the Gorb, and kicking off\nhis sandals at her head, he took his ground on his bare soles. The\ncombatants set to it again; but the yeoman was now on his guard, and\nfought shy, standing on the defensive. My master soon grew tired of this\nway of fighting; and, after two or three flying feints at an attack, in\na moment he wrenched Latchie's sword from his grasp, and threw it into\nthe air like a sling-stone. The lookers on gazed in amazement,--and the\nastonished yeoman traced the course of his erratic weapon, which, after\nforming an arch like a rainbow, lighted at the distance of forty yards.\nJohn, the farmer's son, was the first who ventured a remark on the\nphenomenon, which he did with his accustomed shrewdness, and in the\nCumberland brogue, which he had learned by living some years in that\ndistrict.\n\n\"Feyther, I thinks thou hast thrown away thee swoard.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said his father, biting his lip, and looking after it.\n\nBy this time the Gorb had his sword at Latchie's throat, crying,\n\"Rescue, or no rescue, I say? Yield, traitor, or die.\"\n\nLatchie paid no regard to him. He only bit his lip, looked after his\nsword, and stood his ground firm without moving, showing a most\nunyielding and dauntless spirit.\n\nThe Gorb repeated his threat, but the yeoman paid no further attention\nto it than before.\n\n\"What an unlucky accident!\" said he. \"Had I not thrown away my sword, I\nwould have humbled you.\"\n\n\"Do you regret the loss of your sword so much?\" said the Gorb. \"Will you\npromise, on the honour of a good yeoman, not to throw it away in like\nmanner again?\"\n\n\"Promise?\" said the other: \"I will swear on it, and by it, never to part\nwith it in like manner again.\"\n\n\"Young man,\" said my master to me, \"run and bring me this brave yeoman's\nsword.\"\n\nI brought it, and he took it by the point, and delivered it back to the\nowner with all manner of courtesy. Latchie took it in his hand, and let\nthe point of it slant towards the ground in token of submission.\n\n\"Nay, nay, I deliver it,\" cried my master. \"I would not see such a man\nshow fear or pusillanimity for any thing. Exchange me three times three,\nand no more; and God stand by the right. I counsel thee, moreover, to\nassume thy best defence, as I propose to do thee all manner of injury.\"\n\n\"So be it. I defy you still,\" said Latchie, and took his ground a second\ntime. His wife and son spoke a great deal by way of interference, but\nwere totally disregarded. The combat began again with more fury than\never; but at the second or third time of crossing their weapons, Daniel\nMaclatchie's sword betook itself again into the firmament, and after\ntracing nearly the same course as formerly, alighted on the same spot.\n\n\"You are the devil and none else,\" said Latchie, \"and I yield to my\nconqueror. I am at your disposal.\"\n\n\"And I will use my advantage, as in duty and in honour bound,\" said the\nGorb: \"Rise up my friend and brother; you are a man of true genuine\nspirit. I honour you, and I estimate your country more this morning, for\nyour sake, than I have hitherto done. I claim your friendship as a\nbrother in arms. You shall not have cause to repent this spirited\nencounter.\"\n\nThe farmer was greatly flattered by this speech. I gave up the keys; and\nthere was no end of kindness and endearment between the two old fellows.\nWe had our rasher on the coals; and I think I have scarcely risen from a\nbetter diet than I did that day. I got the greater part to myself, for\nthe rest were all so busy talking and drinking cold ale, that they\nhardly thought of the bacon. It was nicely toasted, and the fat stood on\nit like small drops of honey. But I must not dwell on the recollection\nelse I shall faint.\n\nAt our meal the yeoman offered my master a new war cloak, with belts,\nbands, and haversack, if he would tell him by what means he disarmed him\nwith such ease, and in so extraordinary a manner; but the other\nabsolutely refused.\n\n\"It is allowable in chivalry,\" said he, \"to learn and practice any mode\nof manual defence, and to keep that mode a secret till you prove it on\nyour opponent. That is my secret, and by that mode I would forfeit my\nlife, nay my character itself, to disarm any man that ever pointed a\ntwo-edged sword at my breast.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"I should have liked very much to have known that secret of his,\" said\nCharlie Scott.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI found it out privately with the most perfect certainty, continued Tam;\nbut durst never let him know that I understood aught of the matter. It\nwas owing to his sword's handle, which was made for the purpose. It had\nan inner shell of steel polished like glass; then an outer one of\nbasket-work, formed with rounded bars in such a manner that, by turning\nhis hand in a slight degree to humour the position of the opponent's\nsword, and dashing his hilt against the point of it, that entered\nbetween those of the cross-bars, and, running up the polished steel\nwithin, bent and fixed itself; then by a sudden wrench against his\nopponent's thumb, of which he was a perfect master, he not only disarmed\nhim to a certainty, but generally left his arm powerless. After I had\ndiscovered it, I went by myself to try the experiment, fixed my own\nsword, and taking my master's in my hand, I pushed the basket of that\nslightly against the point of the other, and behold it fixed in it so\nclose, that with all my might, and all my art, I could not extricate it\nwithout breaking it in two, and, in that case, I saw I would leave the\npoint sticking where it was, which I durst not do for my life. At length\nit came into my head to do as my master did. This had the effect at\nonce; the vibration in the blade caused by the swing and jerk, made it\nloosen, and it flew away through the air like a fiery dragon.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Master Michael Scott,\" said Gibbie, \"and my friends, I again appeal to\nyou all if this man has not fallen through his tale. It is turning out\nno tale at all, but merely an offputting of time, till we shall all\nperish of hunger.\"\n\n\"The story of the hapless maiden Kell, and of our hero's first essays in\nlove, I did admire and prize,\" said the poet.\n\n\"Od help your crazed head,\" said Charlie: \"I wadna gie that duel atween\nthe twa auld chaps for a creelfu' o' love stories.\"\n\n\"Lo, the tale is good,\" said the friar; \"but it goeth here and there,\nwithout bound or limit; and wherefore should not a man relate all that\nbefalleth unto him. I suppose it behoveth our friend to go on, without\nturning aside to the right hand or to the left.\n\n\"My tale is indeed long, but to me it is momentous. I should stop here\npleasantly; but life is sweet,--and, to give me a fair chance for mine,\nI beg to be permitted to relate one adventure more.\" This, after some\ndemur, was granted, and Tam went on:\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter spending several years among the hills of Galloway, and being\napproved of by the Gorb (as he was called by every body, though his\nname was Macdougald) for a good swordsman, I tired of the country, being\npersuaded that the ground did not fatten the cattle properly; and from\nthe moment I began to suspect that, I had no more satisfaction in the\nplace, but utterly despised it. I perceived that their beef was never\nabove an inch thick in the ribs, and what was worse, it was not properly\nmixed with white layers of fat; even the doubles in the broad bone of\nthe shoulder were nothing but pure red lire. This will never do, thought\nI. How I despise the people that can put up with such a country as this!\n\n\"Master,\" says I, one day, \"I am quite tired of this country, and am\ngoing to leave it.\"\n\n\"Wherefore are you going to leave it, Thomas? Have not I been better and\nkinder to you than to myself?\"\n\n\"For all that, master, I am resolved not to sojourn another week in it.\"\n\n\"I warned you that they were a deceitful people before,\" said he; \"but\nwe must take them as they are. We cannot make mankind as we would wish\nto have them.\"\n\n\"It is not for the men, nor for the women either, that I dislike the\ncountry so much,\" said I.\n\n\"What is it then for?\" said he.\n\n\"It is,\" said I, \"because I suspect that their grass is not of a good\nquality.\"\n\nI will never forget the look that the Gorb turned on me. He was walking\nsomewhat before me, but when he heard my reason for disliking Galloway\nhe wheeled about, and, taking one of his most striking upright\npositions, with his lean shoulders set up like two pins, he stared at me\nwith his mouth wide open; and then put the following questions to me at\nlong intervals.\n\n\"Grass! eh! How do you mean?\"\n\n\"Look at it,\" said I; \"What substance is in that wiry stuff, and on\nthese hills of black heather!\"\n\nThe Gorb's jaws fell down with dismay. He visibly thought that I was\nderanged, but he answered me mildly to humour my malady.\n\n\"True, the grass is not good; it never was, and never will be so. But I\nhave not observed that you ever eat much of it; nor can I see how a\nman's happiness any way depends upon the quality of the grass of a\ncountry.\"\n\n\"If that be all the sense that you have,\" thought I, \"I will disdain for\nmy part to exchange another word with you on the subject. Since you\nthink that a man's happiness can depend on _any thing else_ but good\ngrass, you shall be followed no longer by me.\"\n\n\"Well,\" continued he, after waiting a while for an answer, \"I see you\nare sulky about this whim, but I will humour it. I have nearly finished\nmy terms among the mountains, and we shall descend upon the shores,\nwhere there is as good grass as any in Scotland, and I promise you full\nliberty to go into every field that you chuse, and take your bellyful of\nit. I have likewise many things to teach you, which will amuse you in\nthe highest degree, and which belong to the sublime art of legerdemain.\"\n\n\"What is that?\" said I.\n\n\"It is the art,\" said he \"that enables us to see things and people as\nthey really are. There is scarcely any thing on this earth really what\nit appears to be; and this art I have yet to teach you.\"\n\nFrom that day forward he began and performed feats that entirely\nbewildered my senses, but which furnished, wherever we were, a great\nfund of amusement; all the young people believed him to be in compact\nwith the devil. I have forgot them all but one, which I will remember as\nlong as I live.\n\nWe came to a wealthy yeoman's house on the river Urr, where we were to\nremain several days; and while he exercised the farmer's sons in\nfencing, I kept the young peasants in exercise--and then in the hall in\nthe evenings he went on with his cantrips. There was a delicious\nshoulder of bacon hanging up on the farmer's brace, among many meaner\nhams and pieces of wretched dried flesh. I believe I had fixed my eyes\non it, and perhaps my heart a little too. Whether the Gorb noticed this\nand dreaded the consequences or not, I cannot tell, but he began a\nspeech about things not being what they appeared to be, and offered to\ngive us a striking instance.\"\n\n\"Take down the choicest and best ham among all these above the fire,\"\nsaid he. I did so, taking down the shoulder of bacon with great\nalacrity.\n\n\"Take down the worst,\" said he. I did so; it was one of venison dried\nlike a crooked stick.\n\n\"Which do you account the best?\" said he. I told him. \"Well, you are\nmistaken,\" said he; \"and I'll convince you of it. Roll them both neatly\nup in straw, or as you will.\"\n\nI did so.\n\n\"Now, do you know the one from the other?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Very well: heave them up again that you may not be mistaken in the\nweight. Now, cross your hands, and heave them with different hands.\nQuite sensible they are the same?\"\n\n\"Quite sensible.\"\n\n\"Very well. Take them aside by yourself and look at them. You will now\nsee them as they really are, not as they appeared to your eyes.\"\n\nI hastened and opened out the shoulder of bacon. It was nothing but\nthree dried bones, hanging together by tendons, and stuffed up into the\nshape of an overgrown shoulder of bacon with brawn, which was covered\nround with a piece of a sow's hide. I shed some tears at this blighting\ndiscovery; for though the bacon was not mine, I felt in my heart that I\ndid not know how matters were to come about. I hung the two hams up as\nthey were, and was cured of my itching eye; but no man can tell how\nthings will come round to the advantage of an acute and clever fellow.\n\nWhile we were at that house, the country was raised to follow the Lord\nof Galloway into Cumberland. It was a great rising, the utmost quota\nbeing demanded of every yeoman in the country, in terms of his\nvillanage. Our landlord got a charge to find five, whereas he had none\nto send save three, unless he and his eldest son both went, which would\nhave been grievously against him at that time; so he applied to my\nmaster and me to go on his behoof, offering large conditions, which were\nsoon accepted. The principal, if not the sole thing that induced me to\ngo out on that raide, was the stipulation that I was to have my choice\nof all the meat in the house, to the amount of what I could conveniently\ncarry on my back in a march. After a great deal of choosing, I fixed on\na small beef-ham, because it was solid, and no bones in it, and blest my\nmaster's ingenuity that had let me into the secret of the deceitful\nshoulder of bacon. The next that came after me was a blade of endless\nfrolic and humour, named Harestanes. He instantly snapped at the\nbacon-ham, and popped it into his goatskin wallet, nodding his head, and\ntwisting his mouth at me, as much as if he had said, \"What a taste you\nhave! I am glad you had not the sense to take this.\" I could easily have\nprevented him, by revealing the secret; but he had always been trying\nto make a fool of me, therefore I could scarcely contain my mirth at\nhis mistake, and resolved to enjoy his disappointment in full. He was a\nsprightly handsome youth, and had such a forward and impertinent manner\nthat he contrived to make friends in every family that we passed by,\nparticularly with the women, so that he lacked nothing that he desired;\nand tho' I watched him night and day for fear of losing the sport, he\nnever took out his bacon to break it up till the fourth day after our\ndeparture. My beef-ham was by that time more than half done. It was a\nmost wretched piece of meat, being as hard as wood, and bitter as gall;\nbut I was still comforted with this, that it was so much better than my\ncomrade's.\n\nIt was about eight o'clock on a morning, on the English side of the\nBorder, that Harestanes first loosed out his wallet to make a breakfast\nof his bacon; and he being very hungry, I sat down beside him to enjoy\nthe sport, taking out my black beef likewise. All that I could do I\ncould not retain my gravity while he was loosening the cords, and taking\nthe straw from about his ham, which made him look wistfully at me, and\nask what the fool meant? But when I saw him look seriously and greedily\nat it, and then take out his knife to cut off a great slice, I lost all\npower, and fell on the ground in a convulsion of laughter, while my\nvoice went away to a perfect wheezle. He could not comprehend me in the\nleast degree, and actually began to cut! yes, he actually began to cut\nthrough the bristly skin, while I lay spurring the ground, and screaming\nwith anticipation of the grand joke that was to ensue. Before I could\nrecover my sight from amid the tears of extravagant mirth, the scene was\nchanged; and I shall never forget the position in which the puppy sat,\nwhen my eyes cleared. No, it is impossible I ever can forget it!\nConceive a wicked impertinent frolicksome whelp of a tailor, for he was\nnothing better, who had been with Sir Robert Graham's maids all the\nnight, and was so hungry that you might almost have cast a knot on him,\nsit down to take a hearty luncheon of his bacon ham; and then conceive\nhis looks when he found he had nothing but rubbish and dry bones. If\nyou conceive these, you will conceive the very scene that I saw, at\nleast that I conceived and saw in my mind's eye. How could I but laugh?\nNo! It was impossible I could abstain from laughter;--but yet, for all\nthat, things turned out quite the reverse. He had actually sliced off a\nrasher of bacon, the fattest, the whitest, and the most beautiful rasher\nof bacon ever I had seen in my life! There were three distinct layers of\nlire and fat, curving alternately through it like quarter moons. No man\never beheld such a sight! He sliced out another piece, which was still\nmore perfectly beautiful than the preceding one. My eyes darkened. I had\nseen enough to shew me the enormity of my folly, and my irreparable\nloss! He roasted his rashers on the fire. The fat fried out of them, and\nflamed among the embers; and when he laid them on his bread, they soaked\nit all with pure liquid fat. And there was I sitting beside him, gnawing\nat my piece of infernal beef, the sinewy hip of some hateful Galloway\nstott that had died of the blackleg, and, having been unfit for ought\nelse, had been dried till the hateful substance was out of it. Yet I had\nmy choice of both, and took this. I shall never wish any friend of mine\nto suffer such pangs as I did that morning; for all that I had suffered\nin my dangers and disappointments was nothing to them. I would fain have\nslain the Gorb privately; but not daring to do that, I resolved never to\nsee his face again, after the vile trick he had played. All my hopes and\nall my enjoyments of the foray being now ended, I resolved on taking my\ndeparture, and that by the time my enemy had the first slice of bacon\neaten.\n\nWe had orders to halt all that day, for the Johnstons and the Jardines\nwere a day's march before us. Their advanced columns had fallen back;\nand as the troops were sleeping or straggling about, I prepared for my\ndeparture. My comrade having been with the knight's women all the night,\na set of creatures madder than himself, he was quite worn out; and as\nsoon as he got his inside lined with the salutary beverage, he fell\nfast asleep. An inward light now began to dawn on my heart, brighter\nthan the sun at noon day, and lighting my steps forward to future\nfelicity. My breath cut short with ecstatic delight, and my knees\ntrembled as I formed the resolution of changing hams with my hopeful\ncomrade. His wallet was lying open--not so the tailor's eyes: I might\nhave exchanged coats, and shoes too, for him. The great work was done in\nan instant. I whipped out his shoulder of bacon, and put my piece of\nblack timber in its place. \"Take you that, honest man,\" said I to\nmyself: \"Time about is fair play. I have given you something that will\nexercise your jaws for a while.\"\n\nWhen I found that I had this most delicious of all morsels on my back, I\nwas so light that I scarcely felt my feet touch the ground; and there\nbeing no time now to lose, I made straight away into England, for I\ndurst not turn towards Scotland, the sentinels being so very thick on\nthat quarter. Our advanced guard was composed of the Gordons from the\nKen,--a set of desperate raggamuffins whom I durst not have gone among\nhad it not been fair forenoon. I had my wallet on my back and my sword\nby my side; and when I saw any of them eying me, I went up to them and\nasked how far the Johnstons were before us?\n\n\"What the devil was I wanting with the Johnstons?\"\n\n\"O, I was afraid there might be a battle fought before I saw it, which I\nwould not should happen for any thing in the world.\"\n\n\"Hear to the coulter-nibbit piper,\" said one.\n\n\"He is as like supping a pint o' fat brose as killing an Englishman,\"\nsaid another.\n\n\"I wadna trust him wi' ought beyond a litter o' English pigs,\" said a\nthird.\n\n\"Let him gang forrit, and fiend that he get his chafts clawn the first\nsword that's drawn! I wadna that his name were Gordon for a hunder\ncivis.\"\n\nAccordingly I got liberty to pass; but as soon as I got out of sight, I\nturned to the left, and escaped to the moors of Bewcastle. I had now\nfound out the invaluable art of flint and frizzle, and could kindle a\nfire whenever I pleased. So I sought out a lonely wild dell, and\nlighting a fire of birns and strong heather, roasted two slashing slices\nof my shoulder of bacon. I also took a good shave of bread from my\nfriend the tailor's hearth-bannock; but after all I could not\nthink of adulterating the savoury delicious fare by any unnatural\nintermixture,--so I ate up the dry bread by itself, and then smacked up\nthe bacon afterwards. I cannot describe my sensations of delight, not\nonly in my meal, but in contemplating the beauty of the object. I sat\nlong feasting my eyes on the beauty of the slices before I committed\nthem to the coals. They were curved so beautifully in semi-circles, the\nfat and the lire time about, that, unless for such an object, the term\n_beauty_ would have no meaning. They lay alternately, as if it were this\nway, and this way, and this way.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"I protest against your drawing of your pictures on my shoulder,\" cried\nGibbie; \"and also against the party being any longer mocked with such\nfulsome trash in place of a story. Do you not perceive, Sir Master, and\ndo you not all perceive, that he is havering and speaking without end or\naim? He is sensible that he has failed in his story; and that a dismal\nfate awaits him, and all that he is now intent on is driving of time.\"\n\n\"I confess that I am sick of the bacon and other fat things,\" said\nCharlie.\n\n\"My soul disdains the abject theme,\" said the poet: \"Its tantalizing\nsight is like the marshfire's vacant gleam to the bewildered wight. 'Tis\nthrowing meat to hungry souls, with fainting sore opprest; or drink unto\nthe parched lips, whereof they may not taste.\"\n\n\"Let us show some spirit, wretched as we are,\" said Gibbie, \"and protest\nwith one assent against being farther sickened, as well as mocked by\nsuch loathsome stuff.\"\n\nThis is unfair, and using undue influence,\" cried Tam. \"None of you were\nthus interrupted, but got time to finish your stories as you liked. Mine\nis not done; the best part of it is yet to come, and I say it is\nunfair. Great Master, you sit as judge; I appeal to you. My life has\nbeen varied. Let them chuse what sort of a theme they want, and I will\nfit them, only suffer me to relate one other exploit.\"\n\nThe Master, on whom hunger seemed to make no impression, thought the\nrequest was reasonable; but in making choice, every one of them, young\nand old, pitched on a different subject, so that Tam could not get\nproceeded; neither can this chapter, as an extraordinary incident befel,\nwhich naturally brings it to an end.\n\n\nEND OF VOL. II.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTranscriber's Notes\n\nThis text is a reproduction of the 1822 edition. It includes many\ndialect and archaic words and spellings, as well as many typographical\nerrors and inconsistencies which have not been changed.\n\n\nChapters are inconsistently headed \"CHAPTER\" or \"CHAP.\"\n\nInconsistently spelled words include:\n\nCorby and Corbie\n\nGibby and Gibbie\n\ncollie and colley\n\nchace and chase\n\ninclosed and enclosed\n\nraggamuffians, raggamuffins, and ragamuffin\n\nspier and speer\n\ncamstairy and camstary\n\n\nThe text includes many examples of inconsistent hyphenation. The\nfollowing are inconsistently hyphenated or printed as two words:\n\nbacon ham and bacon-ham\n\nbed side and bed-side\n\ndare say and dare-say (the latter was hyphenated over a line break)\n\nday light and day-light\n\nhind legs and hind-legs\n\nlook out and look-out\n\npike staff and pike-staff\n\nTersit moor and Tersit-moor\n\nwell springs and well-springs\n\n\nThe following are inconsistently hyphenated or printed as one word:\n\ngoatskin and goat-skin\n\ngunpowder and gun-powder\n\noutdone and out-done\n\nstaircase and stair-case (one occurrence of the latter hyphenated over a\n        line break)\n\nweatherbeaten and weather-beaten\n\n\nThe following are inconsistently printed as one or two words:\n\nhas na and hasna\n\nliege man and liegeman\n\nmaybe be, maybe, and may-be (some hyphenated over line breaks)\n\nmean time and meantime\n\nmean while and meanwhile\n\nsome body and somebody\n\n\nThe text contains the following apparent errors:\n\np. 10 mis-spelling \"ignominous\"\n\np. 27 missing space (\"the shapes o'men?\")\n\np. 55 missing full stop (\"behold he was wanting\")\n\np. 59 missing quotation mark (\"till I speak t'ye, said\")\n\np. 104 mis-spelling \"cutfing\"\n\np. 113 missing comma \"Come away/Elfin grey,\")\n\np. 121 mis-spelling \"quite\" (\"all was quite and gloomy\")\n\np. 124 comma instead of full stop (\"the whole party in its\n        consequences,\")\n\np. 137 comma instead of full stop (\"exclamatory sound, Charlie had\")\n\np. 172 \"22\" instead of \"21\" (\"22. So I borrowed me\")\n\np. 179 \"she\" instead of \"he\" (\"21. And she said, Blessed\")\n\np. 188 missing space (\"or a good shareo' ilka\")\n\np. 197 missing quotation mark (\"afore I gi'e my gully\")\n\np. 212 comma instead of full stop (\"thorns above them, \"Now!\"\")\n\np. 226 duplicate word (\"all mankind it must must shock;\")\n\np. 229 extra quotation mark (\"ane o' the best.\"\")\n\np. 229 duplicate word (\"how to take care care o'\")\n\np. 261 mis-spelling \"ty'e\"\n\np. 261 missing quotation mark (\"sae ye may, my man!\")\n\np. 289 mis-spelling \"espepecially\"\n\np. 300 duplicate word (\"I was in one so so profound,\")\n\np. 337 missing quotation mark (\" to the right hand or to the left.\")\n\np. 341 missing comma (\"said he \"that enables\")\n\np. 342 extra quotation mark (\"give us a striking instance.\"\")\n\np. 352 missing quotation mark (\"This is unfair, and\")","title":"The Three Perils of Man; or, War, Women, and Witchcraft, Vol. 2 (of 3)","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":67081}