{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_58694/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_58694","id":"gutenberg_58694","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58694","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Legends -- Scotland"],"text":"Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project\nGutenberg (This file was produced from images generously\nmade available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                            HIGHLAND LEGENDS\n\n                                   BY\n                     SIR THOMAS DICK LAUDER, Bart.\n\n         Author of \"The Moray Floods,\" \"The Wolf of Badenoch,\"\n             \"Lochandu,\" \"Royal Progress in Scotland,\" &c.\n\n\n                           TWO VOLUMES IN ONE\n\n                     LONDON: HAMILTON, ADAMS, & CO.\n                       GLASGOW: THOMAS D. MORISON\n                                  1880\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                                 TO THE\n\n                     RIGHT HON. THE COUNTESS GREY.\n\n\nDear Lady Grey.\n\nWith your permission, I now dedicate these volumes to you. I should\ndo so with great diffidence, did I not know that everything connected\nwith Scotland is interesting to you.\n\nBy associating them with a name so universally revered I give them\nvalue; whilst I afford to myself an opportunity of expressing my\nadmiration of those many virtues and amiable qualities which have\nrendered it so much beloved in your person by all ranks who have the\ngood fortune to come within reach of their influence; and I have thus\nalso the satisfaction of expressing my warm sense of the kindness I\nhave received from you and Lord Grey ever since I have had the honour\nof being known to you, as well as of assuring you that I am,\n\nWith every possible respect,\n\n    Dear Lady Grey,\n        Very sincerely and faithfully yours,\n            THOS. DICK LAUDER.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEDITORIAL NOTE TO THE PRESENT EDITION.\n\n\nIn this volume the Publishers present to the reading public a new\nedition of Sir Thomas Dick Lauder's first collection of Highland\nLegends. Originally published under the somewhat misleading title\nof \"Highland Rambles and Long Legends to Shorten the Way,\" it has\nbeen thought desirable that the title be abbreviated, and made\nmore decidedly descriptive of the volume, as the \"rambles\" form no\nimportant part of the work. In all other respects the present edition\nis a verbatim reprint of the work as it came from the hands of the\ndistinguished Author.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n                                                              PAGE\n\n    SCOTTISH MOORLAND SCENERY,                                  11\n    THE BURNING OF MACFARLANE'S FOREST OF BENLAOIDH,            15\n    COMPARATIVELY RECENT DESTRUCTION OF THE FORESTS,            42\n    MR. RUSSEL AND THE REAVER,                                  48\n    SCENERY OF THE FINDHORN,                                    66\n    THE CAIRN OF THE LOVERS,                                    68\n    HILL OF THE AITNOCH,                                        73\n    LEGEND OF JOHN MACKAY OF ROSS-SHIRE, CALLED IAN MORE\n      ARRACH, OR BIG JOHN THE RENTER OF THE MILK OF THE COWS,   78\n    MORNING SCENE,                                              99\n    THE LEGEND OF JOHN MACPHERSON OF INVERESHIE,               104\n    A STRANGER APPEARS,                                        126\n    LEGEND OF THE FLOATING ISLET,                              136\n    DOMINIE DELIGHTED,                                         157\n    LEGEND OF ALLAN WITH THE RED JACKET,                       164\n    FEUDAL HEROES,                                             199\n    GLENGARRY'S REVENGE,                                       200\n    LONG YARNS,                                                214\n    THE LEGEND OF THE BUILDING OF BALLINDALLOCH,               215\n    SOMNOSALMONIA,                                             227\n    LEGEND OF THE LAST GRANT OF TULLOCHCARRON,                 229\n    ANTIQUARIAN DISCUSSION,                                    255\n    LEGEND OF CHIRSTY ROSS,                                    257\n    FRESH LIGHT UPON THE SUBJECT,                              282\n    LEGEND OF CHIRSTY ROSS CONTINUED,                          283\n    COMPLIMENTARY CRITICISM,                                   313\n    LEGEND OF GIBBON MORE CUMIN AND HIS DAUGHTER BIGLA,        315\n    VELVET CUSHIONS,                                           346\n    LEGEND OF THE RIVAL LAIRDS OF STRATHSPEY,                  359\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHIGHLAND LEGENDS.\n\nSCOTTISH MOORLAND SCENERY.\n\n\nThe scenery of the less cultivated parts of our native Scotland may,\ngenerally speaking, be said to be checkered, as human life is with its\nevents; for as, during our pilgrimage here on earth, evil continually\nsucceeds good, and good evil, so are beauty and deformity seen to\nalternate with each other on the simple face of Caledonia. A long\nstretch of dreary and uninteresting hill country is often found to\nextend between two rich or romantic valleys, so that the lover of\nnature has to plod his weary way from the one to the other over many\na mile of sterile desert; and, if he be a pedestrian, through many\na burn, and many a slough too, with little to disturb him, save the\nsudden whirr of the grouse, as he bounds off through the air with\nthe velocity of a cricket-ball,--or the sharp frisp of the snipe,\nas he rises like the cork from a brisk bottle of champagne,--or the\nwailing teeweet of the green plover, who, like some endless seccatore,\nmost perseveringly follows his track, unceasingly boring him with\nhis dull flapping and his tiresome cry.\n\nWhen not broken in upon by any such incidents, these wildernesses\nare sometimes rather valuable to a solitary traveller. They afford\nhim time for rumination whilst he is traversing them. They give him\nleisure to chew the cud of reflection, and he is thus enabled to\ndigest the beauties of the valley which he has last devoured, before\nhe proceeds to feast upon the charms about to be presented to him by\nthat to which he is hastening. But whatever may be the advantages to\nbe derived from journeying in any such single state of blessedness,\nI am disposed to think that the man who has a cheerful companion or\ntwo associated with him in his pilgrimage, will not be much inclined\nto wish them absent in such parts of the way; and as I do not think\nthat either his moral or his physical digestion will be in any degree\nimpaired by society, I am quite sure that his intellectual enjoyment\nwill be thereby much increased.\n\nMy own experience convinced me of the truth of this one fine autumnal\nmorning, when, in company with two friends, I left the romantic\nvalley of the Findhorn, to cross the moorlands towards Grantown, a\nvillage which may be called the capital of Strathspey. The sun that\nrose upon us, as we took our staves in hand to begin that day's walk,\nhad continued to display a brighter and merrier countenance than any,\nperhaps, which I had ever seen showing face within the precincts of\nthis vapour-girt island of ours. Yet vain were his friendly efforts to\nthrow a glow of cheerfulness over the brown heaths and the black plashy\nbogs almost entirely covering the tame unmeaning undulations of the\ncountry before us. A scene apparently less calculated to furnish food\nfor remark or conversation, can hardly well be conceived. But when the\nimagination is not altogether asleep, a very trifling hint will set it\na working; and so it was, that the innumerable grey, ghastly-looking\npine stocks of other years, that were everywhere seen pointing out\nof the peat-mosses, from amidst tufts of the waving cotton grass,\nand wiry rushes, and gaudy ranunculuses, quickly carried our minds\nback to former ages by a natural chain of connection, filled them\nwith magnificent ideal pictures of those interminable forests which\ncompletely covered Scotland during the earlier periods of its history,\nand immediately furnished us with a subject for talk.\n\nAuthor.--You see yonder hill, called the Aitnoch. Although it is,\nas you may easily perceive, the highest in all this neighbourhood,\nyet an extensive plain on its summit, almost entirely peat-moss, is\nso thickly set with the stocks and roots of pine trees, such as these\nyou are now looking at, and all fixed, too, like these, in the growing\nposition, that, if the boles and branches were still standing on them,\nit would absolutely be a difficult matter for a deer, or even for a\ndog, to force a passage through among them.\n\nGrant.--I should like much to mount the hill to examine the plain you\nspeak of. Well as I am acquainted with this north country, I never\nheard of it before.\n\nAuthor.--It will cost us little more than the additional fatigue\ncreated by its rather rough and steep ascent to do so, for it is not\nquite an hundred miles out of our way.\n\nClifford.--Phoo! we are not to be tied to ways of any kind. Let us\nclimb the hill, then, by all means. But, to return to what you were\ntalking about, can you tell us how, and for what purpose, these vast\nforests were annihilated?\n\nAuthor.--The charred surfaces which most of these stocks and roots\nstill exhibit sufficiently prove that fire must have been the grand\ninstrument of their destruction. The logs which originally grew upon\nthem, but which are now found lying horizontally under the present\nsurface, all bear testimony to the same fact in a greater or lesser\ndegree. Many of these, indeed, when dug up, present a very curious\nappearance, the nether part being left almost entire, whilst the upper\nside has been hollowed like a spout. This must have been effected by\nthe flames, which naturally continue to smoulder on the upper surfaces\nof the fallen trunks, whilst the moisture of the ground where they\nfell extinguished them below.\n\nClifford.--Come, that is all very well as to the how; now, let us\nhave your wherefore.\n\nAuthor.--As to the causes of the devouring element being let loose\namong these aboriginal forests we might speculate long enough, for\nthey were probably many and various. Accidental fires may have been\nkindled by the rude inhabitants, which afterwards spread destruction\nfar and wide, as they often do now in the forests of America. Or\nthey may have been raised with the intention of driving away wild\nbeasts, or of aiding in their destruction, of annoying enemies,\nor even for the more simple purpose of clearing spots of ground for\nhunting or for pasture. The causes may have been trivial enough in\nthemselves. You, Grant, who have travelled so much in Switzerland,\nmust be aware of the practice which still prevails there, of burning\ndown large patches of gigantic pine timber on the sides of the Alps,\nfor no other reason than to allow the sun and the moisture to reach\nthe surface of the ground, so as thereby to increase the quantity\nand value of the pasture growing beneath.\n\nGrant.--Yes, I can vouch for what you say with regard to the practice\nin Switzerland, and I am much inclined to think with you, that instead\nof attributing the fall of these mighty Caledonian forests, as many\nare disposed to do, to some one great and general catastrophe, we\nought rather to place their ruin to the account of a combination and\nreiteration of fortuitous causes, by the increasing frequency of the\nrepetition of which they were rapidly extirpated in detail. Indeed, in\nsupport of what I now say, I remember having heard a well authenticated\ntradition of exactly such an accidental conflagration, which is said\nto have taken place so late as the year 1640.\n\nAuthor.--I should be glad to hear the particulars of it. Do you think\nyou can recall them?\n\nGrant.--I think I can, but you will perhaps find the story rather a\nlong one.\n\nClifford.--Long or short, let us have it by all means. And let me tell\nyou for your comfort, my good fellow, none of Chaucer's pilgrims could\nhave begun a story under circumstances so favourable. A parliamentary\nspeech itself might have some chance of being listened to if uttered\nto one whilst passing through so dull a country as this--that is to\nsay, without one's gun and pointers.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE BURNING OF MACFARLANE'S FOREST OF BEN LAOIDH.\n\n\nThe sun had not yet disappeared behind the mountains on the western\nside of Loch Lomond, and the unruffled surface of the lake was\ngleaming with his parting rays, when the Laird of Macfarlane, as he was\nreturning from the chase, looked down from the ridge of a hill over\nthe glorious scene that lay extended beneath him. His eyes travelled\nfar along the calm expanse of the waters, till they lost themselves\nin the distance, amid the tufted and clustering islands which lay\nglittering in the fleeting light like gems on the bosom of Beauty. He\nthen recalled them along the romantic undulations and irregularities\nof its shores, to dwell with peculiar pride and inward satisfaction\non the wide stretch of those rich and smiling pastures which he could\ncall his own, and on the numerous herds of cattle which his vassals\nwere then driving to their home-grazings for the night. All was still\nand silent around, save when the quiet of the balmy evening air was\ngently broken by those rural sounds which, when blended together\nand softened by distance, as they then were to Macfarlane's ear,\nnever fail to produce a musical harmony that thrills to the very\nheart of the true lover of nature. The lowing of the cattle--the\noccasional prolonged shouts of the herdsmen--the watchful bark of\ntheir attendant dogs, careful to permit no individual of their charge\nto stray from the main body--the shrill and solitary scream of the\neagle, coming from the upper regions of the sky, as he soared to his\nplace of repose amid the towering crags of Ben Lomond--and, lastly,\nthe mingled cawing of the retreating army of rooks as they wheeled away\nin black battalions, to seek for undisturbed roost among the branches\nof that forest which then filled the whole country from Loch Lomond\nto Glen Urchay with a dark and interminable sea of foliage,--such\nwere the sounds that came in mellow chorus on the delighted ear of\nMacfarlane. He sat him down on a mossy stone to rest for a while,\nthat his eyes and his ears might have fuller enjoyment. His faithful\nsleuth-hounds and braches, overcome with fatigue, quickly stretched\nout their wearied bodies in ready slumber around him; and his numerous\nfollowers no less gladly availed themselves of their lord's example\nto ease their tired shoulders of the heavy loads which the success\nof that day's woodcraft had imposed upon them.\n\nMacfarlane was a stern chief of the olden time. Yet, what heart,\nhowever stark or rude, but must have been subdued and softened beneath\nthe warm influence of those emotions which such a scene, and such\nsounds, and such an evening combined to excite? As he sat apart from\nhis people he was melted into a mood of feeling which he had rarely\nexperienced during his life of feudal turmoil. His thoughts insensibly\nstole upwards in secret musings, which gradually exhaled themselves in\ngrateful orisons to that Heaven whence he felt that all the blessings\nhe possessed had so liberally flowed; and although these prayers\nwere inwardly breathed in the formal and set terms prescribed by his\nchurch, yet his soul more fully and effectually suffused itself into\nthem than it had ever done before. That mysterious and uncontrollable\ndesire which man often feels to hold converse with his Creator alone,\ngradually stole upon him; and, having ordered his attendants to precede\nhim, he arose soon after their departure, to saunter homewards through\nthe twilight in that calm and dreamy state of religious reflection\nwhich had rarely ever before visited his stormy mind.\n\nAs he slowly descended the mountain side that slopes down to the\nArroquhar, the course of the little rill, which he followed, led him\ninto a grove of natural birches, and his silent footstep betrayed him\ninto an involuntary intrusion on the privacy of two lovers. These were\nhis foster brother, Angus Macfarlane, and Ellen, a beautiful maiden,\nwho was about to become his wife. The wedding-day was fixed, as the\nLaird of Macfarlane well knew; and as his heart was at this moment\nbrimful of kindly feeling, the sight of this betrothed pair made it\nrun over with benevolence.\n\n\"What ho! my fair Ellen,\" cried he, as, chased away by her modest\nconfusion, her sylph-like form was disappearing among the tender\nfoliage of the birchen bushes like some delicate thing of air,\n\"dost fear the face of thy chief? Knowest thou not that Macfarlane's\nmost earnest wish ever is to be held as the father of his meanest\nclansman? and think ye that he would be less than a father to thee,\nsad posthumous pledge of the worthiest warrior that ever followed the\nbanner of Loch Sloy, or for whom a gallant clan ever sung a wailing\nlament? But ha!\" exclaimed he, as he kindly took her hand to detain\nher; \"why dost thou look so sad? By this light, such as it is, it\nwould seem as if the tear-drop had been in that blue eye of thine. My\nworthy Angus could never have caused this? He loves thee too well\never to give pain to so soft and confiding a heart as thine.\"\n\n\"Angus never could wilfully give me pain,\" said the maiden earnestly,\nand throwing down her eyes, and blushing deeply as she said so.\n\n\"Ha!\" said Macfarlane, in a playful manner, \"now I think on't, yours\nmay have been the tears of repentance, seeing that you most wickedly\nhave seduced my trusty master herdsman from his duty this evening,\nand that he hath left his people and his beasts to take care of one\nanother, that he might come over the hill here to whisper soft things\ninto thine ear, under the clustering woodbine, that wreathes itself\nthrough the holly there, and fills the air thus with its delicious\nperfume.\"\n\n\"My good lord, I would humbly acknowledge my fault, and crave your\npardon,\" replied Angus; \"I must confess that I did leave the lads\nand the cattle to come to keep tryst here with Ellen. But albeit\nthat she had some small share of blame in this, her tears fell not\nfrom compunction for any such fault. Say, shall I tell the cause,\nEllen?--They fell because of a strange vision which her old Aunt\nMargery saw last night.\"\n\n\"A vision!\" exclaimed Macfarlane seriously; \"tell me, Ellen, what\ndid she see?\"\n\n\"It was last night, my lord,\" replied Ellen, \"that my Aunt Margery came\nover to my mother's cottage to settle some matters regarding--a--a--I\nmean, to speak with my mother of some little family affairs, which kept\nher better than an hour after nightfall, when, as she was crossing the\nhill again in her way home, she suddenly beheld a red glowing gleam\nin the sky, and turning to look behind her, the whole of the forest\nbelow seemed to be on fire. She rubbed her eyes in her astonishment,\nand when she looked again the vision had disappeared.\"\n\n\"Strange!\" said Macfarlane seriously.\n\n\"But this was not all,\" continued Ellen, with increased earnestness\nof manner, and shuddering as she spoke, \"for by the light that still\ngleamed in the sky, she beheld a dark object at some distance from\nher on the heath. It moved towards the spot where she was. Trembling\nwith fear, she stood aside to observe it, and on it continued to come,\ngliding without sound. A single stream of faint light fell upon it\nfrom a broken part of the sky, and showed the figure and the features\nof--of--of you, Macfarlane.\"\n\n\"What, my figure! my features!\" exclaimed the laird, in a disturbed\ntone; and then, commanding himself, he quietly added, \"Awell, and\nsaw she aught else?\"\n\n\"She did, my lord,\" added Ellen, much agitated, \"for, borne over\nyour right shoulder she beheld a human corse; the head was hanging\ndown, and the pale fixed features were those of--of--my betrothed\nhusband!\" Overpowered by her feelings, Ellen sank down on a mossy bank,\nand wept bitterly.\n\n\"Let not these gloomy fancies enter your head at a time like this,\nEllen,\" said Macfarlane, roused by her sobbing from the fit of gloomy\nabstraction into which her narration had thrown him. \"If not altogether\nan unaccountable and unreal freak of imagination, it can be interpreted\nno otherwise than felicitously for you. The burning forest is but a\ntype of the extent and the warmth of your mutual affection, and the\ndead figure of Angus only shadows forth the fact that your love will\nendure with life itself.\"\n\n\"There needed not such a vision to tell us these truths,\" said Angus\nenergetically.\n\n\"Yet do we often see matters as palpable as these, as wonderfully\nvouched for by supernatural means,\" said the chief. \"Get thee home\nthen, Ellen; and do thou see her safe, Angus, and let her not suffer\nher young mind to brood on such dreary and distressing phantasies as\nseem now to fill it. Be yours the joyous anticipations of the bride\nand bridegroom three days before they are made one for ever. Ere\nthree days go round your indissoluble union shall be blessed by the\nhappiest influence of the warm sunshine of your chief's substantial\nfavour. Meanwhile, may good angels guard you both!--Good night.\"\n\nWith these words, Macfarlane sought his way home, musing as he went,\nimpressed, more than he even wished to own to himself, with the strange\ntale he had heard, and when he could contrive to rid himself of it,\nturning in his thoughts from time to time certain benevolent schemes\nwhich suggested themselves to him for the liberal establishment of\nAngus and his bride.\n\nThe next day's sun had hardly reddened the eastern sky, so as to\nexhibit the huge dark mass of Ben Lomond with a sharp and well-defined\noutline on its glowing surface, when the herdsmen of the Laird of\nMacfarlane arose and left their huts, with the intention of driving\ntheir cattle across the dewy pastures back to the slopes of the\nmountains. The thick summer mist still hung over the lower grounds;\nand the men wandered about hallooing to each other whilst employed in\nactively looking for the animals of which they had the charge. They\nhad left them the previous evening feeding in numerous groups among\nherbage of the most luxuriant description. They were well aware\nthat it was much too fragrant not to tie them, by the sweetest and\nsecurest of all tethers, to the vicinity of those spots where they\nhad been collected in herds; and they were quite sure that the animals\nnever would have left them voluntarily. But all their shouting and all\ntheir searching appeared to be unsuccessful, and the more unsuccessful\nthey were likely to be the more were their exertions increased. All\nwas clamour, confusion, and uncertainty, till sunrise had somewhat\ndispelled the mist that had hitherto rolled its dense and silent\nwaves over the bottom of the valley; and then one herdsman more active\nand intelligent than the rest, having climbed the mountain that sends\nforth its root to form the boundary between the enchanting mazes of the\nbeautiful oak and birch-fringed lakes of Ballochan and the long stretch\nof Loch Lomond's inland sea, and having looked up Glen Falloch, and\nfar and wide around him to the full extent that his eyes could reach,--\n\n\"We are harried!\" shouted he in Gaelic to his anxiously inquiring\ncomrades below. \"Not a horn of them is to be seen! I can perceive a\nlarge herd of deer afar off yonder, clustered together in the open\nforest glade, but not a horn or hide of cow, ox, quey, or stirk, do I\nsee within all the space that my eyes can light upon; and unless the\nmuckle stone, the Clach-nan-Tairbh, down below there has covered them,\nas tradition tells us it covered the two wild bulls, when the fury of\ntheir battle was said to have been so great as to shake it down from\nthe very craig upon them, our beasts are harried every cloot o' them!\"\n\n\"My curses on the catterans that took them then!\" exclaimed Angus\nMacfarlane, the master of the herdsmen--\"and my especial curses, too,\nbecause they have thus harried them the very night when I chanced to\nbe wandering! But if they are above the surface of the earth we must\nfind them; so come, lads, look about ye sharply.\"\n\nLike an eager pack of hounds newly uncoupled, who have been taught\nby the huntsman's well-understood voice that a fresh scent is at\nhand, the herdsmen now went dodging about, looking for the track of\nthose who had so adroitly driven off a creagh so very numerous and so\nimmensely valuable. Long experience and much practice in such matters\nsoon enabled Angus to discover the country towards which the freshest\nhoof-prints pointed, and in a short time the whole band were in full\nand hot pursuit of the reavers.\n\n\"They are Lochaber men, I'll warrant me!\" said Angus, whose sagacity\nand acuteness left him seldom mistaken; and guessing shrewdly at the\nroute they would probably take, he resolved to follow them cautiously\nwith his assistants, that he might dog their footsteps and spy out\ntheir motions, whilst he sent one back as a messenger to the Laird\nof Macfarlane, to report to him the daring robbery that had been\ncommitted on him.\n\nIf you have been able to conceive the calm that settled upon\nMacfarlane's mind when the placidity of the previous evening had\nbrought it so much into harmony with all the surrounding objects of\nnature, that it might almost have been said to have reflected the\nunruffled image of Loch Lomond itself, you may easily imagine that the\nintelligence which he now received operated on him as some whirlwind\nwould have done on the peaceful bosom of the lake. The eyes of the\ndark-browed chief kindled up into a blaze of rage, and shot forth red\nlightnings, and his soul was lashed into a sudden and furious storm\nere the messenger had time to unfold half of his information.\n\n\"What! all harried, said you?--Bid the pipers play the gathering! Shout\nour war-cry of Loch Sloy! We'll after them with what of our clansmen\nmay be mustered in haste. By the blessed rood, we'll follow them to\nLochaber itself, but we'll have back our bestial!\"\n\nBut Macfarlane was not one who allowed his rage to render him\nincapable of adopting the proper measures for the sure attainment of\nhis object. A numerous party of his clan was speedily assembled, all\nboiling with the same indignation that excited their chief. Macfarlane\nhimself saw that each man was equipped in the most efficient manner\nfor celerity of movement; and when all were in order, he instantly\nset forward at their head, taking that direction which was indicated\nto him by the intelligence which the messenger had brought him.\n\nIn their rapid march through the great forest, they threaded its\nintricacies, partly trusting to their local knowledge, partly to their\nleader's judgment of the probable route of the reavers, partly guided\nby the fresh tracks which they now and then fell in with, and partly\nby certain signal marks which the wily Angus had from time to time left\nbehind him, by breaking the boughs down in a particular direction. Once\nor twice they encountered some individual of the party of herdsmen\nin advance, whom Angus had stationed in their way to give his chief\nintelligence; and at last, as the sun was fast declining towards the\nwest, another man appeared, who came to meet them in breathless haste.\n\n\"Well! what tidings now?\" demanded the laird.\n\n\"They are Lochaber men, sure enough,\" replied the man.\n\n\"Pshaw! I never doubted that,\" said Macfarlane impatiently; \"but,\nquick! tell me whither you have tracked them. We have no time to lose.\"\n\n\"I'm thinking you may take your own leisure, Macfarlane,\" replied\nthe man, \"for I'm in the belief that they are lodged for the best\npart of this night, tethered as they are with the tired legs of the\nbeasts.\" And so he went on to explain that they had been traced into\nwhat was then one of the thickest parts of the forest, to a spot\nlying between Loch Sloy and what is now the wide moss of the Caoran,\nstretching south-east from Ben Laoidh.\n\n\"Then they cannot be far distant from the bothy of the lochan, where\nI slept when we last hunted in that quarter?\" said the chief.\n\n\"Sure enough, you have guessed it, Macfarlane,\" replied the man,\n\"sure enough they are there, and Angus and Parlane, and the rest,\nare watching them. By all appearance there's a strong party of the\nlimmers, and I'll warrant me they keep a good guard.\"\n\n\"Let them guard as they may, our cattle are our own again,\" said the\nchief, with a laugh of anticipated triumph; \"Saint Mary! but we'll\nmake these gentlemen of Lochaber pay for their incivility, and for\nthe unwilling tramp they have given both to us and to our beasts! Not\na man of them shall escape to tell the tale!\"\n\nA general exclamation burst from his followers. \"Not a man of\nthem!\" was echoed around, and they besought Macfarlane to lead them\ninstantly to the slaughter.\n\n\"No!\" replied he sternly, \"I have said, and I now swear by the\nroof-tree of my fathers, and by the graves where they rest, that not\na man of these vermin shall escape! and Macfarlane has never yet said,\nfor weal or for woe, what he did not make good to the very letter. But\nno advantage must be lost by rashness. Every precaution must be taken\ncoolly and deliberately, so that not a man of them may ever return to\nparent, to wife, or to child. Lochaber shall wail for them from one end\nof it to the other, and the men of that country shall pause long before\nthey again attempt to lay hand even on a cat belonging to Macfarlane.\"\n\nHaving thus checked their impatience, he marched them slowly onwards,\nwithout noise, till he discovered a thicket by the side of a brook,\nwhere, sheltered and concealed by an overhanging bank, his men could\nrest and refresh themselves without being observed, and there he\npatiently halted to wait for the night, and for further intelligence.\n\nImpenetrable darkness had settled over the forest, and the Macfarlanes\nhad sat long in silence, listening eagerly to catch the distant but\nwelcome sound of the lowing of the cattle, that came on their ears\nfaintly at intervals, and assured them that they were now within\na short march of their enemies, when the cracking of the withered\nbranches of the firs at some distance ahead of them made them stand\nto their arms and look sharply out from their ambush. Human footsteps\nwere evidently heard approaching. Not a word was uttered by those in\nthe thicket, but every eye that peered from it was steadily fixed\non a natural break among the trees growing on a bank, that rose\nwith a gentle slope immediately in front of their position, where\nthe obscurity being less absolutely impervious, they might at least\nbe enabled to see something like the form of any object that came,\nhowever imperfectly it might be defined. The sounds slowly advanced,\ntill at length one human figure only appeared on the knoll that crowned\nthe bank. It stood for some moments, as if scrutinising every bush\nthat grew in the hollow below. It moved--and then it seemed to stop,\nas if in hesitation. Macfarlane's henchman raised his arquebuse,\nand proceeded to light a match for its lock. The click of the flint\nand steel made the figure start.\n\n\"It is a patrol of the Lochaber men,\" whispered the henchman, raising\nthe piece to his shoulder to take aim; \"I'll warrant they have got hold\nof Angus and the rest. But I'll make sure of that fellow at any rate.\"\n\n\"Not for your life!\" replied Macfarlane in the same tone, whilst\nhe arrested his hand. \"The whole forest would ring with the report,\nand all would be lost.\"\n\nSeizing a crossbow from one of his immediate attendants, he bent it,\nand fitted a quarrel-bolt to it, and, having pointed it at the object\non the summit of the knoll, he challenged in such an under tone of\nvoice as might not spread alarm to any great distance, whilst, at the\nsame time, he was quite prepared to shoot with deadly certainty of\naim the moment he saw the figure make the smallest effort to retreat.\n\n\"Ho, there!\" cried the chief.\n\n\"Ho, there!\" replied the figure, starting at the sound, and turning\nhis head to look eagerly around him.\n\n\"Where grew your bow, and how is it drawn?\" demanded Macfarlane,\nin the same tone.\n\n\"It grew in the isles of Loch Lomond, and it is drawn for Loch Sloy,\"\nwas the ready reply.\n\nA long breath was inhaled and expired by the lungs of every anxious\nMacfarlane, as he recognised the well-known voice of Angus, the\nmaster herdsman.\n\n\"Advance, my trusty Angus,\" said the chief; \"the brake is full of\nfriends.\"\n\nAngus had never left his post of watch until he was satisfied that the\nLochaber men were in such a state of repose as to ensure to him time\nenough to return to meet his chief. He then planted some of his people\nto keep their eyes on the enemy, whilst he found his way back alone,\nto make Macfarlane fully aware of their position. The plunderers\nlay about a mile from the spot where the chief had halted. The\ngreat body of them, consisting of some thirty or more in number, had\nretired into the hunting-bothy, before the door of which a sentinel\nwas posted, to give alarm in case of assault. To prevent the cattle\nfrom straying away, they had driven them together into a large open\nhollow, immediately in front of the knoll on which the bothy stood;\nand to take away all risk of their escape or abstraction, four men\nwere stationed at equal distances from each other, so as to surround\nthem. The poor animals were so jaded with their rapid journey,\nthat they drew themselves around the shallow little lochan or pool\nin the bottom of the hollow, from which the bothy had its name, and\nhaving lain down there, they showed so much unwillingness to rise\nfrom their recumbent position, that the watchmen soon ceased to have\nany apprehension of their running away. The men rolled themselves up\nin their plaids, therefore, and each making a bed for himself among\nthe long heather, they indulged in that sort of half slumber to which\nactive-bodied and vacant-minded people must naturally yield the moment\nthey are brought into an attitude of rest.\n\nMacfarlane had no sooner made himself perfectly master of all these\ncircumstances, than he at once conceived his murderous plans--took his\nresolution--gave his orders; and, having cautioned every man of his\nparty to be hushed as the grave, they proceeded, under the guidance\nof Angus, to steal like cats upon their prey--foot falling softly and\nslowly after foot, so that if they produced any sound at all, it was\nliker the rustle of some zephyr passing gently over the heather tops,\nthan the pressure of mortal tread.\n\nWhilst they were proceeding in this cautious manner, Angus, who was at\nthe head of the men, was observed suddenly to raise his crossbow, and\nto point it in the direction of Macfarlane, who was, at that moment,\nsome ten or fifteen paces before the party. Filled with horror, the men\nwho were nearest to him sprang upon him to prevent so great a treason\nas the murder of their chief. Angus was felled to the ground--but\nhis bolt had already flown--and, with a sure aim too, for down fell\namong the heath, weltering in his blood, and with an expiring groan,\nnot the chief of the Macfarlanes, but one of the Lochaber men. The\nquick eye of Angus had detected him standing half concealed by the\nhuge trunk of a tree, exactly in the very path of the chief. Three\nmore steps would have brought Macfarlane within reach of the very\ndirk of the assassin, which was already unsheathed, and ready to\nhave been plunged in his bosom. Amazement fell upon all of them for\nsome moments. Macfarlane could with difficulty comprehend what had\nhappened; but when he was at length made to understand the truth,\nhe ran towards Angus. He was already raised in the arms of those of\nhis friends who had so rashly judged and punished him, but who were\nnow sufficiently ashamed and repentant of their precipitation.\n\n\"Look up, my brave Angus,\" said Macfarlane to his clansman, as he\nbegan to revive; \"look up to thy chief, grateful as he is for that\nlife which thou hast preserved to him!--Heaven forbid that it were\nat the expense of thine own life; and that, too, taken by the too\nzealous hands of Macfarlanes.\"\n\n\"Fear not for me,\" replied Angus, somewhat faintly, \"I was but stunned\nby the blow; and he that gave it me would have been well excused if\nhe had given me a death-wound, if I could have been justly suspected\nof traitorie to my chief; and well I wot the bare suspicion of such\nvillainy is wound enough to me.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, Angus,\" said Macfarlane; \"you must not think so deeply of\nthis accident. The judgment was necessarily as sudden as the action,\nand no wonder that it was faulty. But, how came this stray man to be\npatrolling about? Are we betrayed or discovered, think ye?\"\n\n\"I would fain trust that we are not,\" replied Angus. \"As we watched,\nwe saw one man leave the bothy to go out and spy around their post,\nas we guessed; but, as we afterwards saw a man come in again, we took\nhim to be the same, when, I'll warrant me, he has been the fellow\nwhom the first man went out to relieve. But, if we were deceived, the\nfault is luckily cured now, for this is doubtless the very man who\"----\n\n\"Aye,\" said the chief interrupting him; \"the very man, indeed, who\nwould have certainly taken my life, had it not been for thine alert\nand timely aid. What do I not owe thee, my trusty Angus! But stay;\nlet him sit down and rest for a brief space, till he recovers his\nstrength, and then, if I mistake not, we shall bloodily revenge his\npassing injury.\"\n\nThey now again moved forward, with much circumspection, until they at\nlength began to perceive a distant light, which occasionally twinkled\nin advance of them. As they proceeded, the light became broader,\nthough it was still broken by the intervention of the thick-set stems\nof the forest. But after groping their way onwards with redoubled care\nfor some hundred yards farther, it burst forth fully and steadily on\ntheir eyes, as the trees ceased suddenly, and they found themselves\nclose to the very edge of the open hollow described by Angus, and in\nthe middle of the herdsmen who had been left by him as spies. After\nusing their eyes very earnestly and intently for a little time, they\ncould now perceive the surface of the shallow pool, which lay in the\nstill shadow, in the centre of the bottom below them, and they could\ndimly descry the dusky mass of cattle lying crowded together around\nit. As the Macfarlanes stood peering into the obscurity, a low and\nmelancholy voice of complaint would every now and then burst from some\nindividual beast, reminiscent of the rich Loch Lomond pasture from\nwhich it had been driven, and bitterly sensible of the sad change of\nfortunes which a few hours had brought to it. The figures of the four\nwatchmen were as yet invisible; but the whole face of the opposite\nknoll being free from wood, the door of the hunting bothy was clearly\ndefined, by the bickering blaze of faggots that burned in the middle\nof the floor within, distinctly displaying the sentinel as he walked to\nand fro across the field of its light. The thick wooding of the forest\nthat encircled this natural opening came climbing up the rear of the\nknoll until its tall pines clustered over the back of the bothy itself,\nand the existence of high grounds rising with considerable abruptness\nat no great distance, if not previously known, could only have been\nguessed at by the greater density of the shade which prevailed over\neverything that was beneath the lofty horizon, the limits of which\nwere easily distinguished by the partial gleam that proceeded from the\nsky above it. There the clouds were now every moment growing thinner\nand thinner, as the driving rack skimmed across the face of heaven\nwith a velocity that proclaimed an approaching hurricane.\n\nIn obedience to the orders already given to them by their chief,\nthe Macfarlanes retreated a few steps into the thick part of the\nskirting forest, the dark foliage of which arose everywhere around\nthis naturally open space, and beneath its impenetrable concealment\nthey made a silent movement to right and left, during which they\nposted single men at equal distances from each other, until they had\ncompletely surrounded the hollow, the bothy, and the whole party of\nLochaber men, together with their booty. This manoeuvre was no sooner\nsilently and successfully executed, than four choice young herdsmen,\nremarkable for their daring courage as well as for their strength and\nagility, were selected by Angus. These had well and accurately noted\nthe respective spots where each of the Lochaber watchmen had lain\ndown, and after some consultation, each had one of them assigned to\nhim as his own peculiar object of attack. Having gone around the edge\nof the wood till each man was opposite to his slumbering enemy, they\nglided down the sloping edges of the hollow, armed with their dirks\nalone, and they crept on their bellies towards the bottom, drawing\nthemselves like snakes silently and imperceptibly through the long\nheather. Full time was to be allowed for each man to reach his prey;\nand although the period was not in reality very long, yet you will\neasily believe that it passed over the heads of the Macfarlanes with a\ndegree of anxiety that made it appear long enough. The moment the four\nherdsmen began to descend into the deep shadow which filled the sides\nof the hollow, their figures were entirely lost to the view of those\nwho were stationed within the skirt of the surrounding forest. Every\nheart beat with agonising suspense. The smallest accident might ruin\nall. An occasional prolonged moan was heard to come from some of the\ncattle, and all felt persuaded, however contrary it might be to reason,\nthat each succeeding recurrence of it must awaken the slumberers. But\nat length, whether from the operation of some peculiar instinct,\nor from some remarkable sense of smell which these creatures have\noccasionally proved that they possess, it happened that they really\ndid become sensible of the approach of some of those who were wont to\nattend on them, I know not; but all of a sudden some ten or a dozen of\nthem sprang up to their legs, and changed their long low moan into that\nsharp and piercing rout into which it is frequently known to graduate.\n\n\"Look out! look out there!\" cried one of the Lochaber watchmen in\nGaelic, and half raising himself as he spoke.\n\n\"Look out!\" cried one of the others laughing, \"I'm thinking that I\nwould need the blazing eyes of the devil himself to be able to look\nat anything here.\"\n\n\"What's the matter?\" shouted the sentinel at the door of the bothy;\nand as he said so, he halted in the midst of his walk, and bent his\nbody forward in all directions in his eagerness to descry the cause\nof the alarm.\n\n\"Tut, nothing,\" replied another of the watchmen, \"all's well, I\nwarrant me.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said another, \"we're safe enough from all surprise this\nnight; for, as Archy says, it would need the fiery e'en of the red\nde'il himself to grope a way through the forest in such darkness\nas this.\"\n\n\"It's dark enough to confound an owl or a bat, indeed,\" said the\nwatchman who first spoke, \"but mine are eyes that can note a buck\non Ben Nevis' side of an autumn morning a good hour before the sun\nhath touched his storm-worn top; and, by St. Colm, I swear I saw some\ndark-looking thing glide over the lip of the bank yonder.\"\n\n\"It must have been a dark-looking thing, indeed, to have been visible\nthere,\" replied his comrade; \"but if it were not fancy, it must have\nbeen a fox or a badger.\"\n\n\"Be it what it might,\" replied the man, \"I swear I saw the back of\nthe creature as it came creeping over the round of the bank.\"\n\n\"What, think ye, makes the' cattle rout so strangely?\" demanded\nthe sentinel.\n\n\"That which makes the pipes skirl so loudly,\" replied one of the men\nbelow, \"a stomach full of wind. I promise you the poor beasts got but\na scanty supper ere the sun went to. And here, unless they can eat\ngravel or sand in this hole, or heather as hard as pike-heads, they\nhave little chance of filling their bellies with aught else but wind.\"\n\nA noise of talking was now heard within the bothy, where all had\nbeen so quiet previously, and immediately afterwards the doorway was\ndarkened by the figures of two or three men, who came crowding out to\ngaze ineffectually around them. Some talking took place between them\nand the sentinel; and Macfarlane and his people gave up all hope of\nthe success of the manoeuvres they had planned. But after some moments\nof most painful suspense, the talk of the Lochaber men terminated in\na loud laugh, produced, no doubt, by some waggish remark made against\nsome individual of the little knot, after which the figures retired\ninto the hut. The sentinel resumed his silent walk, and the watchmen in\nthe hollow below seemed to relapse into their former state of slumber.\n\nThe silence that now prevailed was not less deep and intense than the\ndarkness that sat upon this wild forest scene, where the plunderers\nlay unconsciously surrounded by their mortal foes. Macfarlane moved\ncautiously round the circle of his men, to assure himself that\nall were prepared, and sufficient time having now expired to have\nallowed the slumber of security to have again crept over his victims,\nhe took a matchlock from his henchman, and stepping forth from under\nthe trees, he pointed it with a deliberate and unerring aim at the\nsentinel, as he stood for a moment directly opposed to the full\nlight proceeding from the doorway. He gave fire. This was the fatal\nsignal--instantaneously fatal to him against whom the deadly tube was\nlevelled, who sprang into the air and fell without a groan, pierced\nthrough the very heart. But it was not fatal to him alone; for ere the\nreport of the shot had re-echoed from the surrounding heights of the\nforest, or its myriads of feathered inhabitants had been roused by it\non the startled wing, the dirks of the four Macfarlane herdsmen had\nbathed themselves in the life's-blood of the four Lochaber watchmen;\nso that their living slumbers were in one moment exchanged for those\nof death. The wild war-shout of \"Lochsloy! Lochsloy!\" arose at once\nfrom every part of the ring of the Macfarlanes, who environed the\nplace; and each man keeping his eyes on the light that issued from\nthe bothy, on they ran towards it as to a centre from all parts of\nthe circle. So sudden was the attack, that those within had hardly\ntime to start from their sleep, and to hurry in confusion to the\ndoor, ere the Macfarlanes were upon them. The clash of arms was\nterrific, and the slaughter fearful. At once driven back in a mass,\nthe remnant of the Lochaber men barricaded the doorway in despair,\nand determining to die hard, they fired many shots from behind it,\nas well as from a small window hole near it; but discharged as these\nwere from a crowded press of men, where no aim could be taken, no\nvery fatal effect could be produced by them. On the other hand, the\nassailants could do nothing, till Macfarlane kindled a slow-match,\nand prepared to thrust it into the dry heather that covered the roof.\n\n\"Macfarlane!\" cried Angus, eagerly endeavouring to interpose; \"for the\nlove of the Virgin fire not the thatch! Think of old Margery's vision!\"\n\nMacfarlane did think of it; but, alas! he thought of it too late;\nfor the slow match had been already applied--had already caught\nfatally; and in one instant it had burst into a blaze, that, amidst\nthe pitchy darkness of that night, would have been a magnificent\nspectacle, could any one have beheld it without those dreadful emotions\nnaturally excited by the cruel cause that created it, and the horrible\ncircumstances that attended it. In one moment more the whole of the\nwooden structure was in flames, and inconceivably short was the period\nin which the tragedy was consummated. Loud and piteous were the cries\nfor mercy; but they fell on ears which revenge had rendered deaf\nto mercy's call. The half-burned Lochaber men, yelling like demons,\nrushed in desperation forth from the blazing walls; but dazzled by\nthe glare, they only rushed to certain destruction on the spears of\nthe Macfarlanes, and were hewn down by their trenchant claymores,\nor despatched with their ready dirks: so that ere a few brief moments\nhad fled away, all those who had been so recently reposing in fancied\nsecurity, with the full pulses of robust life beating vigorously\nwithin their hardy frames, were heaped up in one reeking mass of\ncarnage before the burning bothy.\n\n\"Let us rid the earth of these carcases!\" said Macfarlane after\na pause; for now that the keenness of revenge and the exciting\neagerness of enterprise had been fully satiated by success, he was\nhalf horror-struck with the ghastly fruits of it, which he thus beheld\npiled up before him. In obedience to his command, the whole of the\ndead bodies were immediately gathered together, and thrown within\nthe burning bothy, where they were quickly covered with branches and\nhalf-decayed pieces of wood, hastily dragged from the forest, till the\nfire that was thus created shot up far above the trees in one spiral\npillar of flame, bearing on its capital a black smoke that poisoned\nthe air with the heavy and sickening taint with which it was loaded.\n\nThe Macfarlanes stood for a while grouped in front of it, in silent\ncontemplation of its fitful changes; but its light showed little\nof the flush of triumph on their sullen brows. Each man held dark\ncommuning with his own gloomy thoughts. Their chief, leaning on the\ndeadly instrument which had given the fatal signal, looked on the\nscene with a cloud on his brow not less dark than that of the murky\nsmoke itself. Whatever his reflections were, there was a restless\nand uneasy expression on his countenance. He started, for a dreadful\nsound came crashing through the forest. It was like that which might\nwell have announced the coming of the demon of destruction or the\nangel of vengeance; and before he could mutter the Ave-Maria which\nmechanically came to his lips, that hurricane which the careering\nrack of the clouds had been for some time unheededly announcing,\ncame rushing upon them with the swiftness of lightning and with\nresistless force. In one moment the frail wooden walls of the bothy,\nalready yielding to the influence of the combustion, were levelled\nwith the ground; and some six or eight of the tallest pines which stood\nnearest to them behind, were laid across them with all their branches\nin one heap by the blast. Macfarlane and his men were driven down on\ntheir faces, and compelled to cling to the knoll on hands and knees,\nlike flies to a mushroom top. So tremendous was the violence of the\ntempest, that they could not rise from their crouching position,\nnor even dare to lift up their heads without the certainty of being\nwhirled off their feet, and dashed to atoms against the boles of the\nneighbouring trees. This furious fit of the elements endured not long;\nbut when a sudden lull of nature did allow them to assume the erect\nposition, how terrible! how appalling was the scene they beheld!\n\nThe funeral pile which they had themselves kindled for the massacred\nmen of Lochaber, now arose in one broad resistless tower of fire,\ncrowned, as it were, with many a pointed pinnacle of flame, that\nappeared to pierce the very sky, lighting up every part of the\nsurrounding elevations, nay, every little crevice in the rocks,\nand every tree, bush, or petty plant that grew upon their rugged\nsurface. If the spectacle was grand before, it was now sublime beyond\nall imagination. But, alas! the Macfarlanes were occupied with\nother contemplations; for the huge fallen pines which had so much\naugmented the conflagration, had formed a train of communication\nfrom the burning bothy to the thick forest immediately behind it;\nand the flames had spread so rapidly far and wide on every side,\nthat already the whole of the surrounding circle of wood presented\nnearly one dense and lofty wall of fire through which there was hardly\nany door of escape left for them. For one instant, and for that one\ninstant only, something like dismay appeared in Macfarlane's eye,\nas he first gazed around him, and then cast a glance full of anxious\nexpression towards his faithful clansmen.\n\n\"Perhaps I might have shown more mercy,\" half-muttered he to\nhimself. \"But if it be the will of Heaven to punish me, oh! why should\nthese poor fellows suffer for the sin of their chief? My brave men,\"\ncontinued he aloud, \"we cannot stand here. The air already grows hot\nand scanty. Follow me, and let us try to burst through yonder point\nwhere the flames seem to burn thinnest. Come on.\"\n\nFollowed by his people, Macfarlane rushed down the sloping face of\nthe knoll, with the intention of cutting across the open space by the\nmost direct line towards the spot he had indicated; but they had not\ngone many steps ere the hurricane again came sweeping over the woods\nwith all its former fury,--the enormous pines bent and groaned as if\nfrom the agony they were enduring,--the violence of the conflagration\nwas increased tenfold,--the wall of fire by which they were environed\nwas speedily closed in, so as to annihilate every lingering hope of\nescape,--and the Macfarlanes were compelled to throw themselves again\nflat on the ground, and to scramble down into the bottom of the hollow,\nto avoid being scorched up like moths by the fire which the uncertain\nwhirlwind darted suddenly hither and thither in different directions,\nand to escape the risk of being snatched up into the air and launched\namid the burning pines.\n\nIt had happened so far well for the sufferers, that the cattle,\nterrified by the shouts of the conflict, and still more by the first\nblaze of the bothy, had fled up the bank from the hollow, and,\nforgetting their fatigue, they had charged full-tilt through the\nforest, routing and bellowing in that direction which led to their\nown Loch Lomond pastures, from which they had been so unwillingly\ndriven. The small space towards the bottom of the hollow, therefore,\nwas thus left entirely disencumbered of them; so that when the\nMacfarlanes were forced down thither, they were enabled to gather\naround the shallow pool of water in the centre of the place. There they\nendeavoured to defend themselves against the flying embers, by rolling\nup their bodies tight in their plaids. But although they were rid of\nthe cattle, they were not left as the only occupants of the spot; for\nthe place was soon covered with swarms of mice, weasels, adders, frogs,\ntoads, and all the minuter sorts of animals, like them driven into the\ncentre of the circle by the scorching heat of the devouring element\nthat surrounded them. For now the flames raged fiercer than ever, and\nthe dense canopy of smoke that covered the comparatively small space\nwhere they lay, was so pressed down upon them by the fury of the blast,\nthat it appeared to shut out the very air; and they seemed to breathe\nnothing but fire and burning dust and ashes. Their very lungs seemed\nto be igniting, whilst at every temporary accession of the tempest,\nthe half-consumed tops of the blazing pines were whirled among them\nlike darts, inflicting grievous bruises and burns on many of them.\n\nAnd now, as if to consummate their afflictions and their miserable\nfate, the long, dry, and wiry heath that grew within the open space\nwhere they lay, was laid hold of by the fire; and the flames, running\nalong the ground from all sides towards the centre, threatened\nthem with instant, awful, and inevitable death. But one resource\nnow remained; and to that they were not slow in resorting. They\nrolled themselves into the shallow pool, and wallowed together in\na knot. They gasped like dying men, and their eyeballs glared and\nstarted from their sockets with the agony they endured; and in their\nutter despair they sucked the muddy water of the lochan in which they\nlay, to cool their burning mouths and throats. Macfarlane felt as\nif they had been already consigned to the purifying pains of that\npurgatory through which, as his religion told him, their guilty\nsouls must pass. Their bewildered brains spun round, and strange\nand terrific shapes seemed to pass before their eyes. Some short\nejaculations for mercy were breathed, but not a groan, nor a word,\nnor a sound of complaint, was permitted to escape from any one of\ntheir manly breasts, even although the pool, their last frail hope,\nwas now fast drying up from the intensity of the heat.\n\nAfter a complication of indescribable torments, which made the\npassing minutes seem like hours, the force of the hurricane suddenly\nslackened for a short time, and the thick surface of heath around them\nhaving been by this time burnt out, and the trees which grew upon the\nimmediate confines of the circle having had their boughs and foliage\nconsumed and their trunks prostrated, the open space within which\nthey were enclosed grew wider in its limits, and consequently the air\nbecame more abundant and freer in its circulation; so that they began\ngradually to revive. By degrees they were enabled to raise themselves\nin a weak and half-suffocated state from what was now reduced to little\nmore than the mere mud of the pool. Then it was that their chief,\nthough himself much overcome by the conjunction of his own bodily\nand mental sufferings, was roused to active exertion by that anxious\ndesire to preserve his people which now sprang up within him, to the\nutter extinguishment of all consideration for his own person. He was\nso faint, that it was with some difficulty he could ascend the knoll;\nbut he hastened to climb it, that he might endeavour to discover from\nthence whether any hope was likely to arise for them. There he found\nthat the bothy, and the fuel and pine trees that had been heaped upon\nit, had already sunk into a smoking hillock of red-hot ashes, from the\nsmouldering surface of which the ghastly half-consumed skulls of his\nLochaber foes were seen fearfully protruding themselves. The undaunted\nheart of Macfarlane quailed before a spectacle so unlooked for and\nso unwelcome at such a moment. He started back and shuddered as their\nblackened visages met his eye, grinning, as it were, with a horrible\nfiend-like expression of satisfaction at his present misery. He\nturned from the sight with disgust, not unmingled with remorse, and\nthen sweeping his eyes around the now far-retreating circle of the\nburning forest, and reflecting on the imminent destruction which he\nand his clansmen had so recently escaped, and looking to the peril\nby which they were yet environed, he crossed himself, threw his eyes\nupwards, uttered an inward prayer of penitence and of thankfulness,\nand then he bravely prepared himself to take every advantage of\nwhatever favourable circumstances might occur.\n\nAfter scanning the blazing boundary all around with the most minute\nattention, Macfarlane thought he could perceive one narrow blank in\nthe continuity of the fiery wall. His knowledge of the forest enabled\nhim to be immediately aware that the blank was occasioned by a ravine\nwhich he knew was but partially covered with wood, through which a\nstream found its way. He took his determination; and summoning his\npeople around him, and pointing out this distant hope of escape,\nhe called to them to follow him. With resolute countenances they\nimmediately began to make their difficult and hazardous way over the\ntorrid and smoking ground, among the red-hot trunks of the pine-trees\nwhich stood half-consumed--smouldering fallen logs--tall branchless\nmasts, which still blazed like upright torches, and which were every\nmoment falling around them, or those which had already fallen, or\nwhich had been broken over, hanging burning in an inclined position\nacross their way--whilst they were, every now and then, tripped and\nthrown down by some unseen obstacle among the scorching embers; and\never and anon each returning gust of the hurricane whirled up around\nthem an atmosphere of ignited dust and cinders, almost sufficient to\nhave deprived them of the breath of life. But still, with their heads\nhalf-muffled in their plaids, they persevered, till the increasing\nheat of the air they inhaled and of the ground they trod on, and the\nmultiplication of the difficulties they had to encounter, would have\nbeen enough of themselves to have convinced them of their approach\nto the more active theatre of the conflagration, even if its fiery\nenclosure, and the groaning and crashing of the falling timber, had\nnot been but too manifestly before their eyes and loud in their ears.\n\nThe difficulties and dangers of their progress now became infinitely\nmultiplied. Hitherto their endeavours to keep together had been\ntolerably successful; but now each individual could do no more than\ntake care of himself, and every cloud of burning cinders that blew\naround them produced a greater separation among them, till finally\nthey became so dispersed, that when the chief reached the head of the\nnarrow ravine, through which he had hoped that he might have led them\nin a body, he cleared the burning dust from his eyes, looked everywhere\naround him eagerly for his people, and, to his bitter mortification,\nhe beheld no one but his trusty Angus, who, amidst all the obstacles\nand hazards through which they had passed, had still contrived to\nstick close to his master. Old Margery's vision came across his mind,\nand, in the midst of the burning heats to which he was subjected,\nthe blood ran cold to his heart. He cast his eyes down the trough of\nthe ravine, over which clouds of flame and smoke were then rolling,\nand there, indeed, he did, at transient intervals, behold a handful\nof his clansmen toiling through the perilous passage. He shouted\naloud to bid them stay; but the overwhelming roar of the whirlwind,\ncombined with that of the combustion of the neighbouring trees,\nrendered his voice altogether powerless. Distressing doubts arose\nwithin him as to the fate of those who appeared to be amissing; but\nthe rapid growth of the conflagration around him compelled him to\nshake off all such thoughts, and summoning up his sternest resolution,\nhe rushed down into the ravine, with Angus at his back, as if he had\nbeen rushing to an assault under the spirit-stirring influence of the\nwar-cry of the Macfarlanes. And few assaults indeed could have been so\nhazardous, for, ever and anon, huge burning pines were precipitated\nfrom the steeps above, so that even the water-course itself was in\na great measure choked up by their hissing and smoking ruins. But\nstill Macfarlane fought his way onwards amidst burnings and bruises,\nmany of them occasioned by his frequently looking round with anxious\nsolicitude for the safety of his faithful follower; but, in spite of\nall these difficulties and perils, he had already made considerable\nprogress down the ravine, when, in one instant, he was deprived of\nall sense by the sudden descent of an enormous pine, which he could\nneither avoid nor see.\n\nWhen the chief recovered from his swoon, he found himself lying on\nhis back, in a shallow part of the little stream, which there crept\nalong between two great stony masses. He had been struck down by the\nspray and smaller branches of the upper boughs of the tree, which,\nfortunately for him, had rested across the great stones in such a\nmanner as to form an arch over his body, and as this arch naturally\nproduced a rush of air under it, he was thus saved alike from being\ncrushed to death and from suffocation. Raising himself on his hands\nand knees, he made his way out from under the burning boughs, and got\nup so stunned and battered, that some moments elapsed ere he quite\nrecovered his recollection. Recent events then crowded fast to his\nmind, and with these his anxiety for the safety of Angus recurred\nmore strongly than ever. He called loudly and frequently on him by\nname, but the well-known voice of his faithful follower came not in\nreturn. A lurid light was thrown down into the depth of the ravine by\nthe conflagration which was spreading widely above. He moved anxiously\naround the tree, looking earnestly everywhere underneath the smoking\nbranches, till at last the manly countenance of Angus Macfarlane met\nhis eye. The forehead exhibited a fearful ghastly-looking wound, and\nhis body was lying so crushed down beneath the boughs that pressed\nupon it, as to take away all chance that a spark of life remained\nwithin it. With desperate strength and anguish of mind the chief drew\nhis claymore, and hewed away the interposing branches, till he had\nso far relieved the body as to be able to draw it forth. He eagerly\nfelt for the pulses of life, but they were for ever stilled.\n\n\"Alas, alas, my faithful Angus!\" cried Macfarlane, \"art thou gone for\never! Alas, thy fate was indeed too truly read! But I cannot leave\nthee to feed the devouring flames, or to be a banquet for the ravens\nwhen this awful burning shall have passed away. Alas! I promised\nto provide for thy bridal, and now, since it hath pleased Heaven to\ndispose it otherwise, it shall not be said that thy chief permitted\nthee to lack funereal rites!\"\n\nWith these words Macfarlane stooped him down, and raised the body\nof Angus upon his shoulders. The way down the water-course was\nobstructed by the huge half-consumed trunks of the fallen pines,\nwhich lay in every direction across, resting irregularly on the\nlarge blocks of slippery stone, with their branches interwoven like\nhurdles. But Macfarlane, weakened as he was by the accumulated fatigue\nand suffering he had undergone, staggered on under his burden with\nan unsubdued spirit, determined to bear it so long as his limbs were\nable to sustain his own person. Inconceivable was the toil which he\nunderwent, and many were the hairbreadth 'scapes which he made from\ninstantaneous destruction. But still he persevered with undiminished\ncourage, until his heroic exertions were at length rewarded by his\nreaching a spot of comparative safety, beyond the fiery barrier which\nhad so long environed him. But here he only stopped to breathe for\na moment, for, toil-spent, exhausted, and bruised, and faint as he\nwas, he was still compelled, by a regard for his own life, to urge\nonwards over the smoother ground which he now trod, with longer and\nless cautious strides. His way was illuminated for an immense distance\nbefore him, by the triumphant conflagration that came roaring after\nhim, and it was still gaining fresh strength every succeeding moment\nfrom the furious aid it was receiving from the increasing hurricane.\n\nAs he bore his burden resolutely onwards, his uncertain path led him\nacross a mossy patch of heath, where there were but few trees. There\nthe lurid light of the conflagration, reflected as it was from the\nheavens, was sufficient to show him a white figure advancing hastily\ntowards him. It was a maiden's slender form--she came--she uttered\none wild and piercing shriek, and then she sank down amid the long\nheath. Macfarlane laid the body of Angus upon a small hillock, and\nran to her aid. It was Ellen. He flew to a rill hard by, and brought\nwater in his bonnet. She still breathed, but, as he lifted her head\non his knee, each succeeding inspiration became fainter and fainter,\ntill her fair bosom ceased to heave, and her lovely features settled\ninto the marble stillness of death. Her frenzied efforts had been\ngreater than her delicate frame could bear, and the severe mental\nshock which she received had suddenly expelled her pure spirit from\nits earthly tenement.\n\nMacfarlane leant over her for a time, altogether absorbed in the\nintensity of those feelings to which human nature compelled him to\nyield. But it was not long till the increasing roar of the advancing\nconflagration, which was now fearfully extending the breadth of its\nline of march, roused him from his stupor. What could he now do? Was\nhe to abandon both, or even one of the bodies of those, the memory of\nwhom he so much cherished, in order to consult his own safety? or was\nhe to peril his own life for the purpose of performing a pious but by\nno means an imperatively necessary duty? He hesitated for a moment--a\ntransient and accidental gleam disclosed to him the honest countenance\nof Angus--his heart filled with many an old recollection--his lip\nquivered--his eyes became moist--he moved towards the hillock where\nthe body of Angus lay, and, stooping down hastily, he raised it again\nto his right shoulder, and then, passing onwards, he put his left arm\naround the slim form of Ellen, and lifting it up, he laboured on under\nthe weight of both, with the long hair of the maiden sweeping over\nthe tops of the purple heath as he went. Louder and louder came the\nroar of the conflagration behind him. He quickened his steps, toiling\non every moment more and more breathlessly. But again the trees grew\nthicker as he advanced, and his way became more and more encumbered\nby their stems. The heat of the advancing flames now came more and\nmore sensibly upon him, yet still he struggled on, firmly resolved\nnot to relinquish either of his burdens till dire necessity should\ncompel him to do so. The moment when this alternative was to arrive\nseemed to be fast approaching--nature was becoming exhausted--when his\nears caught a shout which he well knew must come from some of his own\nclansmen. Faint as he was, the chief was not slow in replying to it;\nand, to his great relief, he was soon joined by some of those from whom\nhe had been separated during the earlier part of their dreadful and\nbewildering retreat. He was now speedily relieved of both his burdens,\nand the flagging spirits of all of them being in some degree restored\nby this meeting, they again pushed on with renewed exertions, and\nwithout a halt, for some miles, during which they picked up several\nstragglers, whose bruised and blackened figures gave sufficient\nevidence of the dangers and difficulties they had passed through.\n\nWorn out almost to death, this remnant of the Macfarlanes with\ndifficulty climbed the gentle slope of a considerable eminence that\nlay in their way, and as they wound over the summit of it, where the\ntrees grew somewhat thinly, Macfarlane, as he looked behind him, had\nat last the satisfaction to perceive that they had now gained so much\non their pursuing enemy as to render them secure of a safe and easy\nretreat. Many, I trow, was the cross that was signed, and the broken\nthanksgiving that was uttered ere the chief and this fragment of his\nfollowers threw themselves down to rest awhile, and to contemplate the\nawful scene of destruction from which they had so wonderfully escaped,\nof which their present commanding position gave them a full view.\n\nThe flames had now spread for miles in every direction over the\nthickest parts of the forest, rising over the crested ridges\nand swelling elevations, and diving into the deepest valleys and\nhollows. It seemed like one great billowy sea of fire, agitated as\nit was from time to time by the hurricane, which, as it approached\nits termination, came in gusts, violent in strength, but short in\nduration. As each of these successively swept over the blazing woods,\nits terrible roar was mingled with the fearful crash of thousands\nof gigantic pines, which were levelled like reeds before it. These,\nas they fell, tossed up myriads of mimic stars and meteors into\nthe firmament, which, being surrounded by a zone of dense and inky\nclouds on its horizon, shone from within that circumference to its\nvery centre, like one vast concave plate of red-hot brass. The scene\nwas enough to humble the proudest heart. The very deer were terrified\ninto an unwonted degree of familiarity with man, for a herd of them\nthat came sweeping over the brow of the eminence, flying in terror\nfrom the devouring flames, halted by them, and mingled with them, as\nif to claim protection from them. The dauntless heart of Macfarlane\nhimself sank within him, as the whole desolating circumstances of\nthis terrible night came crowding to his mind. It was wrung by a deep\npang as he recalled the horrible spectacle of the massacred men of\nLochaber; he wept like a child when he again looked on the inanimate\nbodies of those whose appointed bridal-day must now become that of\ntheir funeral. He groaned deeply as he gathered from his people around\nhim the sad fate of many of those who were not now to be seen among\nthem; and when such thoughts as these could be so far subdued as to\npermit him to gaze on the red and resistlessly devouring element,\nwhich was so rapidly annihilating his forest, he pictured to himself\nthe melancholy devastation it would produce over his wide domains,\nand the destruction it would occasion to his hunting grounds, and\nalready, in imagination, he beheld the sable livery of mourning that\nmust soon be spread over his hitherto magnificent territory. And\nhow well his anticipations were verified, we know from the fact,\nthat ere many days went round the whole of the forest covering that\ncountry for above twenty-five miles in length, and of a breadth\ncorresponding to that extent, was completely burned down, and the\nmosses which afterwards originated from it, and which still exist,\nare full of the embalmed witnesses of this terrible calamity.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCOMPARATIVELY RECENT DESTRUCTION OF THE FORESTS.\n\n\nAuthor.--Your legend, my dear Grant, is extremely valuable as matter\nof history. The preservation of the circumstances which fortuitously\ncaused the destruction of one vast extent of forest, enables us easily\nto imagine those which may have contributed to the annihilation of\nall the rest.\n\nGrant.--Doubtless, it does.\n\nAuthor.--It appears that many of those tracts of woodland must have\nperished at periods much more recent than we should at first sight be\nled to suppose; and it now occurs to me, that I lately heard enough\nto convince me that this was the case with the forests covering the\nbare country you are now looking at. Both of you know enough of it to\nbe aware that the upper part of Strathspey, far beyond those distant\nhills, is somewhat about eight and twenty or thirty miles from Cawdor\nCastle; and you know that bare heaths, such as we see before us,\nnow cover the whole of that stretch of country, with two exceptions;\nI mean that of the picturesque forest of Dulnan, immediately to the\nsouth of the Bridge of Carr, and that presented by the now almost\nexhausted forest of Dulsie, the remnants of which you may see behind us\nyonder to our right, running along the trough of the river Findhorn,\nand covering part of the hills to the north of it. In the whole of\nthe space I have mentioned, these are the only fragments of woodland\nleft to interrupt the dull monotony of the moors.\n\nClifford.--I was over it all this very season. It is not very easy\nfor me to conceive that it could have ever been wooded at all. 'Tis\nexcellent grouse ground every bit of it. But, as to timber, if there\nbe any, it is all buried beneath the heathery sod.\n\nAuthor.--True. Yet a respectable man, perfectly worthy of credit,\nassured a friend of mine, that in his grandfather's younger days, the\nstate of this part of the country was very different. The old man he\nalluded to lived near Aviemore. He sent his son, who was the father of\nmy friend's informant, on some errand to Fort George. He had himself\nbecome blind from age, and as he had not travelled that way for many\nyears, he earnestly questioned his son after his return. \"What sort of\na country is that you have been seeing?\" said he; and when his son had\ndescribed it as having pretty much the same appearance as it now wears,\n\"Och, hey!\" exclaimed the old man, \"what a change! When I was a youth,\nI used to go in underneath the shade of the forest on this side of\nthe woods of Dulnan, and I hardly ever saw the sun again till I got\nout of it below Cawdor Castle!\"\n\nGrant.--That is a very curious fact. Why that would bring the\nexistence of the forests of this part of the country down to within\nthree generations; and, even allowing that your friend's informant\nwas advanced in life when he told the story, and that his father and\ngrandfather were rather patriarchal in the endurance of their lives,\nyet I think the evidence you have brought forward would enable us\nsafely to say, that these moors we now look upon were still covered\nwith wood at the beginning of the eighteenth century.\n\nAuthor.--Such, certainly, ought to be our conclusion. Is it not\nsurprising, then, that I have never been able to pick up any account,\nlegendary or otherwise, of the circumstances which must have produced\nthe extirpation of these forests at a period comparatively so recent.\n\nClifford.--From the roots and trunks which are left, it would appear\nthat the trees were almost entirely pines.\n\nAuthor.--The pine is certainly the prevailing tree, but it is by no\nmeans the only one. Birches, alders, and hazels are common, and oaks\nof immense size, some of them three or four feet in diameter for a\ngreat way up the stem, are dug up in various parts of these moors,\nand many of them in situations where it is now matter of astonishment\nthat such monarchs of the wood could have been produced; for they\nare found high on the hills yonder above Dulsie, as well as in the\nmosses far up the courses of the rivers Dorback and Divie.\n\nClifford, with enthusiasm,--With what a different scene should we now\nbe surrounded, if we could conjure up all these ancient tenants of the\nsoil, like the reanimated bodies of dead warriors from their graves,\nas told in some fairy tale of my childhood, to live again, and to\nwave their leafy banners triumphantly over these hills and hollows!\n\nGrant.--It would be a very different scene indeed.\n\nAuthor.--Aye, truly it would. Conceive the bleak face of these moors\nso covered, and then carry your imagination back into remote ages,\nand let us endeavour to people it in fancy with the animals which must\nhave roamed through its endless wildernesses, and couched within the\nprotection of its almost impervious thickets.\n\nClifford.--What a country for sport!\n\nAuthor.--Let us picture to ourselves the myriads of birds of all kinds\nwhich winged their flight over the boundless ocean of its foliage,\nas it was blown into billowy motion by the breezes, or which nestled\namong its branches as it quietly settled itself to repose, and we\nshall not only have produced out of these wastes a gorgeous landscape,\nmost romantic in its character, but we shall have opened a wide field\nfor the speculations of the naturalist.\n\nClifford.--Yes; but, talking of the romantic character of your\nlandscape, what would all that be to the ancient figures to be found\nin it? Fancy, only fancy the figures! Think of the dress, the arms,\nthe hunting-implements, and the houses of its human inhabitants! Would\nwe could have but one glimpse of them truly as they were!\n\nAuthor.--If you were to go far enough back for them, you would fill\nour forests with a race of men, rude as the scenes in which they\nlived and roamed, and the whole sketch would be one for which we\ncould hardly now find any really existing resemblance, save in the\nwilds of North America.\n\nGrant.--Your view of the matter is probably correct enough.\n\nAuthor.--I believe it to be very correct; and, now I think of it,\na discovery was made some eight or ten years ago, which would seem to\nbear evidence to the former existence of this ideal picture in which\nwe have been indulging. Some labourers, who were employed in digging\nin a moss on Lord Moray's estate of Brae-Moray, to our left there,\nfound a curious bundle, they took from under ten feet of a solid\npeat stratum. The bundle was about two feet long by one foot thick,\nand in form it very much resembled such a cloak-bag as you may have at\ntimes seen strapped behind a horseman's saddle. A careless inspection\nof it would have led one to believe that it was covered with leather\ntanned with the hair on it, and it looked, for all the world, like\nthat of one of those strange old trunks which were frequently to be\nseen bristling like bears among the uncouth baggage on the top of\nour ancient Flies and Diligences. When I first saw it, a piece of it\nhad been torn up by the curious peasants who had found it, and the\naperture they had thus made enabled us to become instantly acquainted\nwith the nature of the mass within, which proved to be tallow.\n\nGrant.--Tallow!--Adipocere, I suppose. That fatty substance into\nwhich animal fibre is frequently converted by long immersion in water.\n\nAuthor.--No such thing, I assure you. It was pure tallow; and the\nwhole appearances connected with it were very easily explained. It\nwas evident that the tallow, fresh taken from the recent carcase, had\nbeen pressed into the raw hide the moment it had been stripped from\nthe newly slain animal, and the whole had been stitched or rather\nlaced up with thongs cut from the skin itself. The perfect state\nof the leather into which the skin had been converted, exhibited a\nbeautiful proof of the extent to which the chemical principle tannin\nexists in peat moss. No modern tan-pit could have performed the process\nmore effectually. Nor were the preservative properties of moss less\nestablished by it; for the tallow was quite entire and uncorrupted,\nand perfectly inodorous and tasteless. On first inspection it presented\na hard appearance, so much so indeed, that it might have been mistaken\nfor chalk; but the moment heat was applied, it melted as readily as\nfresh tallow would have done.\n\nClifford.--By your account of this strange mass, it might have been\nvaluable for the candlemakers, if not for culinary purposes. Pray,\nwhat became of it?\n\nAuthor.--The noble proprietor of the estate where it was found gave it\nme at my request; and with his permission I sent it to the Museum of\nthe Edinburgh University. But whilst it remained in my possession,\nI never could look at it without its bringing to my mind what we\nhave so often read of in North American travels,--I mean the Indian\npractice of killing an elk, or a deer, or a buffalo, bundling up the\ntallow of the creature in its raw hide with all manner of expedition,\nwith the future purpose of making pemmican of it, and so marching\noff with it on their shoulders, leaving the flesh to feed the wolves\nand the bears. And really I cannot divest myself of the conviction\nthat the mass of tallow I have described belonged to a period of the\nhistory of this country when the state of its inhabitants differed\nbut little from that of those nomade North American tribes.\n\nGrant.--It certainly does appear to give no small degree of probability\nto your fancy.\n\nClifford.--Nay, but might not some of your cattle-lifters of a\nmuch later date have performed all that you suppose your savages to\nhave done?\n\nAuthor.--The circumstance of the bundle being found beneath ten feet of\nsolid moss, which had formed over it since the time it was left there,\ntogether with the various layers of trees found in the same bog,\nlying one over the other, would seem to forbid any such apparently\nmodern explanation, and to throw back the period of its deposition\nto a very remote era indeed.\n\nGrant.--Undoubtedly; and the probability is, that the tallow was the\nproduce of no vulgar beast, but rather that of some of the bisons or\nmagnificent wild cattle of the ancient Caledonian forests.\n\nAuthor.--Certainly. But I have since had another lump of tallow sent\nme, which had all the evidences of a much more modern origin. It was\nfound on the farm of Drumlochan, on the south side of the Findhorn,\nabout a mile below Dulsie Bridge yonder; and it was covered by a\nlittle more than two feet of moss. Its form was very peculiar; for it\nwas round one way and flat the other, like a North Wiltshire cheese,\nwhich it very much resembled in shape and size. It had indeed every\nappearance of having been pressed into a cheese shape until it had\nbecome firm enough to be removed. It had no covering of any kind on\nit; and although in hardness and consistence it was quite like the\nmatter of the other mass, yet it must strike every one that its form,\nand the comparatively small depth at which it was found, render it\nprobable that its origin was much more recent. I sent it to the Museum\nof the Northern Institution at Inverness.\n\nClifford.--Ah! I shall be right at last, I find. This surely may have\nbeen the work of some of these freebooters of whom I have heard you\nspeak,--of some of those very limmers, for example, who, as you once\ntold me, stole Mr. Russel's cattle.\n\nAuthor.--Oh no. That story is much too modern even for this last mass\nof tallow.\n\nGrant.--Bravo! Have you a tale of cattle-stealing to tell also? Allons,\nlet us have it. I have a fair right to demand it of you.\n\nAuthor.--There is little in my tale; and I fear it will tell but tamely\nafter yours. Besides, I have already given an abridgment of it in an\nearly number of a well-known magazine. But as you may not have seen\nit, and as we are now in the very scene where part of its events took\nplace, we may sit down under the lee of yonder large stone on the brow\nof the hill, and I shall there give you the particulars of it, whilst\nyou are enjoying the prospect which that elevated position commands.\n\nBy the time we had reached the spot I had indicated, my friends were\nnot sorry to rest a while, and I began as follows:--\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nMR. RUSSEL AND THE REAVER.\n\n\nThe decided though cruel measures which followed the defeat of\nCulloden, whilst they were sufficient to extinguish the hopes of the\nHighlanders who had so enthusiastically espoused the cause of Charles,\nwere ill calculated to subdue their warlike spirits. They were driven,\nit is true, to seek shelter in those rocky and inaccessible fastnesses\nwhich their highest glens afforded them; but there, amidst the wildest\nand most solitary scenes of nature, they permitted their minds to\nbrood in bitter reflection over all their wrongs--over all those\ntragedies which history itself has blushed to record--their wives\nand children massacred amidst the midnight conflagration of their\nhumble dwellings, or perishing in their flight through the snows of\nwinter. But heroism such as theirs was not to be crushed even by such\ncalamities as these,--calamities which were calculated to have bowed\ndown less lofty and indomitable spirits to the very dust. With them\nthe effect was like that which would result from some puerile attempt\nto curb and arrest the mountain cataract. They were divided, as its\nstream might be, into smaller and less important bodies, and their\npower was no longer so forcible as when they were united together in\none stream, but each individual portion seemed to gain a particular\ncharacter and consequence of its own by its separation from the main\nbody, where it had hitherto flowed undistinguished and unobserved.\n\nIt was thus that, lurking in little parties, in retreats only\nknown to themselves, among craggy ravines and pine-clad precipices,\nthey now resumed that minor and predatory warfare which they had\nbeen wont to wage against the inhabitants of the more civilised\nparts of Scotland,--I mean that which consisted in plundering those\nricher districts of their cattle. Perhaps no inconsiderable degree\nof political animosity may have mingled itself in many instances\nwith the other motives that prompted these marauding expeditions\nin the later times of which I am speaking. But, be this as it may,\nwe must not look upon those who were engaged in them as we do upon\nthe wretched cow-stealers of the present day. That which is now\nconsidered as one of the most despicable of crimes was then, in the\neyes of the mountaineer, esteemed as an honourable and chivalrous\nprofession. In his untamed imagination no one was looked upon with\nso much admiration and envy as that individual who might be chosen\nas the leader of a daring band to harry the low country of its live\nstock; for these proud sons of the Gael had ever held the inhabitants\nof the plains in the most sovereign contempt, and they regarded them\nand their more favoured pastures in no other light than as so many\nnurses and nurseries, destined by Heaven to rear the cattle which\nthey were born to consume. I can instance one well authenticated\nexample which displays this opinion in its true light. The Laird of\nGrant, the great chieftain of the glen of Urquhart, having had his\ncattle driven off by a party of Camerons, and having sent a strong\nremonstrance to Cameron of Lochiel himself by a special ambassador,\nhad his herds immediately restored to him, with a most courteous\nletter of apology, which, I believe, still exists, assuring him that\nhis stupid fellows had entirely mistaken his orders, which were, that\nthey should not begin to plunder until they had reached \"Moray-land,\nwhere every gentleman was entitled to take his prey.\"\n\nIt was soon after the middle of the last century that Mr. Russel,\na gentleman of Morayshire, who resided at Earlsmill, near Tarnaway\nCastle, to the north of the Findhorn, and about ten miles from hence,\nwas alarmed one morning by the unpleasant intelligence, that a strong\nbody of Highlanders had come before daybreak and carried off the whole\nof his cattle from this very farm of the Aitnoch, which he had at\nthat time taken as a hill-grazing. Mr. Russel was an extremely active\nand intelligent man; and although he did not make all the warlike\npreparations which your friend the Laird of Macfarlane did, yet he\nwas not deficient either in promptitude of decision or in readiness\nof action. After putting a few questions to the scared and breathless\nmessenger, he lost not a moment in summoning and arming his servants;\nand, instead of taking this way--towards the Aitnoch, he struck at once\ndiagonally across the country in a westerly direction, and marched with\ngreat expedition, in order, if possible, to reach a part of the deep\nglen of the Findhorn, some miles above Dulsie yonder, in such time as\nto enable him to intercept the plunderers. You may trace with your eye\nthe dark shadow of the glen, which sinks deep and abruptly into the\nbosom of those purple mountains which you see retreating behind each\nother in misty perspective. That is the grand pass into the Western\nHighlands, and Mr. Russel was well aware that if he did not succeed in\narresting his cattle before the robbers had made their way through it,\nthe boundless wastes to which it led would render all further search\nafter them quite hopeless. Having reached the course of the river,\nMr. Russel and his party made their way down the steep hill-side,\nforded the stream to its southern bank, and, carefully examining the\nground to ascertain whether any fresh footprints were to be observed,\nthey took their stand, satisfied that they had been so far successful.\n\nThe spot chosen by Mr. Russel for his ambuscade was in the midst of\nthat most beautiful range of retired and tranquil scenery known by\nthe name of The Streems. There the hollow glen is so profound and so\nnarrow in many places, that one of those little clusters of cottages\nwhich are now found here and there sprinkled in the pastoral bottom\nhas the name of Tchirfogrein, a Gaelic appellation implying that it\nnever sees the sun. There were then no houses near the place they\nhad selected, but the party lay concealed behind some huge fragments\nof rock, shivered by the wedging ice of the previous winter from the\nsummit of a lofty crag that hung half across the narrow holm where\nthey had taken up their position. A little farther down the river the\npassage was contracted, and there was no approach from that point but\nby a rude and scrambling footpath irregularly worn along the steep face\nof the mountain, and behind them the glen was equally confined. Both\nextremities of the small amphitheatre thus enclosed were then, though\nthey are not now, shaded by dense thickets of birch, hazel, and holly,\nwhilst a few wild pines found a scanty subsistence for their roots on\nthe face of the crags in midway air, and were twisted and writhed by\nlack of nutriment into the most fantastic and picturesque forms. The\nstillness of an unusually calm and breathless air hung over this\nromantic scene, and it was lighted by the now declining sun of a\nserene summer day, so that half the narrow haugh was in broad and\ndeep shadow, that was strongly contrasted with the brilliant golden\nlight falling on the tufted tops of the trees of a wooded bank on\nthe opposite side of the river.\n\nMr. Russel and his small party had not long occupied their post\nwhen, as they listened in the silence of the evening, they heard the\ndistant lowing of the cattle and the wild shouts of the reavers as\nthey came faint and prolonged up the hollow trough of the glen. The\nsounds gradually drew nearer and nearer, and increased in volume as\nthey were swelled and re-echoed from the rocks on either side. At\nlength the crashing of the boughs announced the appearance of the\nmore advanced part of the drove; and the tired animals began to issue\nslowly from among the tangled wood, or to rush violently forth as\nthe shouts of their drivers were more or less impetuous, or their\nblows chanced to light upon them. As they appeared individually,\nthey gathered themselves into a group on the level open sward, where\nthey stood bellowing, as if quite unwilling to proceed any farther.\n\nIn rear of the last stragglers of the herd Mr. Russel now beheld,\nbursting singly from different parts of the brake, a party of fourteen\nHighlanders, all in the full costume of the mountains, and wearing\nthe well-known tartan of a western clan. All of them were armed with\nthe dirk, pistol, and claymore, and the greater number of them carried\nantique fowling-pieces. Mr. Russel's party consisted of not more than\nten or eleven persons; but they were well armed, and they were people\nupon whom he could depend. Exhorting them to be firm, therefore,\nhe drew them suddenly forth from their ambush, and ranged them up in\narray upon the green turf. The robbers appeared to be confounded for a\nmoment, and uttered some uncouth exclamations of surprise; but a shrill\nwhistle from their leader made them quickly recover their presence of\nmind, and they rushed forward in a body, and formed themselves in order\nof battle in front of their spoil. Mr. Russel and his party stood their\nground with determination, whilst the leader of the enemy seemed to be\nholding counsel with himself as to what he should do. He was a little\nspare athletic man, with long red hair curling over his shoulders,\nand with a pale and thin, but acute visage. After leaning upon his\ngun for a time, and surveying the party opposed to him with the eye\nof a hawk, he shouldered his piece and advanced slowly a few paces\nin front of his men, until he considered himself to be sufficiently\nwithin earshot, and, raising his voice,--\n\n\"Mr. Russel,\" cried he, in very correct English, though with a Highland\naccent, \"are you for peace or war? If for war, look to yourself. But\nif you are for peace and treaty, order your men to stand fast, and\nlet you and me advance and meet each other half way.\"\n\n\"I will treat,\" replied Mr. Russel; \"but can I trust to your keeping\nfaith?\"\n\n\"Trust!\" exclaimed the other in an offended tone, and with an imperious\nair; \"methinks you may well enough trust to the word and honour of\na gentleman.\"\n\n\"I am content,\" said Mr. Russel.\n\nThe respective parties were now ordered to stand their ground, and the\ntwo leaders advanced about seventy or eighty paces each towards the\nmiddle of the open space, with their loaded guns cocked and presented\nat each other; and having abridged the distance that divided them to\nsome ten or twelve paces, they halted, and the negotiation commenced. A\ncertain sum was demanded for the restitution of the cattle. Mr. Russel\nhad not so much money about him; but he offered to give all he had\nin his pocket, which amounted to a sum not a great deal short of\nwhat the robber had asked. After some little conversation this was\naccepted. The bargain was concluded, the money was paid, the guns\nwere uncocked and shouldered, and the two hitherto hostile parties\nadvanced to meet each other and to mingle together in perfect harmony.\n\n\"And now, Mr. Russel,\" said the leader of the band, \"you must look\nat your beasts, to see that none of them are wanting.\"\n\n\"They are all here but one small dun quey,\" said Mr. Russel, after\na minute examination of the herd.\n\n\"Ha!\" cried the Highland leader, darting an angry glance of inquiry\naround his men, \"how is this? Ewan, I would speak with you.\"\n\nA tall handsome dark man, whom he had thus addressed, then moved a\nlittle way apart with him, and a conversation ensued between them\nin Gaelic, the sound of which could only be heard, whilst ever and\nanon the leader's eyes glanced towards one or other of his people;\nand his voice and gestures indicated anything but satisfaction. At\nlast he returned towards the group.\n\n\"Mr. Russel,\" said he, \"you may make your mind easy about the dun\nquey. On the word of a gentleman, she shall be on your pasture before\ndaylight to-morrow morning.\"\n\nThe treaty being thus happily concluded, and the cattle taken\npossession of by those who were wont to have the charge of them,\nMr. Russel and the Highland leader shook hands and parted, and each\ntook his own way, attended by his followers.\n\nClifford, interrupting the narrative, Ah! I have a shrewd suspicion\nthat the cheese-shaped lump of tallow you spoke of will turn out,\nafter all, to have been the produce of poor Dunny.\n\nAuthor.--Have patience, and you shall hear.\n\nWe shall leave Mr. Russel and his people to return down the glen with\nthe rescued herd, that we may inquire a little into the motions of\nthe reaver and his men. They had no sooner threaded the mazes of the\nbrake which shut in the upper end of the dell that was the scene of\nthe strange negotiation I have described, than the leader halted them,\nin order to hold a conference.\n\n\"Ewan,\" said he to him who seemed to act as his second in command,\n\"this is an awkward affair, and you have been much to blame. You had\ncharge of the rear, and not a beast should have strayed. But your\ncarelessness has brought my honour into pledge; and, by all that is\ngood, you must redeem it. I have said that the dun quey shall be on\nMr. Russel's pasture in the morning; and, dead or alive, she must be\nthere, for a gentleman's word must be kept.\"\n\n\"I own I have not been so sharp as I should have been,\" said Ewan,\nwith a mortified air; \"but I think I have enough of cleverness in me\nto enable me to promise you, on the word of a gentleman, that your\nword shall be made good.\"\n\n\"See that it be so, then,\" said the leader somewhat sternly, as he\nwalked slowly away up the glen. \"Take what strength you please with\nyou, but see that you save both my honour and your own.\"\n\nHis comrades crowded around Ewan, proffering him their friendly aid\nto enable him to search for and recover the quey. But he courteously\ndeclined all their kind offers; and tightening his plaid over his body\nwith the utmost composure, he sprang up the almost perpendicular face\nof the southern mountain with the agility of a deer, and disappeared\nover the brow of it, without permitting his breath to come much quicker\nthere than it had done whilst he was in talk with his companions in\nthe deep glen below.\n\nEwan wandered not over the moors and mosses which you see stretching\nover the mountain far off yonder like one who was bewildered, or\nlike a hound at fault. Circumstances had arisen to his mind, which\nhad afforded him some clue to the search he had undertaken; and of\nthat clue he had at once laid hold, with a determined resolution to\nunravel it as speedily as possible to the end. His course, therefore,\nwas taken at once; and it was a most direct one. You see that singular\nopening in the country between us and Strathspey? Perhaps you may\nremember that there is a narrow pass there, where a small lake fills\nthe bottom of the defile, and where the face of the mountain that\nrises over it has all the appearance of having been shaven down by the\nsword of some giant. The strange tradition of the country indeed is,\nthat it was done by the mighty Fingal, by way of trying the temper of\na claymore which he had not yet put to the proof. Well does the weapon\nseem to have performed its office; and in honour of it the place has\never since been called Beemachlai, or the cut of the sword. Ewan then\nhad no sooner breasted the mountain that hung over the Findhorn, than\nhe turned his face directly southward, and took his way in a straight\nline for the pass; and despite of the ravines and burns, and peat-pots\nand moss-hags, and all the other difficulties and obstructions that\nlay in his road, and the darkness of the evening which settled down\nupon that wild hill to make all these difficulties ten times greater\nthan they otherwise would have been, he, in a wonderfully short period\nof time, found himself planted in the narrow path that ran between\nthe loch of Beemachlai, on the one hand, and the mountain that rises\nfrom its western margin on the other.\n\nBut before taking up his post, the cautious Ewan stooped down, and\ncarefully passed his hand over the whole surface of a bare spot,\nof some dozen or so of square yards in extent, which he knew must\nnecessarily have been crossed by every man or beast travelling that\nway, to ascertain whether any fresh footprints had been made in the\nsoft black surface of the moss. His experience in such investigations\nwas so great as to enable him perfectly to satisfy himself that no\nanimal at least had recently trodden there; and with this assurance\nhe stationed himself in the very hollow of the pass, and, seated on\na bank, he turned his head towards the north, whence the path came\ndownwards along the base of the hill, and kept eager watch both with\neyes and ears. The moon was at this time but young, and the sky was\npartially covered with thin fleecy clouds; so that when it did rise,\nit gave but a scanty and uncertain light, though it was enough to\npourtray the bold profile of Fingal's hill on the calm bosom of the\nlake, as well as to enable any one to distinguish a human figure at\nsome little distance.\n\nEwan had not remained long in this position, when he distinctly heard\nthe short sharp cry used by Highlanders for urging on a bullock. It\nwas occasionally repeated; and by and bye it was followed by the\nfaint sound of the footsteps of a beast and its driver, which grew\nupon his ear. Ewan bent his head towards the ground, that he might\nthe better catch the figures of both against the sky; and ere they had\nalready come within fifty yards of him, he rubbed his hands together\nwith satisfaction to find that his judgment had not deceived him, and\nstarting up to his feet, he planted himself directly in the middle\nof the path, so that his figure threw a broad shadow across it; and\nleaning on his gun, he calmly waited the advance of him who came. He\nwas a tall--nay, almost a gigantic man, with an awkward shambling\ngait; and he held the dun quey by a long halter with his left hand,\nwhilst he drove her on with a huge rough stick which he carried in\nhis right. He halted the moment that Ewan's dark figure appeared.\n\n\"What is it that stands there? Answer, in the name of God!\" cried he\nin Gaelic, and in a tone that manifested great alarm.\n\n\"Methinks a foul thief like you had little ado with any such name,\nGilliesh,\" replied Ewan resolutely. \"What devil tempted you to steal\nthe dun quey from our herd?\"\n\n\"What devil told you that I had stolen her?\" demanded Gilliesh,\nmuch relieved to find that he had to deal with nothing more than\nmortal flesh.\n\n\"Did I not see thee lurking among the birches on the Doun of\nDulsie?\" said Ewan; \"and did I not know that thou couldst be there\nfor no good end; and when the quey was missed, did I not put that\nand that together to help my guessing, and have I not guessed rightly?\"\n\n\"What an you have?\" replied Gilliesh; \"'tis but a poor prize I have\ngotten after all, and hardly worth your tramping so far for. You had\nsurely enough, without grudging me this bit dwining beast.\"\n\n\"Such base thievery cannot be suffered,\" said Ewan, \"besides, I have\nreasons of my own for what I do. Come away, then, and give me the\nrope; and bless your stars that you escape, for this time at least,\nbeing hanged by one. The beast must back with me, and you may take\nyour own way home to Dulnan side at your leisure, and thank your good\nfortune that you get there in a whole skin.\"\n\n\"Well may you speak so bold indeed,\" said Gilliesh bitterly, \"with\nthat big black gun in your hand, ready to bring me down in a moment\nlike a muir-cock off a hillock. But by the great oath, ye would crack\nless crouse if ye stood there before me with nothing but your claymore\nby your side.\"\n\n\"Ye lie, ye thieving vagabond,\" cried Ewan, \"I'll stand at all times\nbefore you or a better man with this good sword alone. See here,\nmy gun shall rest against this rock; and on the word and honour of\na gentleman, I'll never touch stock or lock of it till I shall have\nchastised thee to thy heart's content, if thou wilt so have it.\"\n\n\"Be it so,\" said the crafty Gilliesh; \"and I'll tether the quey to\nthis moss-fir stump here, and let her stand by to see the stour,\nand to be the prize of him who may prove himself to be the better man.\"\n\nIt would have been a sight of some interest to have watched the\npreparations for this very extraordinary single combat. On the part of\nEwan they consisted merely in his placing his gun against the rock with\ngreat tranquillity and with great care, and then drawing his claymore\nfrom its scabbard, and twisting the folds of his plaid tightly over his\nleft arm, ere he put himself into the proper position for action. As\nfor Gilliesh, he had no sooner tied the end of the quey's halter to the\nmoss-fir stump, than he drew a broadsword of a magnitude so tremendous,\nas well corresponded with his almost Philistian height. The bare,\nflat, mossy piece of ground already noticed was the arena on which\nthey were to contend; and if it was free from prints of any kind when\nEwan examined it a brief space before, it was now destined ere long\nto have enow of them impressed upon it by the coming struggle. Aware\nof the great advantage which Gilliesh had over him from his superior\nheight, and still more from the greater sweep of his arm and sword,\nEwan approached his adversary very cautiously at first. On the other\nhand, numerous, and rash, and awkward, were the cuts and the thrusts\nwhich Gilliesh attempted to make; but they were given with a force\nand a fury that rendered it necessary for Ewan to use all the skill\nof which he was master, to enable him to dodge and to parry them. Now\nand then their blades came into fearful contact; and when they did so,\nthe shearing of them together produced a sheet of flame that gave a\ntemporary illumination to the deep shadow which a projecting bank threw\nover that part of the lake immediately below. As their desperate play\nwent on, the clashing of the glowing steel struck terror into the timid\nanimal that had occasioned the fight; and the powerful efforts which\nher fear impelled her to make having at last burst her tether from its\nfastening, she fled away beyond hearing of the fray. Meanwhile, the\ncombat continued to rage, and as it went on the combatants gradually\nshifted their ground until they had changed places. On the part of\nGilliesh this was not done without its intention; for no sooner did\nhe find himself within reach of Ewan's gun, than he seized it up, and\npresented it without scruple at its owner, and without one shadow of\nremorse drew the trigger. But the hammer fell harmless into the empty\npan. Ewan sprang upon him in a moment, and, ere he could recover the\nuse of his sword, he gave him one desperate cut across the temple\nthat brought him to the earth with his face bathed in blood.\n\n\"Villain!\" cried Ewan, as he stood over his prostrate foe with the\npoint of his sword at his throat. \"Traitor that thou art, wouldst\nthou have been a murderer as well as a thief? Had not a stray stag\ncrossed me at a distance as I came over the hill, and tempted me to\ntake an idle chance shot in the twilight, when my haste would not\nallow me to load again, I should have been at this moment stretched\nout a corpse by thy treachery.\"\n\n\"Spare my life!\" cried the wretch piteously.\n\n\"Spare thy life!\" replied Ewan contemptuously, as he quietly picked up\nhis gun, and proceeded to load it; \"I have no mind that thy worthless\nand cowardly life should stain this good sword of mine with dishonour,\nnor do I choose that it should be the means of cheating the gallows of\nwhat so justly belongs to it. Gather thyself up, then, as thou mayest,\nand take thy way to Dulnan side; for, by all that is good, if thou dost\nshow thine ugly visage again to me, like a grim ghost on the moor,\nI'll not miss thy big body as I did that of the stray stag, but I'll\nopen a door in it wide enough to allow thy rascally soul to issue forth\nand to join its kindred malignant spirits of the swamp and the fen.\"\n\nWith these words Ewan threw his gun over his shoulder, and set out\nin search of the stray heifer. It was some time before he found her,\nand a still longer time after he had found her before he caught her,\nand after he had caught her it was but the commencement of a most\ntoilsome night with her, ere he could compel her, tired as she was,\nto travel through bog and mire to the place of her destination. But be\nthis as it may, Ewan saw that the reaver's word was made good,--next\nmorning the dun quey was seen grazing with the rest of the herd on\nthe farm of the Aitnoch. Nobody could tell how she came there; but\nthe eagerness with which she plucked at the pasture, and her jaded\nand draggled appearance, afforded sufficient evidence of the length\nand nature of the night journey she had been compelled to perform.\n\nIt was not very long after this that Mr. Russel happened accidentally\nto have ridden up to his farm here one morning, and, as he was\nengaged in moving about looking at his stock, his attention was\nattracted by a long drove of cattle, which he observed straggling\nup yonder opposite bank of the Dorback branch of the river Divie,\nto the eastward there, evidently with the intention of crossing at a\nford a little way above. At first sight there appeared to be little\nremarkable in this, for he well knew that to be a common track,\ntravelled by all whose route lay through this country, stretching\nup the south side of the Findhorn. But the drovers and their herd\nhad no sooner passed the Dorback, and gained its western bank, and\nbegun to advance in a direction pointing towards the course of the\nFindhorn, than Mr. Russel recognised the same Highland party and\nthe same bold leader from whom he had so recently recovered his own\ncattle. Some of the men who were about him were led, from certain\ncircumstances, to know that the drove of beasts which they now saw\nhad been carried off from Gordonston, the seat of Sir Robert Gordon,\nabout thirty miles distant in the Laigh of Moray. Mr. Russel was in\nhabits of friendship with Sir Robert, and he quickly came to the\nresolution that he should allow no such hostile and predatory act\nto be done to him if he could help it, and above all that he should\nnot facilitate it by permitting a passage for the robbers and their\nbooty through his territory. He was here not only in the midst of\nhis own people, but he was, moreover, in the very centre of Lord\nMoray's estate of Brae-Moray, of which he had the entire management,\nand accordingly he resolved to avail himself of these circumstances,\nand he determined immediately to arrest them. With this intention he\nhastily collected all the dependants who were within his reach, and,\nbefore the robbers came up with their booty, he found himself at the\nhead of double their number of well-armed men.\n\nWhen the party arrived within hearing, Mr. Russel hailed the leader,\nand at once plainly told him that he could not stand by and suffer\nthe cattle of his friend Sir Robert Gordon to be thus harried,\nfar less could he tamely permit them to be thus driven through his\nfarm. He therefore called upon the robber to halt, assuring him that\nif he offered to advance with his party, or to persist in driving the\ncattle one step farther, it should be at his own peril, and he must\ntake the consequences; for that nothing but force should compel him\nto give them way.\n\n\"Mr. Russel!\" cried the leader, stepping before the rest with a\nhaughty air, \"this is not what I expected from you after what has\nalready passed between us. You stopped and recovered your own beasts,\nand nobody could blame you; but, sir, it is not like a gentleman to\noffer to hinder me from taking cattle from anybody else.\"\n\n\"My principles are very different,\" said Mr. Russel, with great\ncoolness.\n\n\"I tell you again,\" cried the little man, \"that you will be acting\nunjustly if you persevere, and that you have no right to do so.\"\n\n\"I am determined to persevere notwithstanding,\" said Mr. Russel,\nwith great strength of emphasis and firmness of expression.\n\n\"Then, sir, I must caution you that you had better take care what\nyou do,\" said the Highlander.\n\n\"I am prepared for all consequences,\" said Mr. Russel.\n\n\"Well, well, sir,\" said the Highlander frowning, \"we cannot help\nit; you are in your own kingdom here, and you must have your own\nway; but, I bid you take heed--you'll rue this yet,--look well to\nyourself.\" So saying, he called to his followers in Gaelic, who,\nwith much apparent dissatisfaction, abandoned the cattle, and the\nwhole party took the road to the hills, muttering dark threats and\nhalf-smothered imprecations against Mr. Russel.\n\nThese denunciations were little heeded, and were probably soon\nforgotten by him against whom they were uttered, or if they were\nremembered at all it was only to produce greater vigilance on the\npart of those who had the charge of his stock. But it so happened\nthat, during the course of the ensuing winter, some express business,\nconnected with his charge of Lord Moray's affairs, carried Mr. Russel\nto Edinburgh. When he was on his return homewards, he arrived late one\nstormy and tempestuous night at the solitary inn of Dalnacaerdoch,\nsituated, as everybody knows, at the southern extremity of that\npart of the great Highland road leading through the savage pass of\nDrumouachter. Seeing that it was quite hopeless to think of prosecuting\nhis journey that night in such weather, he took a hasty supper and\nwent to bed, with the resolution of rising as early next day as the\nlack of light at that season would permit.\n\nHe was accordingly up in the morning, and in the saddle before he\ncould well see his horse's ears, and he set out through the snow for\nthe inn of Dalwhinnie, situated at the northern end of the pass,\nattended only by a single servant. He had not proceeded far into\nthe wild and savage part of that solitary scene, where high poles,\npainted black, are erected along the edge of the road to serve as\nbeacons during winter, to prevent travellers from deviating from\nthe road and being engulphed in the snow-wreaths, when by the light\nof the dawn, he descried a man, at some two or three hundred yards'\ndistance, who came riding towards him. As he came onwards, Mr. Russel\nhad time to remark that he exhibited a thin spare figure which was\nenveloped in a long dark brown cloak or greatcoat. He rode one of the\nloose made garrons of the country, of a dirty mouse colour, having\nno saddle, and no other bridle than a halter made of small birchen\ntwigs, twisted into a sort of rope, called by the common people a\nwoodie. In spite of himself, the recollection of the Highland reaver\nand his angry threats darted across Mr. Russel's mind; and he was\nsomewhat alarmed at first, when he observed that he who approached\ncarried in his hand, poised by the middle, a very long fowling-piece,\nof that ancient character and description which gave our ancestors\nexcellent hope of killing a wild duck sitting in the water half-way\nacross a lake of half a mile broad. Mr. Russel instinctively pulled\nout his pistols and examined their locks, and he made his servant do\nthe same by his; but the inequality of such weapons, compared with\nthat which I have this moment described, was only thereby rendered\nthe more woefully apparent to both of them. Mr. Russel rode slowly\nbut resolutely on however, with his eyes intently watching every\nmotion of him who came, and who was now drawing nearer and nearer\nto them. The stranger himself seemed to advance cautiously; but no\nsooner had he come close enough to enable him to recognise a human\ncountenance, than he pushed up his shying steed by the application\nof ardent and repeated kicks; and, when he had at length succeeded\nin compelling him forward, to Mr. Russel's no inconsiderable relief,\nhe recognised in him--the landlord of the inn of Dalwhinnie!\n\n\"Keep us a', I'm glad I ha'e forgathered wi' ye in time,\nMr. Russel!\" he exclaimed in a south country tone and dialect, and\nwithout waiting for the ordinary preliminary salutations.\n\n\"Why, what's the matter?\" demanded Mr. Russel.\n\n\"Matter!\" replied the man; \"a matter o' murder, gif I'm no far\nmistane.\"\n\n\"Mercy on me! Who has been murdered?\" cried Mr. Russel.\n\n\"I didna say that ony body was murdered,\" answered the man; \"but,\nan ye persevere on your road through the pass, I'm thinkin' that\nsomebody will be murdered.\"\n\n\"What makes you fancy so?\" asked Mr. Russel.\n\n\"Were ye no to hae been at my hoose last night?\" demanded the\nDalwhinnie landlord.\n\n\"I did so intend,\" said Mr. Russel; \"but the road turned out to be\nso much heavier than I had anticipated, that all I could do was to\nreach Dalnacaerdoch, and that at a late hour.\"\n\n\"It was the yespecial providence o' Heevin that you didna get forrit,\"\nsaid the landlord, throwing up his eyes as if in thanksgiving,\n\"for, if you had, you would have been assuredly a cauld corp at this\nprecious moment.\"\n\n\"A corpse!\" exclaimed Mr. Russel, \"what has put that into your head?\"\n\n\"Troth, as sure as ye are noo sittin' on your horse,\" replied the\nlandlord, \"ye wad hae been murdered, though you had had mair lives\nnor a cat.\"\n\n\"Explain yourself, I entreat you!\" said Mr. Russel.\n\n\"It's an awfu' story,\" said the landlord, shuddering at the mere\nrecollection of it. \"It was at the dead hour o' the night, ye see,\nwhan we war a' sound sleepin' in our beds, we war a' alarumed wi'\na sudden noise and rissellin' in the yard, an' afore we kent whar we\nwuz, the hoose was filled wi' better nor twa dizzen o' great muckle\narmed hillan'men, wi' blackit faces. Aweel! they lighted great big\nlunts o' moss-fir at the kitchen fire, and cam' straught to my bedside,\nbrandishin' their pistols and durks, and lookin' as if they wad eat me\nup.--'Whar's Mr. Russel sleepin'?' cries they.--'Gentlemen,' says I,\n'as sure as death, Mr. Russel's no in this hoose.'--'We ken better,'\nsays they, 'we ken he was to be here this night.'--'Some mistak,\ngentlemen,' says I, 'I'm dootin' that ye maun hae made some mistak,\nfor Mr. Russel's not only no here, but, an' ye'll believe me, troth I\ndidna even expeck him.'--A' this only made them waur. They threatent\nand swoore at me like very rampawgin deevils, and then they begud\nto search ilka hole and bore and cranny and corner in the hoose; an'\nno contented wi' the hoose, they rummaged a' the oothooses, lookin'\neven into places whaur it was just simply impossible that a very cat\ncould ha'e concealed hersel', an' forcin' me alang wi' them a' the\ntime, half naked, an' near hale dead wi' fear. And syne, whan they\ncould find neither you nor your horses, preserve us a' what a furious\nhillant yell they did set up!--they war just a'thegither mad wi' rage\nand disappointment; an' some o' them war for burnin' the very hoose,\nthat they might mak' sure that ye warna lurkin' somewhere aboot it\nafter a'. At length, a stiff, stern wee body, wha seemed to be their\ncaptain, seelenced them in a moment; and having spoken to them for some\ntime in Gaelic, their violence was moderated, or rather it seemed to be\nconverted into downright hunger and drouth, for they begud to look for\nbread and cheese, and ither eatables, and whisky, for themsel's. Weel\nI wot, I gied them what they wanted wi' gude heart and wull, houpin'\nto get the sooner quite o' them; and little payment, I trow, did I\nexpeck for my cheer. But what think ye, sir? As I'm a sinner, they\nhonestly paid me every farden o' their shot afore they ga'ed awa.\"\n\n\"Have you any notion as to whither they went after they left your\nhouse?\" demanded Mr. Russel.\n\n\"Some o' our herds war sayin' that their tracks i' the snaw lay\ntowards Loch Ericht,\" replied the landlord; \"and gif so be the case,\nI'se warrant that they have darned themsel's in some o' the queer\nhidy-holes aboot the craigs there awa'. And, I'll be bailed, they'll\nbe ready to come back again or e'er ye ken whaur ye are, to murder\nyou clean oot o' hand; for surely they maun contrive somehoo or ither\nto ha'e gude information.\"\n\n\"It is certainly most strange how they could have known so well what\nmy plans were,\" said Mr. Russel.\n\n\"Troth, sir, they're just deevils incarnate,\" continued the landlord;\n\"but ye maun on no account think o' gaein' on, Mr. Russel, for, gif\nye do, ye gang to certain death. Gae ye yere ways back to Blair or\nDunkeld, for I'm dootin' ye'll no be safe nae gate else, and I'll\nsend ower into Morayshire for some o' your ain fouk, weel accoutred\nand furnished, to convoy ye safe hame.\"\n\nMr. Russel was no coward, but he well knew the nature of the\nHighlanders he had to deal with. And what could the pistols of two\nmen do against two dozen of well-armed assassins, springing on them\nat unawares by the way, or attacking them in their beds? After some\nlittle consideration, therefore, he deemed it most prudent to take the\nlandlord's advice; and, accordingly, after he had thanked the honest\nfellow for the zeal he had manifested for his safety, and after the\nlandlord had looked suspiciously around him and scanned the faces\nof the hills to their very tops with strong signs of apprehension,\nearnestly praying to God that their interview might not have been\noverlooked and watched by any of the robbers or their spies, they\nparted; and Mr. Russel and his servant retraced their steps at a good\nround pace.\n\nAfter nearly a week's delay at Dunkeld, Mr. Russel was enabled\nto renew his journey at the head of a well-armed party of between\nthirty and forty of his own people, who came to escort him. They\ntravelled along with great caution, but they did not perceive the\nsmallest show of hostility till they got into the middle of the\nPass of Drumouachter. Then, indeed, they observed that they were\nreconnoitred from the rough face of one of the hills overhanging the\nroad, by a body of more than twenty armed mountaineers. They seemed\nto have issued from the recesses of one of those Corries, or ravines,\nwhich there yawn over the valley like gashes on the lofty brow of a\nwarrior; and after some minutes apparently spent in consultation,\nthey began to move along the steep acclivity in a line parallel\nto the road which Mr. Russel pursued. Their dark tartans waved in\nthe wind, and their figures were boldly relieved against the glazed\nand brilliant surface of the snow they trod on. A certain degree of\nhesitation seemed to mark all their movements, which appeared to have\na manifest reference to those of the party below. Mr. Russel marched\non with a steady and resolute pace, his men keeping a sharp lookout\nin all directions, and being perfectly prepared to resist any sudden\nattack. But the mountaineers, being conscious of an inferiority\nof strength which rendered any open attempt on their part quite\nhopeless, did not venture to assault so large and so well armed\na band. After skirting along the hill-sides for five or six miles,\nthey seemed gradually to slacken their pace, till the whole body came\nto a halt on a prominent point of the mountain, where they remained,\nfollowing Mr. Russel and his people with their eyes, and probably with\ntheir curses also, so long as they remained within sight. Mr. Russel\nthought it prudent to halt but for a short time at Dalwhinnie; and\nwell was it for him that he did not tarry there all that night, for\nthe house was again surrounded and searched by an overwhelming force,\nwhilst Mr. Russel was urging his way homewards with an expedition\nthat enabled him to reach his residence in perfect safety.\n\nWhether a natural or accidental death, or some other cause, put an\nend to any further attempts on the part of the vindictive mountaineer,\nI know not; but certain it is, that Mr. Russel was never more troubled\neither by him or by his people.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSCENERY OF THE FINDHORN.\n\n\nClifford.--In justice to your story, I must say that it is much more\ninteresting than the scene where it was enacted, if we may judge from\nthe specimen at this moment before us.\n\nGrant.--Nay, but take the trouble to carry your eyes entirely over the\nforeground, and behold the sun gleaming afar off yonder on the broad\nsheet of the Moray Firth, with those bold dark headlands called the\nSutors defending the entrance of the Bay of Cromarty beyond, backed\nby the blue mountains of Ross-shire and Sutherland in the distance.\n\nClifford.--These are indeed features that would give dignity\nto any scene; but you must admit that this unmeaning flat which\nstretches everywhere from under our feet is sufficiently tiresome,\nnotwithstanding the laudable efforts that are making to cover it\nwith plantations.\n\nAuthor.--It is monotonous enough, to be sure; but how often do we\nfind inestimable worth concealed under an unpretending exterior. The\napparently dull stretch of country before you is a pregnant example\nof this; for the charms of the river Findhorn that bisects it from\nwest to east are so buried in its bosom as to be quite overlooked\nfrom hence. Grant will tell you, that if you were to follow the\nriver upwards through all the mazes of its deep and shadowy glen,\nyou would find that it exhibits scenery of the wildest and most\nmagnificent character.\n\nGrant.--Nay, it is hardly fair to refer him to me; for although I\nhave a full impression of its grandeur upon my mind which will not\neasily be effaced, I can give him no very accurate account of its\npools or its streams, as regards their excellence for salmon angling.\n\nClifford.--Pho! none of your jokes, Mr. Grant. Although I like fishing\nand shooting, you know very well that I enjoy wild nature as much as\neither of you.\n\nGrant.--Ha! ha! ha! I know you do, my dear fellow.\n\nClifford.--And, moreover, I have so much admired the scenery, as well\nas the fishing-pools of the river lower down, that if what you now\nspeak of equals that with which I am already so familiar, it must be\nmagnificent indeed.\n\nAuthor.--I think that it in many respects surpasses all that you have\nhitherto seen. In truth, I know no river scenery in Great Britain\nat all to be compared in sublimity to that of the Findhorn about\nFerness. Indeed, it rises more into that great scale of grandeur\nexhibited by some of the Swiss gorges than anything I have ever met\nwith at home. But you must take the first opportunity of visiting it,\nClifford. And then, in addition to the treat that nature will yield\nyou during your ramble, and the good fishing which you will certainly\nhave, I think you will be much gratified by the inspection of that\ninteresting relic of antiquity, The Cairn and Pillar of the Lovers,\nwhich you will find there.\n\nClifford.--What! ha! ha! ha! some Pyramus and Thisbe,--some Petrarch\nand Laura,--among your heroes and heroines of the pemmican, I suppose!\n\nAuthor.--No, no. The lonely obelisk, and the cairn from which it\nrises, may indeed have stood on the green holm of Ferness, with the\nrapid Findhorn sweeping around them, for ages. They may have been\nthere whilst the great forests still spread themselves thickly over\nthe country, but you would judge wrong if you supposed them to have\nco-existed with my savages of the pemmican; for there must have been\nsome considerable approach to civilisation amongst a people who could\nhave cut and transported that great mass of rough-grained sandstone,\nof which the obelisk is formed, from the nearest quarries of the\nsame rock, some fifteen or twenty miles off, to the spot where it\nhas ever since stood, not to mention the beautiful hieroglyphical\ncarvings with which it has been ornamented.\n\nClifford.--Is there no legend attached to the monument?\n\nGrant.--There is; and our friend has woven it into a little poem,\nwhich he once repeated to me.\n\nClifford.--Poem! come, let's have it! You need not fear to give it\nto me now, you know; for there is no birch at hand to punish you for\nyour false quantities.\n\nAuthor.--To tell you the truth, I am quite tired of repeating the story\nin prose; so, lame though my stanzas may be, I shall prefer risking\nyour criticism. But you must remember, that it is one thing to climb\na rugged heathery hill like this, and another thing to mount Parnassus.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE CAIRN OF THE LOVERS.\n\n\n    The raven of Denmark stretched his broad wing,\n      And shot his dark flight o'er Moray's fair fields;\n    And Findhorn's wild echoes were heard to ring\n      With ill-omened croak, and the clash of shields.\n          And the yelling shouts of the conflict broil,\n          As Dane and Scot met in mortal toil,--\n          And cruel and fierce was the battle tide\n          That raged on rocky Findhorn's side;\n          And red was his wave, as it wailed away,\n        By that plain where his slaughtered warriors lay.\n\n    Yet stark stern in death was each hero's frown!\n      Each fell not till crushed by an hundred foes!\n    But, though hordes of Norsemen had borne them down,\n      Dire vengeance had soothed their dying throes.\n          For the bloody fight had not been won\n          Till drooped to the west the slanting sun,\n          And his golden beams a bright glory shed\n          Around each dying hero's head,\n          And lighted his soul with a cheering ray,\n        E'er his dim eye closed on the parting day.\n\n    But Findhorn's dark heights, and his wizzard wave,\n      Were lighted anon by far fiercer rays,\n    Calling bosoms abroad, that beat warm and brave,\n      To muster around the tall beacon's blaze.\n          And now, as afar o'er the plains they look,\n          Where glistens with flame each winding brook,\n          Red ruin enwraps both tower and town,\n          And wild Norsemen's shouts reach the beacon Doun;\n          And by shrieks of woe their hearts are wrung,\n        Till each Scottish breast to revenge is strung.\n\n    Whose steed-tramp resounds down the woody glen?\n      Who bears, as he rides, his proud crest so high,\n    His brow circled with gems, as chief of men,\n      And gold shining bright on his panoply?\n          'Tis Fergus the King! The broad signal fire,\n          And the Norsemen's ravage, have roused his ire;\n          And, see how his clustering horsemen sweep\n          From the forest dark and the dingle deep!\n          And, hark to the tread of the many feet\n        That crowd to those heights where the waters meet!\n\n    Full little does Sewyn, the Norse King, know,\n      As his ruthless Danes rifle the peaceful plain,\n    That the Pass of the Dhuie conceals a foe\n      Of far other mould than the shepherd swain.\n          And far other herds, and far other flocks\n          Than shepherds may feed, lie hid by these rocks.\n          He doubts not but all who a spear could wield\n          Have fall'n in the strife of one bloody field.\n          Onward he presses, and, blindly led,\n        Go his Norsemen, with hopes of plunder fed.\n\n    The current was rapid, the stream was deep,\n      And the cumbered waters foamed high and flashed,\n    As horsemen and foot, from the shore so steep,\n      Through the Dhuie in thick confusion dashed.\n          But scarce were they rid of the rushing tide,\n          Nor yet had they formed on the meadow's side,\n          When by bursting yells the skies were rent,\n          With the gleam of arms glowed the firmament,\n          And down, like the lightning's fiery shower,\n        Came King Fergus' force on King Sewyn's power.\n\n    And quailed the black raven of Denmark then,\n      And he cowered his wing, and he croaked his fear;\n    And wide with the eagle's scream rang the glen,\n      As eager she snuffed up her feast so near;\n          And each Norseman's heart, though ne'er so bold,\n          With panic-dread grew sick and cold,\n          Nor dared they abide the battle shock,\n          But fled away like some startled flock,\n          Or some scattered herd of timid deer,\n        When the howl of the gaunt mountain wolves they hear.\n\n    The slaughter was wide, and the vengeance deep,\n      That the Moray-men took of their Danish foes;\n    But yet deeper revenge did Findhorn reap\n      As high, in his anger, his billows rose.\n          For he had wailed that his wave before\n          The dye of his children's life's-blood bore;\n          But now, full glutted with hostile dead,\n          He reared him aloft, shook his oak-crowned head,\n          And, roaring with fearful revelry,\n        He swept off his spoils to his kindred sea.\n\n    Who sits her and sighs on the castled isle\n      That on Loch-an-Dorbe's dark breast doth float?\n    And why lights her eye with a radiant smile\n      As the moonbeam falls soft on that little boat?\n          A fairy thing it seems to be,\n          It glides o'er the wave so silently;\n          And like such sprites of witching power\n          It vanished beneath a shadowy tower,\n          As its slender side lost the moonbeam's ray,\n        Nor left it one trace of its liquid way.\n\n    That maiden who sat in the castled isle\n      Scanned that little boat with no idle gaze;\n    And I ween that her eyes with their radiant smile\n      Had hope blent with love in their glowing rays.\n          Malvina she was that maiden fair,\n          King Fergus' daughter, who sat her there.\n          She's gone!--and her pulse may hardly beat,\n          As in silence move her trembling feet\n          To the dungeon where lonely her lover lies,\n          And wastes the night in despairing sighs,\n          The son of King Sewyn in battle ta'en,\n        The gallant Prince Harrold, the brave young Dane.\n\n    She unlocked the bolts with a master key,\n      And Prince Harrold sprang forth to his lady's side.\n    \"Love favours our flight!\" softly whispered she,\n      \"At the postern stairs doth the boat abide.\"\n          Then they stole away by the shadowy wall.\n          Yet she sighed to quit her father's hall,\n          And her bosom heaved, and she dropped a tear,\n          Whilst her lover essayed to hush her fear,\n          And she clung to his arm as the little boat\n        Did o'er the wide lake in silence float.\n\n    'Twas a right trusty page that gave them way,\n      And he landed them 'neath the greenwood tree,\n    Where tied to the oak was a courser grey;\n      Prince Harrold to saddle sprang merrily.\n          The fair Malvina behind him placed,\n          With snow-white arms her lover embraced.\n          The sun rose to welcome the bonny bride,\n          As they fled them straight to the Findhorn's side;\n          But its stream was swollen and barred their flight,\n        And drove them for refuge to Dulsie's height.\n\n    \"Go, bring me Prince Harrold,\" King Fergus cried,\n      His royal eyes sparkling with beams of joy,\n    \"My daughter Malvina shall be his bride,\n      And Moray be freed from the Dane's annoy.\n          Envoy to me hath King Sewyn sent,\n          And peace shall their bridal knot cement.\"\n          But Harrold was gone and Malvina fair!\n          Yet a sharp-witted page could teach him where,\n          And quick spoke the boy; for the King had told\n        Such glad tidings, I ween, as made him bold.\n\n    \"To boat!\" cried King Fergus, with eager haste,\n      And--\"To horse!\" when he touched the farther shore,\n    And furious he spurred through the forest waste,\n      As to Findhorn's stream his swift course he bore.\n          The lovers from Dulsie's wooded height\n          Saw Moray's lord coming in kingly might.\n          'Twas better to tempt the swollen tide,\n          Than captive be torn from his bonny bride.\n          Harrold lifted Malvina to saddle again,\n        And down Dulsie's slope urged his steed amain.\n\n    Oh, Findhorn shrieked loud to warn them away!\n      But louder yet did the water-fiends yell,\n    Rebellious they laughed at his empty sway,\n      As vainly he strove their wild rage to quell.\n          And the sire's despairing cry was vain,\n          \"Malvina! my child! oh, turn again!\"\n          But the lovers, twined on the courser grey,\n          Were swept from his outstretchd eyes away,\n          And he smote his bosom and tore his hair\n        As adown the big stream he sought the pair.\n\n    Why tarries the knight in his lonely way\n      At yon cairn on flowery Ferness holm?\n    Why scans he yon pillar, so rough and grey,\n      That rises from out its rudely-heaped dome?\n          'Twas there the love-twined youth and maid,\n          Unsevered in death, were sadly laid;\n          And there did King Fergus and Sewyn weep\n          When they found them locked in death's cold sleep,\n          And Findhorn still lingers around their grave,\n        And sighs for their fate with repentant wave.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHILL OF THE AITNOCH.\n\n\nAuthor.--See now how innumerable the stumps of the trees are here. They\nare peeping up through the moss in every direction. Conceive what a\nthick pine wood this must have once been.\n\nGrant.--You were certainly guilty of no great exaggeration when\nyou said that a deer could hardly have penetrated it whilst it was\nstanding in all its gloomy grandeur.\n\nClifford.--It is well for our comfort that we can now pass so easily\nover its fallen majesty; and methinks the sooner we escape from so\ndreary a scene the better.\n\nAuthor.--Let us keep more this way, then. A short walk will now bring\nus to the southern brow of the hill, whence a new scene will open\non us.\n\nClifford, who first reaches the point.--Ha! what have we here? A dark\nlake,--its waves rolling sluggishly eastward, and breaking gently on\na narrow stripe of yellow gravelly beach,--bare rocky hills without\na tree,--and an island covered with the ruins of a very extensive\ncastle. What do you call this wild and lonely scene?\n\nAuthor.--That is Loch-an-Dorbe, with its ruined castle.\n\nGrant.--The remains of the castle seem to be very extensive.\n\nAuthor.--They are said to occupy a space of not less than an hundred\nyards square.\n\nClifford.--This, then, is the very castle whence your Danish prince\nescaped with his lady-love. Let me tell you, that if their grey steed\nhad not gone with a somewhat freer pace than your verses do, the old\nking of the castle would have caught them ere they had covered half\nthe way to Dulsie.\n\nGrant.--I'll warrant me those huge round towers and massive curtains\nhave many strange and eventful histories attached to them.\n\nClifford.--Come, Signore Cicerone, prelect to us about it, if you\nplease.\n\nAuthor.--Loch-an-Dorbe was one of the few royal or national fortresses\nwhich Scotland possessed. When Edward the First traversed this\ncountry with his army in 1303, he came to Loch-an-Dorbe in the month\nof September, and occupied it for some time; and Edward the Third\nconsidered it as a place of so much importance, that he and Edward\nBaliol marched all the way from Perth to its relief in August, 1336,\nwhen Catherine de Beaumont, widow of David de Hastings, Earl of Athol,\nand her son were besieged in it by the brave Sir Andrew Moray, then\nGovernor of Scotland. Sir Andrew would have been overwhelmed by the\nsuperior force of the English monarch, had he not baffled pursuit\nby crossing the river Findhorn at the celebrated pass, the Brig of\nRandolph, so called, as you know, from Randolph, Earl of Moray, Regent\nof Scotland. Another important historical fact is connected with this\ncastle. It was here that William Bullock was confined. After abandoning\nthe cause of Baliol, and after having risen to high honours under David\nthe Second, he was enviously and maliciously accused of treason; and\nhaving been thrown into one of the dungeons within these massive walls,\nhe was cruelly allowed to perish of cold and hunger. We also know that\nthe famous Alexander Stewart, son of King Robert the Second, and who,\nfrom his ferocious disposition, was surnamed the Wolf of Badenoch,\npossessed and inhabited this castle. It was from hence he is supposed\nto have issued when he made his famous descent into the low country\nof Moray, and fired the Cathedral of Elgin, reducing that magnificent\nstructure, that speculum patri\u00e6 et decus regni, as it was called,\nand many other religious edifices in the town, to a heap of ruins.\n\nClifford.--Oh, you have told us enough, in all conscience, about that\nwild beast; \"adesso parliamo d'altro.\"\n\nAuthor.--I am at a stand, so far as the history of Loch-an-Dorbe\nis concerned, excepting that I may add, that in more recent times\nit was possessed by the Earls of Moray, and passed from their hands\ninto those of the Campbells of Cawdor, and thence to the Grants of\nGrant. I have seen at Cawdor Castle a massive iron gate, believed\nto have been that of the Castle of Loch-an-Dorbe, which tradition\nsays was carried off from thence by Sir Donald Campbell of Cawdor,\nwho bore it on his back all the way across the moors till he set it\ndown where it is now in use, the distance being not less than some\ntwelve or fifteen miles. But this is a story much too marvellous for\nbelief in these matter-of-fact days of ours.\n\nClifford.--It is incredible enough, to be sure. Yet I have a story,\na well authenticated story too, which I think will almost match it.\n\nGrant.--Out with it then.\n\nClifford.--No, I promise you you don't get my stories at so very\neasy a rate; and for this simple reason, that they are by no means\nso plenty as yours. Besides, I have just been thinking that with\nthis warm breeze, that so gently ripples the surface of the lake,\nI could kill a handsome dish of trouts this afternoon, if trouts\nthere be within its watery world. Why might we not loiter off the\nremainder of the day about this lake?\n\nGrant.--I like the idea much. I perceive a nice looking cottage on\nthe other side, where I dare to say we may find lodging for the night.\n\nAuthor.--That cottage is a shooting-lodge belonging to the proprietor;\nand were he there in person, we should not lack a kind and hospitable\nreception. But at present its doors are locked, and its rooms void.\n\nClifford.--There is a house, then, here on the nearer shore,\nimmediately below us; why should we not go there?\n\nAuthor.--'Tis but a smoky uncomfortable place; but it may do well\nenough for a shelter for one night, and if you are content to abide\nthere, so am I.\n\nClifford.--Pho! as to comfort, I am a soldier, and can rough it. I\nhave lain out all night to kill the enemies of my country, and would\ndo no less at any time for a good day's shooting or fishing.\n\nAuthor, addressing gilly, who was leading a pony with panniers,--Go\ndown thither, then, and see our quarters made as comfortable as may be.\n\nClifford.--Aye, that will do. Come along, let us to work without more\nhesitation or talk. I am all impatience.\n\nHaving sent round to borrow the proprietor's boat, we embarked on the\nlake, and were soon intensely occupied in all the exciting anxieties\nof the angle. Our success was various and unequal, like that of man\nin the great lottery of human life. It was not always when basking in\nthe sunshine that we were most successful. Sometimes a warm shadow\nwould cross the lake, and the trouts would rise and hook themselves\nthree at a time on our lines. The bottom of the boat became alive,\nand shone and glittered with the growing numbers of our golden and\nsilver captives. Anon, every cast we made was in vain; and then, when\nthe foolish fish began again to bite, our eagerness was such, that we\nforgot each other's lines; and the loss of hooks, the destruction of\nthe finer parts of our tackle, and the fracture of delicate top pieces,\nbecame the result of our numerous and grievous entanglements. Poor\nClifford could not account for a sudden cessation of his luck at the\nvery time that ours appeared to be doubled, and he went on in no very\ngood humour, flogging the water unsuccessfully, whilst Grant and I\nwere catching two and three at each cast; till at last, to his great\nchagrin, he found that he had been all the while fishing without flies,\nwhich were uselessly and most provokingly sticking in the rough coat\nand around the neck and head of my great Newfoundland dog Bronte, to\nthe poor brute's great inconvenience. He did not fail to make up very\nquickly for this bad luck, however. Our evening was altogether most\ndelightfully spent; for when we grew tired of the angle, we landed on\nthe island, and wandered among the extensive ruins which cover it. We\nthen sat on the mouldering walls of the castle till we saw the sun\nsink behind the western hill; after which we returned to the shore,\nand sought our place of retreat.\n\nIt was a small old-fashioned house, once used as a sort of hunting\nlodge. It consisted of two stories, with little else than one ruinous\nroom in each, the whole being filled with the great smoke that arose\nfrom the kitchen fire. But the exercise we had had, added to our\nhunger, prepared us for being pleased with any accommodation; and\nafter a supper well eked out by a fritto of the delicious trouts we\nhad taken, we drew our stools around the fire, to enjoy a temperate cup\nof pure Highland whisky, diluted with water from a neighbouring spring.\n\nGrant.--Now for your story, Clifford.\n\nClifford.--'Tis of a famous Highlander, called John Mackay, of\nRoss-shire. I got the narrative, with all its nationalities, from an\nold Scottish brother officer of mine, a certain major of the name of\nMacmillan, who knew the hero of it well.\n\nGrant.--I should have hardly looked for such a story from a Sassenach\nlike you.\n\nClifford.--Tut. You know very well that my mother was a Highlandwoman,\nand that I have moreover always had a strong feeling for Scotland,\nand especially for the Highlands, as well as for everything connected\nwith these romantic regions, where, let me tell you, I have had some\nwanderings as well as you.\n\nAuthor.--We admit your right to tell your story. So now, come away\nwith it without further preface.\n\nClifford.--If I tell you anything, I must very nearly tell you all\nhonest John's life. Have you patience for so long a narrative?\n\nGrant.--We shall give you the full duration of the burning of these\nmoss-fir faggots. Will that serve you?\n\nClifford.--I think my story will have expired before them. And by\nthat time we shall all be nearly ready for our blankets and heather;\nfor such, I presume, will be our fate to-night.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF JOHN MACKAY OF ROSS-SHIRE, CALLED IAN MORE ARRACH,\nOR BIG JOHN THE RENTER OF THE MILK OF THE COWS.\n\n\nMy old Highland major told me, what perhaps you know better than I do,\nI mean, that some half century or more ago, before sheep were quite so\nmuch in fashion in the Highlands as I believe they now are, and when\ncattle were the only great staple of the country, the proprietors of\nthe glens had them always well filled with cows. In those times it\nwas the custom in Ross-shire to allow one calf only to be reared for\neach two cows of the herd. Each calf with its pair of cows was called\na Cauret; and these caurets were let to renters, who, as they might\nfind it most advisable, took one or more of them in lease, as it were,\naccording as their circumstances might dictate; and the renter being\nobliged to rear one calf for the landlord for each cauret he held,\nhe was allowed the remainder of the milk for his own share of the\nprofit. These milk-renters were called arrachs; and John Mackay,\nthe hero of my story, was called Ian More Arrach, from his lofty\nstature, and from his being one of these milk-renters. According to\nmy informant the major, who personally knew him, Ian well merited\nthe addition of More; for he declared that he was the most powerful\nman he had ever beheld.\n\nIt so happened that Ian went down on one occasion into Strath-Connan,\nto attend a great market or fair that was held there, probably to\ndispose of his cheese; and as he was wandering about after his business\nwas over, his eye was caught, exactly like those of some of our simple\ntrouts of the lake here, by the red and tinsel, and silk and wool,\nand feather glories of a recruiting sergeant and his party. He had\nnever seen anything of the kind before, and he stood staring at them\nin wonderment as they passed. Nor did his solid and substantial form\nfail to fill the sergeant's eye in its turn; but if I am to give you\na simile illustrative of the manner in which it did so, I must say\nthat it was in the same way that the plump form of a well-fed trout\nmight fill the greedy eye of a gaunt pike. He resolved to have him as\na recruit. The party was accordingly halted immediately opposite to\nthe spot where Ian was standing; and after one or two shrill shrieks\nof the fife, and a long roll of the drum, the martial orator began an\noration, which lasted a good half-hour, in which he largely expatiated\non the glories of a soldier's life, and the riches and honours it\nwas certain one day or other to shower on the heads of all those who\nembraced it. The greater part of this harangue was lost upon Ian More\nArrach, partly because he but very imperfectly understood English,\nand partly because his senses were too much lost in admiration. But\nwhen the grand scarlet-coated gentleman approached him with a smiling\nair, and gaily slapping him on the back, exclaimed,--\n\n\"Come along with us, my brave fellow, and taste the good beef and\nmustard, and other provender, that King George so liberally provides\nfor us gentlemen of his army, and drink his Majesty's health with us\nin his own liquor. Come, and see how jollily we soldiers live!\"\n\nHis wits returned to him at once, and he quickly understood enough of\nwhat was said to him, to make him grin from ear to ear, till every\ntooth in his head was seen to manifest its own particular unmingled\nsatisfaction, and his morning's walk from his distant mountain\nresidence having wonderfully sharpened his appetite, he followed the\nsergeant into a booth with all manner of alacrity, and quietly took\nhis seat at a table that groaned beneath an enormous round of beef,\nflanked by other eatables, on which the hungry recruits fell pell-mell,\nand in demolishing which Ian rendered them his best assistance. The\nbooth or tent was constructed, as such things usually are, of some\nold blankets stitched together, and hung over a cross-stick, that\nwas tied horizontally to the tops of two poles fixed upright in the\nground. It was the ambulatory tavern of one of those travelling ale\nand spirit sellers who journey from one fair or market to another,\nfor the charitable purpose of vending their victuals and drink to the\nhungry and thirsty who can afford to pay for them. The space around the\ninterior of the worsted walls of this confined place was occupied with\nboxes, vessels, and barrels of various kinds; and whilst the landlord,\na knock-kneed cheeseparing of a man, who had once been a tailor,\nsat at his ease in one corner reckoning his gains, his wife, a fat,\nbustling, red-nosed little woman, was continually running to and fro\nto serve the table with liquor. Many were the loyal toasts given,\nand they were readily drank by Ian, more, perhaps, from relish of\nthe good stuff that washed them down, than from any great perception\nhe had of their intrinsic merit. His head was by no means a weak\none. But the sergeant and his assistants were too well acquainted\nwith all the tricks of their trade not to take such measures as made\nhim unwittingly swallow three or four times as much liquor as they did.\n\n\"Now, my gallant Highlander,\" exclaimed the sergeant, when he thought\nhim sufficiently wound up for his purpose, \"see how nobly his Majesty\nuses us. Starve who may, we never want for plenty. But this is not\nall. Hold out your hand, my brave fellow. See, here is a shilling\nwith King George's glorious countenance upon it. He sends you this\nin his own name, as a mark of his especial favour and regard for you.\"\n\n\"Fod, but she wonders tat sae big an' braw a man as ta King wad be\nthinkin' on Ian Arrach at a', at a',\" said the Highlander, surveying\nthe shilling as it lay in the palm of his hand; \"but troth, she wonders\na hantel mair, tat sin King Shorge was sendin' ony sing till her ava,\nshe didna send her a guinea fan her hand was in her sporran at ony\nrate. But sic as it be, she taks it kind o' ta man,\" and saying so,\nhe quietly transferred into his own sporran that which he believed\nto have come from the King's.\n\n\"That shilling is but an arnest of all the golden guineas he will by\nand bye give you,\" said the sergeant; \"not to mention all those bags of\ngold, and jewels, and watches which he will give you his gracious leave\nto take from his enemies, after you shall have cut their throats.\"\n\n\"Tut, tut, but she no be fond o' cuttin' trotts,\" replied Ian;\n\"she no be good at tat trade at a', at a'.\"\n\n\"Ha! no fears but you will learn that trade fast enough,\" said the\nsergeant. \"You mountaineers generally do. You are raw yet; but wait\ntill you have beheld my glorious example--wait till you have seen me\nsheer off half a dozen heads or so, as I have often done, of a morning\nbefore breakfast, and you will see that there is nothing more simple.\"\n\n\"Och, och,\" exclaimed Ian, with a shrug of his shoulders that spoke\nvolumes.\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" continued the sergeant, \"'tis true you cannot expect that\nat the very first offer you are to be able to take off your heads quite\nso clean at a blow as I can do. Indeed, I am rather considered a rare\none at taking off heads. For example, I remember that I once happened\nto take a French grenadier company in flank, when, with the very\nfirst slash of my sword, I cut clean through the necks of the three\nfirst file of men, front rank and rear rank, making no less than six\nheads off at the first sweep. And it was well for the company that\nthey happened only to be formed two deep at the time, for if they\nhad been three deep, no less than nine heads must have gone.\"\n\n\"Keep us a'!\" cried some of the wondering recruits.\n\n\"Nay,\" continued the sergeant; \"had it not been for the unlucky\naccident that by some mistake the fourth front rank man was a leetle\nshorter than the other, so that the sword encountered his chin-bone,\nthe fourth file would have been beheaded like the rest.\"\n\n\"Och, och!\" cried Ian again.\n\n\"But,\" continued the sergeant, \"as I said before, though you cannot\nexpect to take up this matter by nattral instinck, as it were, yet I'll\nbe bail that a big stout souple fellow like you will not see a month's\nsarvice before you will shave off a head as easily as I shave this here\npiece of cheese, and----confound it, I have cut my thumb half through.\"\n\n\"Her nanesell wunna be meddlin' wi' ony siccan bluidy wark,\" said Ian,\nshaking his head, and shrugging his shoulders. \"She no be wantan'\nto be a boutcher. But, noo,\" added he, lifting up a huge can of ale,\n\"she be biddin' ye a' gude evenin', shentilmans, and gude hells,\nand King Shorge gude hells, an' mony sanks to ye a'; and tell King\nShorge she sall keep her bit shullin' on a string tied round her neck\nfor a bonny die.\" And so rising up, Ian put the ale can to his head,\nand drained it slowly to the bottom.\n\n\"But, my good fellow,\" said the sergeant, who had been occupied,\nwhilst Ian's draught lasted, in tying up his thumb in a handkerchief\nand giving private signals to his party, \"you are joking about bidding\nus good evening--we cannot part with you so soon.\"\n\n\"Troth she maun be goin' her ways home,\" said Ian, \"she has a far\ngate to traivil.\"\n\n\"Stuff!\" cried the sergeant; \"surely you cannot have forgotten that\nyou have taken King George's money, and that you have now the great\nprivilege of holding the honourable and lucrative situation of a\ngentleman private in his Majesty's infantry, having been duly and\nvolunteerly enlisted before all these here witnesses.\"\n\n\"Ou, na,\" said Ian gravely and seriously; \"she didna list--na, na,\nshe didna list; troth na. So wussin' ta gude company's gude hells\nwanss more, an' King Shorge's hells, she maun just be goin' for she\nhas a lang gate o' hill afore her.\"\n\n\"Nay, master, we can't exactly part with you so easily,\" said the\nsergeant, rising up. \"You are my recruit, and you must go nowhere\nwithout my leave.\"\n\n\"Hoot, toots,\" replied Ian, making one step towards the door of\nthe booth; \"an' she has her nane leave, troth, she'll no be axan'\nony ither.\"\n\n\"I arrest you in the King's name!\" said the sergeant, laying hold of\nIan by the breast.\n\n\"Troth, she wudna be wussin' to hort her,\" said Ian, lifting up the\nsergeant like a child before he knew where he was; \"but sit her doon\ntere, oot o' ta way, till her nanesell redds hersell of ta lave,\nand wuns awa'.\"\n\nMaking two strides with his burden towards a large cask of ale that\nstood on end in one corner of the place, he set the gallant hero\ndown so forcibly on the top of it, that the crazy rotten boards\ngave way, and he was crammed backwards, in a doubled up position,\ninto the yawning mouth of the profound, whilst surges of beer boiled\nand frothed up around him. Ian would have charitably relieved the man\nfrom so disagreeable a situation, which was by no means that which he\nhad intended him to occupy; but, ere he wist, he was assailed by the\nwhole party like a swarm of bees. The place of strife was sufficiently\nnarrow, a circumstance much in favour of the light troops who now made\na simultaneous movement on him, with the intention of prostrating him\non the ground, but he stood like a colossus, and nothing could budge\nhim; whilst, at the same time, he never dealt a single blow as if at\nall in anger, but ever and anon, as his hands became so far liberated\nas to enable him to seize on one of his assailants, he wrenched him\naway from his own person, and tossed him from him, either forth of\nthe tent door, or as far at least as its bounds would allow, some\nfalling among the hampers and boxes--some falling like a shower upon\nthe poor owners of the booth--and some falling upon the unfortunate\nsergeant. The red-nosed priestess of this fragile temple of Bacchus\nshrieked in sweet harmony with the groans of the knock-kneed and\nbroken-down tailor, and in the midst of the melee, one unhappy recruit,\nwho was winging his way through the air from the powerful projectile\nforce of Ian More, came like a chain-shot against the upright poles\nof the tent--the equilibrium of its whole system was destroyed--down\ncame the cross-beam--the covering blankets collapsed and sank,--and,\nin a moment, nothing appeared to the eyes of those without but a mighty\nheap, that heaved and groaned underneath like some volcanic mountain in\nlabour previous to an eruption. And an eruption to be sure there was;\nfor, to the great astonishment of the whole market people, Ian More\nArrach's head suddenly appeared through a rent that took place in the\nrotten blanket, with his face in a red hot state of perspiration, and\nhis mouth gasping for breath. After panting like a porpoise for a few\nseconds, he made a violent effort, reared himself upon his legs, and\nthrusting his feet out at the aperture which had served as a door to\nthe tent, he fled away with all the effect of a fellucca under a press\nof sail, buffeting his way through the multitude of people and cattle,\nas a vessel would toss aside the opposing billows; and then shooting\nlike a meteor up the side of the mountain that flanked the strath, he\nleft his flowing drapery behind him in fragments and shreds adhering\nto every bush he passed by, bounded like a stag over its sky line,\nand disappeared from the astonished eyes of the beholders.\n\nIt were vain to attempt to describe the re-organisation of the\ndiscomfited troops, who, when their strange covering was thus\nmiraculously removed, arose singly from the ground utterly confounded,\nand began to move about limping and cursing amidst the bitter wailings\nof the unhappy people whose frail dwelling had so marvellously fled\nfrom them. The attention of the party was first called to their gallant\ncommander, who, with some difficulty, was extracted from the mouth\nof the beer barrel, dripping like a toast from a tankard. His rage\nmay be conceived better than told. His honour had been tarnished, and\nhis interest put in jeopardy. He, whose stirring tales of desperate\ndeeds of arms and fearful carnage had so often extended the jaws of\nthe Highland rustics whom he had kidnapped, and raised their very\nbonnets on the points of their bristling hair with wonder,--who\ncould devour fire as it issued from the mouth of a cannon,--and\nwho could contend single-handed against a dozen of foes, to be so\nunceremoniously crammed, by the arm of one man, into a beer barrel,\nin the presence of those very recruits, and to be afterwards basely\nextracted from it before the eyes of the many who had listened to\nhis boastful harangues. And then, moreover, to be choused out of the\nanticipated fruits of his wily hospitality, as well as of a silver\nshilling, by the flight of the broad-shouldered Celt, whom he thought\nhe had secured, and of whom he expected to have made so handsome a\nprofit. All this was not to be borne, and, accordingly, wide as was\nRoss-shire, he determined most indefatigably to search every inch of\nit until he should again lay hands on him. From the inquiries made on\nthe spot, it was considered as certain that Ian More had gone directly\nhome to his lonely bothy, in a high and solitary valley some dozen\nof miles or so from the place where they then were; and as one of\nthe recruits knew the mountain tracks well enough to act as guide,\nhe collected the whole of his forces, amounting to nearly double the\nnumber of those who had been engaged in the battle of the booth, and\nafter having refreshed and fortified them and himself with all manner\nof available stimuli, he put himself at their head, and set forward\non his expedition at such an hour of the night as might enable them\nto reach the dwelling of Ian More Arrach before he was likely to\nleave it in the morning in pursuit of his daily occupation.\n\nIan More was but little acquainted with the tricks of this world;\nand no wonder, for the habitation in which he lived, and from which\nhe rarely migrated, was situated in one of those desert glens which\nare to be found far up in the mountains, where they nurse and perhaps\ngive birth to the minuter branches of those streams, which, running\ntogether in numbers, and accumulating as they roll onwards through\nwider and larger valleys, go on expanding with the opening country\nuntil they unite to water the extended and fertile plains in some\nbroad and important river. The ascent to the little territory of which\nIan More was the solitary sovereign was by a steep and narrow ravine\namong rocks, down which the burn raged against the opposing angles,\nlike a wayward child that frets and fumes against every little obstacle\nthat occurs to the indulgence of its wishes. Higher up its course was\ncheerful and placid, like the countenance of the same child, perhaps,\nwhen in the best humour and in the full enjoyment for the time being\nof all its desires, laughing as it went its way among water-lilies,\nranunculuses, and yellow marigolds, meandering quietly through a deep\nand well-swarded soil that arose from either side of it in a gently\ncurving slope to the base of two precipitous walls of rock, within\nthe shelter of which the caurets of Ian More had ample pasture for a\nstretch of about a quarter of a mile upwards to the spot where the\ncliffs, rising in altitude, and apparently unscalable, shut in the\nglen in a natural amphitheatre. There the burn issued from a small\ncircular lochan; and it was on the farther margin of this piece of\nwater, and immediately at the foot of the crags behind it, that the\nsmall sod hovel of Ian More Arrach was placed, so insignificant a\nspeck amid the vastness of the surrounding features of nature as to be\nhardly distinguished from the rock itself, especially when approached,\nas it now was, in the grey light of the morning, until the sergeant\nand his party had come very near to it.\n\nThe leader of the enterprise felt that no time was to be lost in a\nsurvey, lest, whilst they were hesitating, Ian might perceive them,\nand again make his escape. A simultaneous rush, therefore, was made\nfor the door; but, albeit that Ian generally left it unfastened,\nhe had somehow or other been led to secure it on this occasion, by\nlifting a stone of no ordinary size, which usually served him as a\nseat, and placing it as a barricade against it on the inside. Their\nfirst attempt to force it being thus rendered altogether unavailing,--\n\n\"John Mackay, otherwise Ian More Arrach, open to us in the name of\nKing George,\" cried the sergeant, standing at the full length of his\npike from the door, and poking against it with the point of the weapon.\n\n\"Fat wud King Shorge hae wi' Ian More,\" demanded the Highlander.\n\n\"Come, open the door and surrender peaceably,\" cried the sergeant;\n\"you are the King's lawful recruit. You have been guilty of mutiny\nand desartion; but if you will surrender at discretion, and come\nquietly along with us, it is not unlikely that, in consideration of\nyour being as yet untaught, and still half a savage, you may not be\nexactly shot this bout, though it is but little marcy you desarve,\nconsidering how confoundedly my back aches with the rough treatment I\nhad from you. Keep close to the door, my lads,\" continued he, sinking\nhis voice, \"and be ready to spring on him the moment he comes out.\"\n\nWhilst the sergeant yet spoke, the whole hovel began to heave like some\nvast animal agonised with internal throes. The men of the party stood\naghast for one moment, and in the next the back wall of the sod edifice\nwas hurled outwards, and the roof, losing its support, fell inwards,\nraising a cloud of dust so dense as utterly to conceal for a time\nthe individual who was the cause and instrument of its destruction.\n\n\"Ha! look sharp, my lads!\" cried the sergeant; \"be on your mettle!\"\n\nThe words were scarcely out of his mouth when the herculean form\nof Ian More arose before his eyes from amidst the debris and dust,\nas did the figure of the Genii from the jar before those of the\nfisherman in the Eastern fable.\n\n\"There he is, by Jupiter!\" cried the sergeant, involuntarily retreating\na step or two. \"On him--on him, and seize him, my brave boys!\"\n\nThe nature of the spot seemed to forbid all hope of escape. The party\nblocked up the space in front of the bothy, and the narrow stripe of\nground that stretched along between the lake on the one hand, and the\ncliffs on the other, grew more and more confined as it ran backwards,\nuntil it disappeared altogether at a point about an hundred yards\ndistant, where the crags rose sheer up out of the water. In this\ndirection Ian More moved slowly off, after throwing on the throng of\nhis assailants a grim smile, which, however, had more of pity than of\nanger in it. Before he had taken a dozen steps the most forward of\nthe party were at his skirts. He turned smartly round, and suddenly\ncatching up the first man in his arms, he sent him spinning through\nthe air into the lake as if he had been a puppy dog. The next in\nsuccession was seized with astonishment, but before he could shake\nhimself free of it, he was seized by something more formidable,\nI mean by the iron hands of Ian More, who flung him also far amid\nthe waters after his fellow. A whole knot of those who followed them\nsprang upon him at once, but he patted them off, one after another,\nas if they had been so many flies, and that he had been afraid to\nhurt them; but, as it was impossible for him to accommodate his hits\nwith mathematical precision to the gentleness of his intentions,\nsome of the individuals who received them bore the marks of them for\nmany a day afterwards. The ardour of the attack became infinitely\ncooled down. But still there were certain fiery spirits who coveted\nglory. These, as they came boldly up, successively shared the fate of\nthose who had gone before them. Some were stretched out, as chance\nthrew them, to measure their dimensions on the terra firma, whilst\nothers were hurled hissing hot into the lake, where they were left\nat leisure to form some estimate of their own specific gravity in\na depth of water which was just shallow enough to save them from\ndrowning. Meanwhile, the object of their attack continued to stalk\nslowly onwards at intervals, smiling on them from time to time, as he\nturned to survey the shattered remains of the attacking army that now\nfollowed him at a respectful distance, and halted every time he faced\nthem. The sergeant, like an able general, kept poking them on in the\nrear with his pike, and upbraiding them for their cowardice. Meanwhile\nIan gradually gained ground on them, and having produced an interval\nof some twenty or thirty yards between himself and them, just as\nthey thought that he had arrived at a point where farther retreat\nwas impossible, he suddenly disappeared into a crack in the face\nof the cliff, hitherto unobserved, and on reaching the place they\nfound that the fearless mountaineer had made his slippery way up the\nchimney-like cleft, amidst the white foam of a descending rill that\nwas one of the main feeders of the lochan, into which it poured.\n\n\"The feller has vanished into the clouds,\" said the sergeant,\nshuddering with horror as he looked up the perilous rocky funnel,\nand, at the same time, secretly congratulating himself that Ian had\nnot stood to bay. \"He has vanished into the clouds, just out of our\nvery hands, as I may say. Who was to think of there being any such\nape's ladder as this here?\"\n\nThe party returned, sullen and discomfited, to the strath, and their\nleader now gave up all hopes of capturing Ian More Arrach either by\nstratagem or force. But his thirst for the large sum which he expected\nto realise by producing such a man at headquarters rendered him quite\nrestless and unremitting in his inquiries, the result of which was,\nthat he found out that Lord Seaforth, then, I believe, Lord Lieutenant\nof the County, might do something towards apprehending the runaway. He\naccordingly waited on his lordship to request his interference for\nprocuring the seizure of John Mackay, surnamed Ian More Arrach, a\ndeserter from His Majesty's service. Lord Seaforth inquired into the\ncase, and believing that the man had been fairly enlisted, he procured\nhis immediate appearance at Brahan Castle, by going the right way to\nwork with him. There, it so happened, that Lord Rae was at that time\na visitor, and Lord Seaforth called in his aid to work upon Ian More,\nwho bowed to the ground in submission to the wishes of his chief.\n\n\"This is an unlucky business, Ian More,\" said Lord Rae, \"it seems that\nyou have deserted from the King's service, after having accepted his\nmoney, and that, moreover, you have twice deforced the officer and\nparty. Your case, I fear, is a bad one. Depend upon it, they will have\nyou if it should cost them the sending of a whole regiment after you;\nand then, if you give them so much trouble, no one can say what may\nbe the consequence. Take my advice and give yourself up quietly. I\nshall write to your commanding officer in such terms as will save\nyou from any very bad consequences; and with the recommendations\nwhich you shall have, there is no saying but you may be an officer\nere long. All the Mackays are brave fellows; and if all I have heard\nbe true, it appears that you are no disgrace to the name.\"\n\nIan was too proud of the interest taken in him by his noble chief, to\ndispute his advice or wishes for one moment. He would have sacrificed\nhis life for him. And accordingly, abandoning his mountain-glen and\nhis caurets, he surrendered himself to the sergeant, who implicitly\nobeyed the instructions he received from Lord Rae to treat him kindly,\nparticularly as they were backed up with a handsome douceur; and Ian\nwas soon afterwards embarked to join his regiment, then quartered\nin Guernsey.\n\nThe regiment that Ian More was attached to was almost entirely\na new levy, and the recruits were speedily put on garrison duty,\nfrivolous perhaps in itself, but probably given to them more as a\nlesson, in order that they might become familiar with it, than from\nany absolute necessity for it. It so happened, that the first guard\nthat Ian mounted, he was planted as a night sentinel on the Queen's\nBattery. The instructions given to his particular post were to take\nespecial care that no injury should happen to a certain six-pounder,\nwhich there rested on its carriage; and when the corporal of the guard\nmarched Ian up as a relief, he laughed heartily to hear the earnest\nassurances which he gave, in answer to the instructions he received\nfrom the man he was relieving, \"Tat not a bonn o' ta body o' ta wee\ngunnie sould be hurt, at a', at a', while he had ta care o' her.\"\n\nAnd Ian kept his word; for he watched over the beautiful little piece\nof ordnance with the greatest solicitude. It so happened, however,\nthat whilst he was walking his lonely round, a heavy shower of rain\nbegan to fall, and a bitter freezing blast soon converted every\nparticle of it into a separate cake of ice, which cut against his\nnose and eyes, and nearly scarified his face, so that much as he had\nbeen accustomed to the snarling climate of the higher regions of the\ninterior of Scotland, he felt as if he would lose his eyesight from\nthe inclemency of the weather; and then he began to reason that if\nhe should lose his eyesight, how could he take care of the gun? His\nanxiety for the safety of his charge, united to a certain desire for\nhis own comfort, induced him gravely to consider what was best to be\ndone. He surveyed the gun, and as he did so, he began to think that\nit was extremely absurd that he should be standing by its side for\ntwo long hours, whilst he might so easily provide for its security in\nsome place of shelter; and accordingly he quickly removed it from its\ncarriage, and poising it very adroitly on his shoulder, he carried\nit deliberately away.\n\nStrong as Ian was, the position and the weight of the six-pounder,\nconsiderably more than half a ton, compelled him to walk with a stiff\nmien and a solemn, measured, and heavy tread. He had to pass by two or\nthree sentinels. These were all raw unformed recruits like himself,\nand full of Highland superstitions. Each of them challenged him in\nsuccession as his footstep approached; but Ian was too much intent on\nkeeping his burden properly balanced to be able to reply. He moved\non steadily and silently therefore, with his eyeballs protruded and\nfixed, from the exertion he was making, and with his whole countenance\nwearing a strange and portentous expression of anxiety, which was\nheightened by a certain pale blue light that fell upon it from one\npart of the stormy sky. Instead of attempting to oppose or to arrest\nsuch a phantom, which came upon them in the midst of the tempest like\nsome unearthly being which had been busied in the very creation of it,\neach sentry fled before it, and the whole rampart was speedily cleared.\n\nIt was not many minutes after this that the visiting sergeant went\nhis rounds. To his great surprise, he was not challenged by the\nsentry upon Ian More's post; and to his still greater astonishment,\nhe was permitted to advance with impunity till he discovered that\nIan More was not there. But what was yet most wonderful of all the\ngun of which he was the especial guardian was gone.\n\n\"Lord ha' mercy on us!\" exclaimed the corporal, \"I see'd the man\nplanted here myself alongside the piece of ordnance; what can have\nbecome of them both?\"\n\n\"Tis mortal strange,\" said the sergeant. \"Do you stand fast here,\ncorporal, till we go down the rampart a bit, to see if we can see\nanything.\"\n\n\"Nay, with your leave, sergeant,\" said the corporal, \"I see no use\nin leaving me here to face the devil. Had we not better go and report\nthis strange matter to the officer of the guard?\"\n\n\"Nonsense,--obey my orders; and if you do see the devil, be sure you\nmake him give you the countersign,\" said the sergeant, who had had\nall such fears rubbed off by a long life of hard service.\n\nOn walked the sergeant along the rampart. The other sentries were\ngone also. One man only he at last found, and him he dragged forth\nfrom under a gun-carriage.\n\n\"Why have you deserted your post, you trembling wretch?\" demanded\nthe sergeant.\n\n\"Did you not see it, then?\" said the man, with a terrified look.\n\n\"See what?\" asked the sergeant.\n\n\"The devil, in the shape of Ian More Arrach, with his face like a\nflaming furnace, shouldering a four-and-twenty pounder,\" replied the\nman; \"och, it was a terrible sight.\"\n\n\"By jingo, my boy, your back will be made a worse spectacle of before\nlong, if I don't mistake,\" said the sergeant.\n\nBy this time a buzz of voices was heard. The guard had been alarmed\nby the fugitive sentries, whose fright had carried them with ghastly\nlooks to the guard-room. The guard had alarmed the garrison, and the\nwhole place was thrown into confusion. Soldiers, non-commissioned\nofficers, and officers, were seen running and heard vociferating\nin all directions, lanterns and flambeaux were everywhere flitting\nabout like fire-flies, and soldiers' wives and children were heard\nscreaming and crying. The cause of the tumult was reported in a\nthousand different ways. Some of the least rational of the women and\njuveniles even believed and asserted that an enemy had landed on the\nisland; whilst those who really were aware that the true cause of\nthe uproar was Ian More's mysterious disappearance, were employed in\nsearching everywhere for him and the six-pounder; but he was nowhere\nto be found, and wonder and astonishment multiplied at every step.\n\nAt length the tumult rose to such a height that the commanding\nofficer was roused, and hurrying on his clothes, he came running\nto the Queen's Battery to know what all the hubbub was about. The\nplace was filled with a crowd of all ranks, each individual of which\nwas ready to hazard his own conjecture in explanation of this most\nunaccountable event. All gave way at the colonel's approach. After\nhearing what had happened, he inquired into the circumstances so\nfar as they were known; he listened calmly and attentively to the\nvarious accounts of those who had been making ineffectual search,\nand having heard all of them patiently to an end--\n\n\"This is very strange,\" said he; \"but well as you have searched, it\nappears to me that none of you seem to have ever thought of looking\nfor him in his barrack-room. Let us go there.\"\n\nOff went the colonel accordingly to the barrack-room, followed by as\nmany curious officers and soldiers as could well crowd after him; and\nthere, to be sure, snug in bed, and sound asleep, lay Ian More Arrach,\nwith the piece of artillery in his arms, and his cheek close to the\nmuzzle of it, which was sticking out from under the blanket that\ncovered both of them. The spectacle was too ridiculous even for the\ncolonel's gravity. He and all around him gave way to uncontrollable\nbursts of laughter, that speedily awaked Ian from the deep sleep in\nwhich he was plunged. He stared around him with astonishment.\n\n\"What made you leave your post, you rascal?\" demanded the sergeant\nof the guard, so much provoked as to forget himself before his\ncommanding officer.\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said the colonel, who already knew something of Ian,\nfrom the letter which he had received from his chief, \"you cannot say\nthat he has left his post; for you see he has taken his post along\nwith him.\"\n\n\"Is na ta wee bit gunnie as weil aside her nanesell here?\" said Ian,\nwith an innocent smile. \"Is she na mockell better here aside her\nnanesell, nor wi' her nanesell stannin' cauld an' weet aside her\nyonder on ta Pattry?\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said the colonel, after a hearty laugh. \"But how did\nyou manage to bring the gun here?\"\n\n\"Ou troth her nanesell carried her,\" replied Ian.\n\n\"Come, then,\" said the colonel, \"if you will instantly carry it back\nagain to the place whence you took it, nothing more shall be said\nabout it.\"\n\n\"Toots! but she'll soon do tat,\" said Ian, starting out of bed,\nand immediately raising the gun to his shoulder, he set out with it,\nfollowed by the colonel and every one within reach; and, to the great\nastonishment of all of them, he marched slowly and steadily towards\nthe battery with it, and replaced it on its carriage, amidst the loud\ncheers of all who beheld him.\n\nAs Ian was naturally a quiet, sober, peaceable, and well-behaved\nman, a thorough knowledge of his duty soon converted him into a most\ninvaluable soldier; and nature having made him a perfect model, both as\nto mould and symmetry of form, the colonel, who took a peculiar fancy\nto him, soon saw that he was altogether too tall and fine looking a\nman to be kept in the ranks. Accordingly he had him struck off from\nthe ordinary routine of domestic duty, and drilled as a fugleman,\nin which distinguished situation Ian continued to figure until his\nservices were terminated by an unlucky accident.\n\nIt happened one evening that the colonel of an English regiment dined\nat the mess of the Highland corps. In the course of conversation\nthis gentleman offered a bet that he had a man who would beat any\nindividual who could be picked from among the Highlanders. One of the\nHighland officers immediately took him up, and engaged to produce\na man to meet the English champion next morning. By break of day,\ntherefore, he sent for Ian More Arrach, and told him what had occurred,\nand then added--\"You are to be my man, Ian; and I think it will be\nno hard thing for you who shouldered the six-pounder to pound this\nboasting pock-pudding.\"\n\n\"Troth na,\" said Ian, shaking his head, \"ta pock-pudden no done her nae\nill,--fat for wad she be fighten her? Troth her honour may e'en fight\nta man hersell, for her nanesell wull no be doin' nae siccan a thing.\"\n\n\"Tut! nonsense, man,\" said the officer, \"you must fight him, aye and\nlick him too; and you shall not only carry off the honour, but you\nshall have a handsome purse of money for doing so.\"\n\n\"Na, na,\" said Ian, \"ta man no dune her nae ill ava, an she'll no be\nfighten for ony bodey's siller but King Shorge's.\"\n\n\"Surely you're not afraid of him,\" said the officer, trying to rouse\nhis pride.\n\n\"Hout na!\" replied Ian More, with a calm good humoured smile; \"she\nno be feart for no man livin'.\"\n\n\"So you won't fight,\" said the officer.\n\n\"Troth na,\" said Ian, \"she canna be fighten wissout nae raison.\"\n\n\"Surely your own honour, the honour of the regiment, the honour of\nScotland, the purse of gold, and my wishes thus earnestly expressed,\nought to be reasons enough with you. But since you refuse, I must go\nto Alister Mackay; he will have no such scruples, I'll warrant me.\"\n\nThis last observation was a master-stroke of policy on the part of\nthe officer. Alister Mackay was a stout athletic young man; but he\nwas by no means a match for the English prize-fighter. Nor did the\nofficer mean that he should be opposed to him; for he only named him,\nknowing that he was a cousin of Ian More's, and one for whom he had the\naffection of a brother; and he was quite sure that his apprehension\nfor Alister's safety would be too great to allow him to be absent\nfrom the field, if it did not induce him to take his place in the\ncombat. And it turned out as he had anticipated. Ian came, eagerly\npressing forward into the throng; and no sooner did he appear than\nthe officer pointed him out to the Englishman as the man that was to\nbe pitted against him; and as the Highlanders naturally took it for\ngranted that the big fugleman was to be their man, they quickly made\na ring for him amidst loud cheering.\n\n\"Come away, Goliah! come on!\" cried the Englishman, tossing his hat\ninto the air, and his coat to one side. Ian minded him not. But the\ngrowing and intolerable insolence of the bully did the rest; for,\npresuming on Ian's apparent backwardness, he strode up to him with\nhis arms akimbo, and spat in his face.\n\n\"Fat is she do tat for?\" asked Ian simply of those around him.\n\n\"He has done it to make people believe that you are a coward, and\nafraid to fight him,\" said the Highland officer who backed him.\n\n\"Tell her no to do tat again,\" said Ian seriously.\n\n\"There!\" said the boxer, repeating the insult.\n\nWithout showing the smallest loss of temper, Ian made an effort to lay\nhold of his opponent, but the Englishman squared at him, and hit him\nseveral smart blows in succession, not one of which the unpractised\nHighlander had the least idea of guarding.\n\n\"Ha!\" exclaimed the Highland officer, \"I fear you will be beaten, Ian.\"\n\n\"Foo!\" cried Ian coolly, \"she be strikin' her to be sure, but she be\nna hurtin' her. But an she disna gie ower an her nanesell gets one\nstroak at her, she'll swarrants she'll no seek nae mair.\"\n\nThe Englishman gave him two or three more hard hits that went against\nhis breast as if they had gone against an oaken door; but at last\nIan raised his arm, and swept it round horizontally with a force that\nbroke through all his antagonist's guards; and the blow striking his\nleft cheek as if it had come from a sledge hammer, it actually drove\nthe bones of the jaw on that side quite through the opposite skin,\nand, at the same time, smashed the whole skull to fragments. The man\nfell like a log, dead on the spot, and horror and astonishment seized\nthe spectators.\n\n\"Och hone! och hone!\" cried Ian More, running to lift him from the\nground, in an agony of distress, \"She's dootin' she kilt ta poor man.\"\n\nIan was thrown into a fit of the deepest despair and sorrow by this\nsad catastrophe, sufficiently proving to every one around him that his\nheart was made of the most generous stuff; and, indeed, the effect\nof the horrible spectacle they had witnessed was such as to throw a\ngloom on all who were present, and especially on those who were more\nimmediately concerned with the wager. The case was decidedly considered\nas one of justifiable homicide. It was hushed up by general consent,\nand a pass was granted to Ian to return to Scotland.\n\nAs he was slowly journeying homeward, Ian happened to spend a night\nat Stonehaven, and, as he was inquiring of his landlord as to the\nway he was to take in the morning, the man told him that he might\nsave some distance by taking a short cut through the park of Ury,\nthe residence of Mr. Barclay of Ury, who, as you probably know,\nwas even more remarkable for feats of bodily strength than his son,\nCaptain Barclay, the celebrated pedestrian.\n\n\"Ye may try the fut-road through the park,\" said Ian's host; \"but\noddsake, man, tak' care an' no meet the laird, for he's an awfu'\nchiel, though he be a Quaker, and gif ye do meet him I rauken that\nye'll just hae to come yere ways back again.\"\n\n\"Fat for she do tat?\" demanded Ian.\n\n\"Ou, he's a terrible man the laird,\" continued the landlord. \"What\nthink ye? there was ae night that a poor tinker body had putten his\nbit pauney into ane of the laird's inclosures, that it might get a\nsly rug o' the grass. Aweel, the laird comes oot in the mornin', and\nthe moment he spied the beast, he ga'ed tilt like anither Samson, and\nhe lifted it up in his airms and flang it clean oot ower the dyke. As\nsure as ought, gif he meets you, an' he disna throw you owre the dyke,\nhe'll gar ye gang ilka fit o' the road back again.\"\n\n\"Tuts! she'll try,\" replied Ian.\n\nSoon after sunrise, Ian took the forbidden path, and he had pursued\nit without molestation for a considerable way, when he heard some one\nhallooing after him; and turning his head to look back, he beheld a\ngentleman, whom he at once guessed to be the laird, hurrying up to him.\n\n\"Soldier!\" cried Mr. Barclay, \"I allow no one to go this way, so thou\nmust turn thee back.\"\n\n\"She be sorry tat she has anghered her honour,\" said Ian bowing\nsubmissively, \"but troth it be ower far a gate to gang back noo.\"\n\n\"Far gate or short gate, friend, back thou must go,\" said Mr. Barclay.\n\n\"Hoot na! she canna gang back,\" said Ian.\n\n\"But thou must go back, friend,\" said the laird.\n\n\"Troth, she wunna gang back,\" replied Ian.\n\n\"But thou must go back, I tell thee,\" said the laird, \"and if thou\nwilt not go back peaceably, I'll turn thee back whether with thy will\nor not.\"\n\n\"Hoot, toot, she no be fit to turn her back,\" said Ian with one of\nhis broad good-humoured grins.\n\n\"I'll try,\" said the laird, laying his hands on Ian's shoulders to\ncarry his threat into immediate execution.\n\n\"An she be for tat,\" said Ian, \"let her lay doon her wallet, an'\nshe'll see whuther she can gar her turn or no.\"\n\n\"By all means, good friend,\" said the laird, who enjoyed a thing of\nthe kind beyond all measure. \"Off with thy wallet, then. Far be it\nfrom me to take any unseemly advantage of thee.\"\n\nThe wallet being quietly deposited on the ground, to it they went;\nbut ere they had well buckled together, Ian put down the laird beside\nthe wallet with the same ease that he had put down the wallet itself.\n\n\"Ha!\" cried the laird, as much overcome with surprise at a defeat which\nhe had never before experienced, as he had been by the strength that\nhad produced it. \"Thou didst take me too much o' the sudden, friend,\nbut give me fair play. Let me up and I will essay to wrestle with\nthee again.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel,\" said Ian coolly, \"she may tak' her ain laizier to rise,\nfor her nanesell has plenty o' sun afore her or night.\"\n\n\"Come on then,\" said Mr. Barclay, grappling again with his antagonist\nand putting forth all his strength, which Ian allowed him full time\nto exert against him, whilst in defiance of it all he stood firm and\nunshaken as a rock.\n\n\"Noo! doon she goes again!\" said Ian, deliberately prostrating the\nlaird a second time, \"an' gif tat be na eneugh, she'll put her toon\nta tird time, sae tat she'll no need nae mair puttens toon.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said the laird panting, and, notwithstanding his defeat,\nmuch delighted not only with the exercise he had had, but that he had\nat last discovered so potent an antagonist. \"No, no, friend! enough\nfor this bout. I own that thou art the better man. This is the first\ntime that my back was ever laid on the grass. Come away with me,\ngood fellow, thou shalt go home with me.\"\n\nIan's journey was not of so pressing a nature as to compel him to\nrefuse the laird's hospitable offer, and he spent no less than fourteen\ndays living on the fat of the land at Ury, and Mr. Barclay afterwards\nsent a man and horses with him to forward him a few stages on his way.\n\nOn his return to Strath-Connan, Ian was welcomed by many an old friend,\nand he speedily felt himself again rooted in his native soil. He soon\nre-edified his bothy; but he did so after that much improved and much\nmore comfortable style of architecture which his large experience of\ncivilised life had now taught him to consider as essential. He again\ntook readily to his caurets, and to the simple occupations attendant\non the care and management of them, which he forthwith increased to\na considerable extent by increasing their numbers; and every day he\ngrew wealthier and wealthier by means of them. The taste which he\nhad now had of society, led him more frequently to visit the gayer\nand livelier scenes of the more thickly inhabited straths; and it\nwas seldom that a market, a marriage, or a merry-making of any kind\noccurred, where Ian's sinewy limb and well turned ankles were not\nseen executing the Highland fling to a degree of perfection rarely\nto be matched. These innocent practices he continued long after he\nwas a husband and a father, yea, until he was far advanced in life.\n\nIf Ian had a spark of pride at all, it was in the circumstance that\nthe calves of his legs were so well rounded, that however much his\nlimbs might be exercised, they always kept up his hose without the\naid of a garter, an appendage to his dress which he always scorned to\nwear. One night a large party of friends were assembled in his house\nto witness the baptism of a recently born grandson. After the ceremony\nand the feast were both over, the young people got up to dance, and,\nold as he was, Ian More Arrach was among the foremost of them. To\nit he went, and danced the Highland fling with his usual spirit and\nalacrity, snapping his fingers and shouting with the best of them. But\nalas! when the dance was over, he suddenly discovered that his hose had\nfallen three inches from their original position, betraying the sad\nfact that his limbs had lost somewhat of their original muscle. This\nwas to him a sad sinking in the barometer of human life. He surveyed\nhis limbs for some time in silence with a melancholy expression;\nand then, with something like a feeling of bitterness, which no one\nhad ever seen take possession of him before, he exclaimed,--\n\n\"Tamm her nanesell's teeths! She may weel gie ower ta fling, noo tat\nher teeths wunna haud up her hose!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nMORNING SCENE.\n\n\nThe shrill and persevering crow of a cock, who roosted on the rafters\nimmediately over our heads, gradually succeeded in drawing up Grant\nand myself from the deep Lethean lake of slumber into which both\nhad been plunged, and we arose yawning and most unwillingly from our\nsimple couches, ere yet the sun had peeped above the horizon. With one\nconsent we stole to the outer door in our dressing gowns and slippers,\nto inhale a few draughts of pure air, and to inform ourselves as to\nthe state of the weather. A perfect calm prevailed, and the landscape\nwas lying under one general sombre shadow, which made it so difficult\nto distinguish objects, that we could not even trace the exact line of\nboundary of the still waters of Loch-an-Dorbe. One glow of an aurora\nhue made the summit of the opposite hill to gleam faintly, but that\nwas enough to produce a corresponding fragment of bright reflection\non the bosom of the lake. In the middle of that warm spot rested a\nlittle boat with two men in it, one of whom was seated at the oars\nto keep it steady, whilst the other was standing in the stern eagerly\noccupied in fishing.\n\nGrant, rubbing his eyes,--Can that possibly be Clifford?\n\nAuthor.--Let us ascertain whether he is in his bed or not.\n\nGrant.--Aha! his gite is empty and cold! What an indefatigable\nfisherman!\n\nAuthor.--Depend upon it, we shall not see him here for some hours\nto come.\n\nGrant.--Then I shall employ the intervening time in repose.\n\nAuthor.--And I shall follow your good example.\n\nThe very profound sleep into which we both of us sank, was at length\ninterrupted by the return of Clifford with a beautiful dish of\nfresh trouts.\n\nClifford.--You lazy fellows! See what a glorious morning's work I have\nhad while you have been snoring away like a couple of tailors. Look\nhow large and how fine they are! There is one now, twice as big as\nany that was killed last night.\n\nAuthor.--We are certainly greatly obliged to you for quitting your\ncouch so early in order to procure us so luxurious a breakfast.\n\nClifford.--I don't think that either of you deserve to share in\nit, though in truth you are already sufficiently punished for your\nindolence by missing the fine sport I have had, and therefore I shall\nact towards you with true Christian charity. Come then, my girl,\nget your fire up and your frying-pan in order, and I'll stand cook.\n\nGrant.--You must have had a delicious morning of it.\n\nClifford.--Charming! The effect of the sunrise on the lake was\nenchanting, and the jumping of the trouts around me perfectly\nmiraculous.\n\nGrant.--I am surprised that you could tear yourself away so soon.\n\nClifford.--I believe I should have been there for some hours to come,\nhad not my barefooted boatman told me that it was time to get on shore,\nfor that the clouds which we saw heaping themselves up to the westward,\nthreatened to discharge a storm upon us.\n\nGrant.--I suspect that the fellow will turn out to be a true\nprophet. What a dreadful blast that was! Let us hurry out to witness\nthe effects of it.\n\nWhat a change had now taken place in the scene! The sun was already\nhigh above the horizon; but dense clouds hid his face from our view,\nand threw a deep inky hue over the whole face of nature, excepting\nonly where the western blast took its furious course athwart the\nwide surface of the lake, lashing it up into white-crested billows,\nthe sharp and fleeting lights of which acquired a double share of\nbrilliancy amidst the general murky hue that prevailed everywhere\naround. The spray dashed over the island and the grey towers of the\ncastle. The flocks of sea-mews, kittywakes, and other waterfowl that\nfrequented the ruined walls, were whirled about in confused mazes,\nlike fragments of foam carried into the air, and were utterly unable\nto direct their flight by their own volition. Nothing could be more\nsudden nor more sublime than this effect! It was so grand, and at\nthe same time so transient, that nothing but the ready eye and the\nmatchless mind of the Reverend John Thomson, of Duddingstone, our\ngreat Scottish Salvator, could have seized and embodied it. It passed\naway as speedily as it had come. A heavy shower of rain fell after\nit was gone; and after that had ceased, all was stillness and sunshine.\n\nWhen we again set out to pursue our way, which led by the margin of\nthe loch, its waters were rippling gently with every light zephyr\nthat fanned them, and sparkling and glowing under the untamed rays\nof the broad sun, whilst the sea-birds were partly wheeling over the\ndeep with all their wonted variety and regularity of evolution, and\npartly dipping into the water, and partly resting in buoyant repose\nupon its swelling bosom.\n\nHaving waved our last adieu to Loch-an-Dorbe from the summit of a knoll\nat some distance from the lower end of it, we took our course across\nthe moorland, where the views on all sides were peculiarly dull and\ndreary. A black turf hut was now and then visible, proving that it\nwas at least possible for human beings to live in this bare district;\nbut all signs of cultivation were limited to a few wretched patches\nof arable ground lying along some of the small burns that here and\nthere intersected the peat-mosses. Nothing could be more miserable\nthan the country, or than the humble dwellings of its natives; and yet\neven here we fell in with a picture of human felicity that strongly\narrested our attention.\n\nA group of ragged urchins were sporting on a little spot of greensward\nbefore the door of one of these hovels, and shouting and laughing\nloudly at their own fun. The youngest was mounted on a huge gaunt-sided\nsow, with a back as sharp as that of a saw; whilst two elder imps,\none on either side, were holding him in his seat, and another was\nurging on the animal, by gently agitating the creature's tail. All\nthis was done without cruelty, and in the best humour. The father and\nmother had been in the act of building up their next year's stock of\npeats into a stack, that rested against the weather gable of their\ndwelling, so that it might do the double duty of sheltering them\nfrom the prevailing blast, as well as furnishing them with food for\ntheir kitchen fire. But the merry scene that was passing below had\nbecome too touchingly attractive to the hearts of both the parents,\nand their labour was arrested in the most whimsical manner; for the\nman sat perched on all-fours on the top of the frail edifice he was\nengaged in rearing, grinning with broad delight at the gambols of\nhis half-naked progeny; and his wife's attention having been arrested\nwhilst she was in the very act of tossing up an armful of the black\nmaterials of her husband's architecture, she still stood fixed like a\nstatue, with her arm raised, quite unconscious of the inconvenience of\nher attitude, and entirely absorbed in her enjoyment of the spectacle,\nher whole countenance beaming with the maternal joy she felt, and\ngiving way to sympathetic roars of merriment.\n\nGrant.--You see it is not in the power of poverty altogether to\nextinguish human happiness.\n\nAuthor.--Nay, no more than riches can ensure it.\n\nClifford.--How different the hard fortune of that poor creature from\nthe sunshiny lot of those women of quality and fashion whom we have\nseen figuring in fancy dresses, and glittering like dancing Golcondas,\nat Almacks; and yet how much more heart and honesty and true mirth\nthere is in that rustic laugh of hers than in all the hollow gaiety\nof that professed temple of pleasure.\n\nAuthor.--This merry Maggy of the moor here has indeed received but\na small share of the good things of this life, compared with that\nwhich has been showered on the proud heads of those wealthy and\ntitled exclusives. But individual happiness must not by any means\nbe measured by the degree of wealth. And then, when we direct our\nthoughts to our prospects of happiness in a future life, and reflect\nhow apt those favourites of fortune are to be led astray by that very\nabundance which has been heaped upon them here below, we cannot but\ncongratulate Maggy there as having at least the safer, if not the\nbetter, share of the treasures of this world.\n\nGrant.--True; and we have the authority of almost every moral poet,\nfrom Horace to our Scottish Allan Ramsay, for the great truth that even\nhappiness in this world is to be more readily found in a comfortable\nmiddle state than in either of the extremes,--\n\n\n   \"He that hath just enough can soundly sleep,\n    The o'ercome only fashes folk to keep.\"\n\n\nClifford.--Ha! ha! sermons and poetry for pilgrims in the desert! But\nthen arises the difficult question, what is it that constitutes\nthat \"just enough\" which the poet holds to be the talisman of human\nhappiness.\n\nGrant.--Give economy fair play, and it will make that talisman out\nof anything.\n\nAuthor.--And so, on the other hand, extravagance could never possess\nit, even if the subterranean treasures of Aladdin, or the diamond\nvalley of Sinbad, were to be placed at its disposal.\n\nClifford.--Your allusion to the Arabian tales puts me in mind of\nour story-telling; and the subject we have now accidentally got upon\nbrings to my recollection a remarkable story which you once related\nto me, Grant.\n\nGrant.--You mean the legend of John Macpherson of Invereshie.\n\nClifford.--The same. Pray tell it to our friend here.\n\nGrant.--If you, who have heard it before, have no objections to the\nrepetition of it, I can have none to the telling of it.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF JOHN MACPHERSON OF INVERESHIE.\n\n\nThe John Macpherson of whom I speak lived in the very beginning of\nthe seventeenth century. He was the same laird who is well known\nas having got the Crown charter of the lands of Invereshie. He\nwas a tall handsome Highlander, with a somewhat melancholy cast\nof countenance. His manners were simple and unassuming, and though\nuntaught by any instructor but nature, they were so much the reverse\nof vulgar that they might have even been called elegant. He was\nwarm in his affections, kind in his intercourse with all around him,\nextremely bold and determined in any difficult or desperate juncture,\nand resolute and stern in his purpose when suddenly called on to deal\nwith a matter of deep or stirring moment, and further--though that\nbelonged to him less as anything peculiar than as a characteristic\nof the time he lived in--he was superstitiously alive to all those\nincidents or appearances that might chance to wear the semblance of\nominous or fatal portent; and such as these did not unfrequently\npresent themselves in days when the fables of Highland demonology\nreigned over the strongest minds with an absolute despotism.\n\nLiving, as Macpherson did, almost entirely among his native mountains,\nhis time was very happily as well as prudently divided between the\nchase of the red-deer, in which he particularly delighted, and those\nattentions which he found it necessary to bestow on the concerns of\nhis landed territory; in looking to the well-being of his people,\nand the health, prosperity, and multiplication of those large herds\nof cattle which spread themselves over the broad sides of his hills,\nand brushed through the ancient fir forests or the birchen groves\nthat shaded his glens. In this way his worldly means so increased,\nthat he became an object of no inconsiderable solicitude to such of the\nneighbouring lairds and ladies as happened to have unmarried daughters;\nand so many were the fair parties presented to his choice, that,\nbeing attracted in all directions, he remained hanging, like a bunch\nof ripe grapes, in the fluctuating breezes of doubt and indecision,\nthat threatened in time to dry and shrivel him up into an old bachelor.\n\nWhilst Macpherson was still in this negative condition, he happened\nto visit the castle of a certain chief. The company were assembling in\nthe great hall to wait for the banquet, and he stood ensconced within\nthe deep recess of one of its antique windows, where he had vainly\nendeavoured to retreat from the assaults of some three or four most\nagreeable spinsters, who, being of a certain age, less scrupulously\nadopted measures which were much too bold for their younger rivals\nto have ventured upon. Having brought him to bay in a place whence\nhe could not retreat without rudeness, each commenced the discharge\nof her own independent fire against him, whilst, at the same time,\nlittle spiteful shots of malice, both from their tongues and their\neyes, were every now and then interchanged from one fair competitor\nto another. This scene was going on, much to the amusement of the\nspectators, but very much to the annoyance of the victim of this\npersecution, when a sudden buzz from the company directed Macpherson's\nattention to the door of the hall, where entered a lady of surprising\nbeauty and grace of mien. By a natural impulse, which he could neither\nexplain nor command, Macpherson burst unceremoniously from among his\ntormentors, and stepped forward to gaze upon her as she moved easily up\nthe hall. The intelligent eyes of the lovely stranger fell upon him,\nand fixed themselves upon him with a species of fascination which\ntouched him to the soul. He was sensibly conscious of the resistless\npower of this influence, but at the same time he felt that it was a\nfascination of much too agreeable a nature for him to allow himself\nto struggle against it. He at once abandoned his heart to all its\necstasies, as a thirsty fly would yield itself up to the delicious\ntemptation of quaffing the nectar from the cup of some beauteous\nand fragrant flower; and he gazed on her face with a rapture which\nhe had never before experienced. Nor was all this very surprising,\nfor she who thus attracted him had been born and educated in the\nmetropolis,--had even mixed in the gay and splendid scenes of a court,\nand her dress and manners lent so dazzling an air to the lustre of her\nnatural charms, that, compared to her, the native beauties congregated\nfrom all parts of the vast strath of the Spey, fresh and lovely,\ngraceful and intelligent, as fame has ever held its ladies to be,\nappeared before her as so many dim and feeble fixed stars in the path\nof some brilliant and glorious planet.\n\nInvereshie's natural modesty made him shrink from asking for that\nvery introduction for which his whole heart burned. But the lady was\nthe niece of his host; she had recently arrived with the intention of\nresiding with him for some months, and the introduction came in the\nordinary course of etiquette. He was seated by her during the greater\npart of that evening. Something more than mortal as she at first\nappeared to be in his eyes, he soon found, on a nearer approach, that\nshe had nothing about her either overawing or repulsive. He listened\nto her Syren tongue with an eagerness which until then had been quite\na stranger to him. The hours flew like minutes. He suddenly perceived\nthat every guest was gone but himself. He hurried away in confusion,\nand rode home in a delirium of delight so perfectly novel to him,\nthat he two or three times seriously questioned himself by the way\nwhether reason was still really holding her dominion over his brain,\nand the continual presence of the lady's image there almost convinced\nhim that she had usurped the throne of that judicious goddess.\n\nMacpherson was soon drawn back to the castle of his friend by an\nattraction which was quite irresistible. The impression made upon\nhim by a first acquaintance was powerfully strengthened by a second\nmeeting,--a third and a fourth visit soon succeeded,--and their\ninterviews became more and more frequent, as he began to perceive,\nwith a certain air of triumph, that his attentions, offered at\nfirst with becoming deference, were much more graciously received\nthan those which came from any of his brother lairds. His hunting\nexpeditions became less numerous, and even his wonted prudential\ndaily superintendence of his rural concerns gave way to a new and\nmuch more seductive occupation. He gradually became almost a constant\ninmate in his friend's castle. But, in devoting so much of his time\nto attendance on her who had thus gained so overwhelming a dominion\nover his heart, he consoled himself for this unusual neglect of his\naffairs, by reflecting that the prize he coveted was so rare as to be\nuniversally considered beyond all price--a gem far richer than any\nof those that adorned his brooch; and that besides all its glitter\nand sparkle, it was not without considerable intrinsic value also,\nseeing that, in addition to her other advantages, the lady's tocher\nwas such as might well satisfy a much more avaricious man than he\nknew himself to be.\n\nAs for the lady, I have only to say of her, that she was a woman. There\nare few of the fair sex whose bosoms have not been visited by a certain\nspirit of romance at one period or other, and, indeed, it may be matter\nof doubt whether those who have altogether escaped from this visitation\nare much to be envied. It is that which makes many a town-bred girl\nsigh for love and a cottage, until such fancies are extinguished\nby maturer judgment. The soul of her of whom I speak had been deeply\nembued with this poetry of life, and as yet she had seen no good reason\nfor ridding herself of it. She was all enthusiasm. Invereshie's gay\nwhite tartan--his plumed bonnet and jewelled ornaments--his gallant,\nthough unobtrusive, bearing--his firm tread and independent gait--the\nresolute and heroic character that sat upon his brow, and yielded a\ncalm illumination to his pensive eye--and, above all, the enchanting\nscenery of his river--the sparkling Feshie--its wild glen, and the\nprospective witchery of a Highland life, painted as it was with all the\nglowing colours of her fervid fancy, and with a thousand adventitious\nattractions which that fancy threw around it, had conspired to do as\nmuch execution on her heart as her manifold charms had wrought upon\nhis. The visions of town gaiety and grandeur, which had hitherto\nfilled her young mind, speedily melted away. Rural circumstances\nand rural imagery occupied it entirely. She suddenly became fond of\nmoonlight walks, of wandering on the banks of the magnificent river\nthat wound majestically through the wide vale where she then resided,\nand of musing amid the checkered shadows which evening threw over the\nruins of an ancient chapel and burial-ground, embraced by one bold\nand beautiful sweep of the stream at no great distance from the castle.\n\nShe was one night seated on a grey moss-covered stone, one of the\nmany frail memorials of the dead which were scattered through this\nretired spot, her eyes now lifted in admiration of the glorious orb\nthat silently held its way through the skies above, and now thrown\ndownwards to its image trembling in the mimic heaven then floating\non the broad bosom of the stream below, when Invereshie, who had been\ncalled away by some express affair, was returning at a late hour to the\ncastle. These were times, be it again remembered, when superstition\nheld all mankind under her thrall, and when the boldest Highlander,\nwho would have fearlessly rushed on death in the battlefield, would\nhave quailed before the idle phantoms of his own imagination.\n\nInvereshie's nurse had early embued his mind with a firm faith in\nall the wildest of these imaginings, and with him this belief, then\nso common to all, had grown with his growth and strengthened with\nhis strength. The horse that he rode started aside and snorted with\naffright when, on bursting from the deep shade of the grove that\npartly embosomed the burial-ground, he first saw the white figure\nof the lady before him; and it argued a more than common courage in\nthe horseman, therefore, that he should have checked the flight of\nthe terrified animal in order to ascertain the nature of the object\nhe beheld. The moonbeams shone fully and clearly on a face which he\ncould not for a moment mistake; yet their pale light shed so chilling\nand unearthly a lustre over its well-known features, that, taken in\ncombination with the hour and the place, it made him hesitate for\na moment whether he really beheld the form of her whom he so much\nloved, or whether that which presented itself to him was one of those\nunsubstantial appearances which he believed evil spirits had power to\nassume for the bewilderment and destruction of mortals. But the sound\nof the trampling of his horse's hoof had fallen upon the lady's ear\nwhile it was yet afar off; as it drew nearer, the fluttering of her\nheart had whispered to her that it was Invereshie who came; and ere\nhe had recovered from his surprise, she arose and saluted him in that\nvoice which had now become as music to his ear. His blood, chilled\nand arrested as it had for a moment been by superstitious dread, now\nwent dancing to his heart in a rushing tide of joy. He sprang from his\nhorse, and eagerly availing himself of so favourable an opportunity,\nwhere all eyes but those of God were absent, he made a full and\nanimated confession of his passion; and that little solitary field\nof the dead, which had been accustomed for so many ages to scenes\nof woe and bereavement alone, was now once more doomed to witness\nthe pure effusions of two as happy hearts as had ever been united\ntogether before its neighbouring altar, now so long dilapidated.\n\n\"Macpherson!\" said the lady, with that enthusiasm which so strongly\ncharacterised her, \"never forget this solemn hour and place, and\nlet the image of that bright moon be ever in your memory; for it has\nwitnessed your vows, and beheld thee pledge thyself to me for ever!\"\n\n\"Never! never can I forget it, lady!\" replied Invereshie, with a\ndepth of feeling equal to her own.\n\n\"Tis well!\" said the lady. \"And now it were better to shun the\nobservation of prying eyes. This private converse of ours, at the\nwitching hour of night, when none but spirits of the moon are abroad,\nmight be misinterpreted. We must part here!\" And ere he wist, she\nhad disappeared among the brushwood.\n\n\"The witching hour of night!\" muttered Invereshie to himself,\nas he stood rivetted to the spot, overpowered by the surprise in\nwhich he was left by the strange and sudden manner in which she had\nvanished from his sight. There was something, he thought, marvellous\nand supernatural in it. His eyes wandered round the silent churchyard\nwhere he had found her seated. A thousand superstitious tales connected\nwith that spot rushed upon his memory. It was there that in popular\nbelief the wicked spirit of the waters often appeared to bewilder\nlated travellers, and to lure them to their destruction. He thought\nof the power which evil beings were supposed to have in re-animating\nthe remains of the dead, or of thrusting forth human souls from their\nearthly habitations, in order that they might themselves become the\ntenants of the fairest and most angelic forms. His reason and his\njudgment were in vain opposed to these terrific phantoms of the brain.\n\n\"The witching hour of night!\" groaned he deeply.\n\nThe hand which he had but a moment before so warmly pressed, and\nwhich had sent a fever of joy through every fibre of his frame, now\nseemed to have conveyed to him an icy chillness that ran through every\nvein till it froze his very heart; and as he hurriedly and almost\nunconsciously mounted his horse to prosecute his way towards the\ncastle, his mind was perplexed and tortured by strange and mysterious\ndoubts and misgivings, which continued to haunt both his waking and\nhis sleeping dreams during the remainder of that eventful night.\n\nBut as the dawn of morning swept away the fogs which hung upon the\nmountain-tops, so did it dissipate the gloomy visions which had\nthus for a few hours shrouded the lofty soul of Invereshie. Reason\nresumed her judgment-seat, and a little calm reflection brought a\nblush of shame into his cheek, occasioned by what he was now disposed\nto believe to have been his own weakness. Every manly feeling within\nhim was aroused. Arraying himself in his richest attire, he sought\nfor an audience of his friend the chief, and readily gained from him\nan uncle's and a guardian's consent to his union with her to whom his\nvows of love had been so recently plighted. Overjoyed at Invereshie's\ndisclosure, the chief led him to the great hall, at that time thronged\nwith guests, and having taken his seat to preside over the morning's\nmeal, he called for a grace cup, and, drinking to the health of the\nhappy pair, he publicly announced the alliance which had been that\nmorning agreed on.\n\nAll eyes were instantly turned on her to whom the flowing goblet\nhad been so joyfully drained. But whether it was from the sudden\nswelling of those emotions naturally enough arising from this\npublic declaration, or whether it was owing to some fortuitous cause\naltogether unconnected with what was then passing, no one could say;\nbut, whatever might be the cause, her brilliant eyes had become fixed\nand glazed, the roses had fled from her cheeks, and she fell gently\nback in her chair, her lovely features exhibiting the ghastly hue of\ndeath. A chill shudder came over Invereshie's heart. Pushing back\nthe seat in which he sat, he gazed with horror upon the spectacle\nbefore him. Again was his mind unmanned, and a vision of the unearthly\nappearance which the lady had presented to him when he first beheld\nher seated among the graves beneath the moonlight of the previous\nnight rushed upon his imagination. Overpowered by his feelings,\nhe remained as if unconscious of what was passing around him. Nor\nwas he at all observed amidst the general panic. The women shrieked,\nthe guests arose in confusion, they crowded around the lady, and she\nwas borne off to her apartment by the attendants.\n\nFor several hours the lady lay on her couch so perfectly exanimate,\nthat every individual in the castle believed that she was dead, and\nmournful preparations were begun to be made for the funereal obsequies\nof her in whose animating smiles they had so recently rejoiced, and in\nwhose bridal festivities they had anticipated that they were so soon\nto participate. Eloquent was the silence of that grief which reigned\neverywhere within the walls, unbroken save by the sobbing of those who\nhung around the couch of her who had already lived long enough among\nthem to have gained the hearts of all who had approached her. But ere\nlong it happily gave way to unrestrained joy; for, to the amazement of\nher attendants, the warm blush of life gradually began to revisit her\ncheeks,--the heaving of her bosom gently returned,--her eyelids slowly\nunsealed themselves,--the pulse resumed its former action,--the tide\nof life speedily carried renewed vigour into every limb,--her eyes\nregained their wonted brightness,--and, to the unspeakable surprise\nand delight of every one, she returned to the hall with a light and\nairy step, and with a sensible accession to her usual gaiety of heart,\napparently resulting from its temporary slumber.\n\nBut hers was a gaiety that touched no responsive chords in Macpherson's\nbosom. He had stood as it were appalled, a motionless spectator of\nthe various wonderful changes which had been so strangely produced\nupon her; and he remained for some time sunk in silent abstraction,\nill befitting an ardent lover who had thus had his soul's idol so\nmiraculously restored to him from the very jaws of the grave. Those who\nwere about him marvelled and whispered together. But his moody musings\nwere quickly overcome by the lady's enchanting voice of gladness. The\nlaughing sunshine that darted from her eyes soon dissipated those\nsombre clouds that overshadowed his brow. He again became the willing\nslave of every word and glance that fell from her. The fascination\nunder which he was held increased every moment; and not many days\nwent by ere the Laird of Invereshie, surrounded by a great gathering\nof his clansmen and followers, and proudly riding by her bridle-rein,\nled her home as his bride to the blithe sound of the bagpipe.\n\nAs he approached the mansion of his fathers, Invereshie was met by\ncrowds of women and children and old men, who thronged about the\ncavalcade with eager curiosity to behold their future lady, whom they\ngreeted with shouts of gratulation that suffused her lovely cheek\nwith blushes of joy, and flushed her husband's brow with a pride\nwhich he had never felt before. An event so interesting to all his\ndependants had made even the most aged and infirm to leave their humble\ndwellings. Some of those who had come from great distances were mounted\non the shaggy little horses common to the country. The creatures\nwere caparisoned in the rudest and most characteristic manner; and\nthey formed many picturesque groups, which every now and then called\nforth expressions of surprise and delight from her who was the fair\ncause of their assemblage. One of these was peculiarly striking.\n\nUnder an old twisted mountain ash stood a ragged red-headed boy,\nholding the withy that served as a halter to a pony, whose bones,\nexhibiting many an angle beneath his rough white skin, showed that\nhe had arrived at an age but rarely reached by any of his long-lived\nrace. From either side of the wooden saddle that filled his hollow\nback hung a huge pannier of the coarsest kind of wicker-work, and from\neach of these arose the plaided head and pale parchment features of\nan old woman. So very withered were these ancient crones, that, worn\ndown and weak as was the animal that bore them, their wasted frames\nseemed scarcely to add anything, in his estimation, to the weight of\nthe baskets that contained them. There was something, at first sight,\nindescribably ludicrous in the picture they presented; and the bride,\nwho was by no means insensible to such emotions, could not resist\ngiving way for an instant to the laughter which it excited in her as\nshe drew near to them. It so happened that the line of march of the\nprocession brought her close past the tree under which these strange\nfigures were stationed. No sooner had she come opposite to it, than\none of them, remarkable for the length of her grey elf-like locks,\nwhich streamed from beneath the uncouth mutch that covered her head,\nreared herself up from amidst the heap of tartan stuff that enveloped\nher person. Stretching out her bare and skeleton arm, her red and gummy\neyelids expanded themselves so as to bring fully into action a pair\nof piercing black eyes that flashed with a fire which even extreme\nage had been unable to tame, and which now lent a fearful animation\nto her otherwise spectral features. She glared into the lady's face\nwith a fixed gaze and a wild expression that blenched her cheek, and\nat once banished everything like mirth or joy from her bosom. In vain\ndid the lady try to avert her eyes from an object which was now to\nher terrific,--they seemed as if enchained to it by a power like that\nof the basilisk; and to add to her misery some accidental obstacle\ncreated at that very moment a stop in their onward march. Anxiously\ndid she wish to have taken refuge in conversation with her husband,\nbut he was just then employed in replying to the warm compliments of\nsome humble well-wisher, who addressed him from the opposite side of\nthe way. Meanwhile the bony and toothless jaws of the old woman seemed\nto be moved by a temporary palsy, created by her anxiety to utter\nsomething which the lady dreaded to hear. But her very eagerness\napparently deprived her of the power of speech; for though her\nskinny lips were seen to move, no sound proceeded from them except\nan inarticulate muttering, the import of which was lost amidst the\ndin and bustle of the crowd. But although the lady gathered not the\nsense, the lurid lightnings that shot from the eyes of this miserable\nlooking wretch told her that the words, if words they were, could\nhave conveyed no prayer of benediction. A sudden failure of nature\ncame over the lady, and she must have dropped from her saddle to the\nground, had not her husband's attention been recalled to her at that\nmoment by the renewal of the onward movement of the march. Altogether\nunconscious of what had caused this apparent faintness, nor indeed\nbeing quite aware of the full extent of it, his arm was ready to\nuphold her. Her vital spirits rallied at his touch. She recovered\nher seat, and then calling his attention to the object of her alarm,\nwho was by this time left some short way behind them,--\n\n\"Tell me,\" said she, \"tell me, I entreat thee, who is that fearful\nlooking old woman under yonder tree?\"\n\n\"That,\" replied he, \"is my old nurse Elspeth Macpherson, one who is\nbelieved by all to be gifted with more than mortal powers.\"\n\n\"Her eye is indeed terrible!\" replied the lady shuddering.\n\n\"Why shouldst thou be afraid of her?\" said Macpherson, in a graver\ntone. \"She can never be terrible to thee? Great as her wisdom and\ngreat as her powers undoubtedly are, they can never come to me or\nto mine but to succour and to bless. From my cradle upwards hath she\nbeen as a guardian spirit to me, averting all misfortunes that might\nhave assailed me; and, twined as thy future fate now is with mine,\nmy love,\" continued he with a forced smile, \"trust me, dearest,\nthat her searching eye will be continually over it and on it.\"\n\nAn involuntary tremor seized the lady at the very thought of her fate\nbeing under the control of an eye the piercing and unfriendly influence\nof which was still so strong upon her mind. She forebore to reply;\nbut she could not exclude a train of very unpleasant reflections, which\neven the rapidly succeeding circumstances of the gay Highland pageant,\nin which she performed so prominent a part, failed for a while in\nremoving. For some time, too, her husband rode by her side wrapped up\nin silence and abstraction, till rousing himself from what appeared\nto be a dreaming fit, he addressed to her some kind expressions,\nwhich fell on her soul like balm, and by degrees regaining her wonted\ncheerfulness, she at length rode onwards distributing sunshine and\nsweetness on all sides, in return for the many warm welcomes that\nwere showered on her, till she was finally lifted from her saddle\nat the door of her future home, by the nervous arm of the enraptured\nInvereshie, amidst the deafening shouts of his friends and retainers.\n\nInvereshie's hospitable board was spread with more than its usual\nliberality on this joyful occasion; and, according to the custom\nof the time, its feast and revelry endured for many days. As his\nlady's previous nurture and education had accustomed her to much\nnicety of domestic arrangement, and to many luxuries then altogether\nunknown in the Highlands, he exerted himself to the utmost to lessen\nthe disagreeable effect of that change which he was conscious she\nmust experience on her first entrance into his family. He strove\nto anticipate every wish; and when he had failed in anticipating\nher wishes, he spared neither pains nor expense to gratify them the\nmoment she had breathed them. He procured comforts and rarities of\nall sorts from great distances, and at a cost which he would have\nconsidered most alarming, had he not trusted that it would cease\nwith the departure of the guests who thronged his house to welcome\nhis newly married wife. But time wore on, and the lady seemed to have\nno inclination to get rid of either.\n\nThere is a prudent and useful old saying--\"begin with a wife as you\nmean to end with her.\" It would have been well for Macpherson that\nhe had acted upon this principle. Instead of boldly bringing down his\nlady's ideas at once to that pitch which would have been in rational\nharmony with his own habits, as well as with his circumstances, to\nwhich her strong attachment to him would have most probably insured her\nready submission, he had himself done all in his power to give a false\ncolour to things, which he now felt it a very delicate and difficult\nmatter to attempt to remove. Meanwhile she went innocently enough on\nin obedience to that bent which her education had given her, in the\nfull persuasion that she was only doing that which her duty, as his\nwife, prescribed to her. Yielding to her resistless importunity and\nattractions, the neighbouring gentry were drawn around her, as if by\nsome magic spell; and many of them became, in a manner, domesticated\nat her husband's hearth. Then every succeeding day brought to the\nold house some new friend from afar, whom she had been dying to\nmake acquainted with that man of whom she was so proud, and to whom\nher whole heart was now devoted, that she might prove how much she\nhad gained by relinquishing the world for a prize so inestimable;\nand for the entertainment of persons so cultivated as these were,\nit naturally followed that more refined schemes of pleasure and\namusement were devised which, whilst they gratified Invereshie at\nthe time, by exciting universal admiration at the tasteful genius\nof his lady who had conceived them, made him afterwards wince at\nthe large and repeated demands which were made on his treasury, for\npurposes altogether foreign to the whole pursuits of his former life,\nand which the whole tenour of it had led him to consider as vain and\nunprofitable. He wondered that her ingenuity could be so enduring,\nand still comforting himself with the hope that each particular\ninstance of it that occurred must necessarily be the last, he was\nstill doomed to be astonished every succeeding day by new and yet\nmore expensive projects. Amidst all this bustle and occupation,\nher speech was ever of the delights of her Highland Solitude, as she\ncalled their residence, whilst her thoughts seemed to be unceasingly\nemployed in endeavours to invent means of depriving it of all claim\nto any such title, by filling it with as large a portion as she could\nof the gay crowd and vanities of a city. Of all these vanities none\nwere so galling to the honest heart of Invereshie as the arrival of\na certain knot of gallant rufflers from the court--men of broad hats\njauntingly cocked to one side, and balanced by long feathers of various\nhues--who flaunted it in silken cloaks, and strutted it in long-piked\nshoes; all of which, in his eyes, seemed to sort but ill with the\nmanly Celtic garb worn by himself and his Highland friends. But much\nas it irked him to be compelled to receive such popinjays as these,\nand irritated as he frequently was by their unblushing impudence,\nhe submitted calmly to that which the rules of hospitality dictated,\nand even repressed all outward appearance of his dissatisfaction; and\nhe was rendered the more ready to impose this restraint on himself,\nby the reflection that most of these gay gallants were in some way\nor other related to or connected with his wife; and he felt that,\nas her kinsmen or friends, they claimed the full extent of a Highland\nwelcome. But these southern summerfly cousins were no sooner gone than\nthey were succeeded by clouds of fresh and yet more thirsty insects of\nthe same genus; and these tormentors not only contributed, in their\nown persons, largely to augment the consumption of those luxuries\nwhich had been so recently introduced into his house, and to the\npromotion of those extravagancies which were conceived and executed\nmore especially for their amusement; but the more simple natives of\nthe glens also were soon taught by their infectious example to relish\nthem quite as much as they did.\n\nInvereshie was long silent under all this; but he did not suffer the\nless deeply in secret on that account. The ardent love with which\nhe adored his wife, and that certain mistaken chivalrous notion of\ndelicacy, which has been already noticed as operating so strongly\non his feelings, long prevented him from attempting to restrain the\nexpenses of so fascinating a woman, who had brought him money enough to\nfurnish at least some apology for the expenditure she occasioned. But\nample as her tocher had once appeared to him, he soon began to see\nthat it was melting rapidly away under those immense drains which she\nwas daily applying to it; and at length, with more of love than of\nchiding in his tone, he ventured to speak to her on the painful subject\nwhich had so long oppressed him. But alas! whilst he did speak to her,\nher very eye unmanned him, and what he did bring himself to say was\ncouched in terms so gentle and so general, as neither to convey to\nher any very useful or impressive lesson, nor even any very definite\nidea of the extent to which she had erred. The lady flung her snowy\narms around his neck, bedewed his face with her tears, and made many\nearnest and sincere protestations, all of which she sincerely intended\nmost sacredly to fulfil. Macpherson was enraptured. He blamed himself\nfor what he called his severity--kissed away the precious drops from\nher eyes with a more than ordinary glow of affection. They were the\nhappiest pair in the universe, and in a few days her extravagance\nwas going on at its usual rapid pace, whilst she was all the while\nin the most perfect belief that she was giving the fullest attention\nto his wishes.\n\nMany were the scenes of this description that afterwards, from time\nto time, took place between Invereshie and his lady. The kind of\nlife into which he was now so unwittingly and unwillingly plunged,\nallowed him few moments for sober reflection. But when such moments\ndid occur, they were bitter ones indeed. At such times gloomy and\nharrowing recollections, and dreadful and appalling doubts would\nsteal over his soul, putting his very reason to flight before them,\nand his flesh would creep, and his hair would bristle, whilst his\nmind was thus yielding to its own speculative misgivings as to the\nmysterious nature of that fascination which could thus drag him on\nto certain ruin in despite of his own better judgment. But resolute\nas was his natural character, and deep as were his determinations at\nsuch times, they were all put to flight at once by the first bewitching\nlove-glance of his lady's eye.\n\nThings had gone on in this way for months, growing worse and worse\nevery day, when Invereshie, oppressed by that gloom which now clung\nmore frequently and more closely to him, set out one morning very\nearly to join some of his neighbours in a distant chase of the deer. He\nwas that day more than usually successful; and his attendants having\nbeen left behind to bring home the spoils, he was compelled to return\nin the evening alone. The sun was getting low as he came down into\nthe upper part of his own deep and precipitous Glen Feshie, and the\nshaggy faces of its eastern mountains were broadly lighted up by its\nrays, thus rendering the crags on its western side, and the shadows\nthey threw across the wooded bottom, doubly obscured by the blazing\ncontrast. As the laird advanced, he came suddenly in view of a cottage\nperched on the summit of a little knoll, and sheltered by one huge\ntwisted and scathed pine alone, the bared limbs of which permitted\nthe spot to be gladdened by a lingering sunbeam, to which the dense\nforest that surrounded it forbade all entrance elsewhere. This was the\nhabitation of his nurse, whose strange appearance has been already\ndescribed. She and the old crone her sister, who was believed to\nbe scarcely less gifted than herself, were seated on settles at the\ndoor, availing themselves of what yet remained of the glowing light\nto twine a thrifty thread with distaff and spindle. The laird seldom\npassed this way without visiting old Elspeth; and on this occasion he\nturned from his direct path the more readily, because his conscience\naccused him that he had somewhat neglected her of late. The continual\nround of dissipation in which he had been for some time whirled, had\nnot permitted him once to see her since that accidental glance he had\nhad of her on the day she appeared at his marriage pageant. On that\noccasion, too, he felt that she should have been a guest at that table\nwhere his humbler friends were entertained; but he remembered that\nalthough she had been invited, she did not appear. The recollection\nof that joyous day shot across his mind like the gleaming lightning\nof a summer night, only to be succeeded by a deeper gloom, arising\nfrom the recurrence of all that had passed since. Unperceived by\nthe frail owners of the cottage, he wound his way towards it with a\nsinking heart. In approaching it, he was compelled by the nature of\nthe ground to make a half circuit around the knoll, which thus brought\nhim up in rear of it; and he was about to discover himself to the two\nold women, by turning the angle of the gable of the little building,\nwhen his steps were almost unconsciously arrested by hearing his own\nname pronounced, and he halted for a moment. It was his nurse who\nwas speaking to her sister emphatically and energetically in Gaelic;\nand that which he heard might have been nearly interpreted thus:--\n\n\"Och hone, Invereshie!\" exclaimed she in a shrill tone of lament,\nas if she had been apostrophising him in his own presence. \"Och\nhone! what but the black art of hell itself could have so cast the\nglamour o'er thee, my bonny bairn, that thou shouldst sit and see\nthy newly-chartered hills and glens melt from thy grasp as calmly and\nsilently as yonder pine-clad rock beholds the sunshine creep away from\nits bosom, and never once come to seek counsel, as thou wert wont,\nfrom these lips which never lied to thine ear.\"\n\n\"Witchcraft!\" muttered her sister; \"wicked witchcraft is at work\nwith him.\"\n\n\"Witchcraft!\" cried the nurse with an emotion so violent as fearfully\nto agitate her whole frame; \"witchcraft, said ye? The prince of\ndarkness is himself at work with him. The foul fiend, in a woman's\nform, is linked to him. Bethink thee of her moonlight wanderings by the\nwaters,--her unhallowed midnight orgies among the graves of the dead,\nwhere they say she is still seen to walk while he is sleeping,--her\nsudden death, for death it was, on that ill-starred morning which\nproclaimed their union,--the strange reanimation of the corpse by\nthe foul fiend that now possesses it,--the momentary sinking, and\nterror, and confusion of that wicked spirit when he quailed before\nthe gaze of mine own gifted eye, shot from beneath the shade of the\nspell-dispersing rowan-tree;--bethink thee of these things, sister\nMarion, and wonder not that mine unwilling lips should have been\nurged to mutter a curse where my heart would have fain poured forth\na blessing.\"\n\n\"I saw, I saw,\" replied the other crone, \"thine eye was, indeed,\nthen most potently gifted, sister, and thy will was not thine own.\"\n\n\"Och hone, och hone!\" wailed out the nurse again, \"that I should\nlive to see my soul's darling thus rent away from the care of Heaven,\nhanded over to the powers of hell, and doomed to destruction both here\nand hereafter! Och hone, willingly would I give my worthless life if\nI could yet save him! Och hone, if I could but pour my burning words\ninto his ear, so that his eyes might be opened, and that he might\nstent his heart-strings to the stern work of his own salvation.\"\n\nThe unhappy laird had already heard enough. He felt as if the deadly\njuice of upas had found its way into his veins. His whole frame was,\nas it were, paralysed. He leaned against the gable of the cottage for\nsome moments, during which he was almost unconscious of thought or of\nexistence; and then, with his limbs failing under him, he staggered,\ngiddy and confused, down the side of the knoll into the pathway below,\nand sank exhausted upon a mossy bank, where he lay for a time in a\nstate nearly approaching to insensibility. Starting up at last with an\nunnatural effort which he had no reason left to guide, and regardless\nof all pathway, he hurried along by the brink of the stream with a fury\nas wild as that which impelled its rushing waters. Slackening his pace\nby degrees, as his bewildered recollection began to return to him, he\nat length stopped, and resting against a rock, his scattered thoughts\nreturned thickly upon him. At first he resolved to go back to hold\nconverse with his nurse, but ere he had well conceived this idea, he\nrejected it as an idle waste of time; for the fresh recurrence to his\nrecollection of all she had uttered flashed conviction too strongly\non his mind to render any further question necessary. Those dark and\nmysterious doubts which had so long tortured him from time to time\nduring his moody musings, now reared themselves into one gigantic,\nhorrible, and overwhelming certainty, to dwell on which, even for an\ninstant, filled him with an agony that brought large drops of cold\nperspiration to his brow. His jaws chattered against each other, and\na cold shudder ran through his whole system, like that which precedes\nthe last shiver of death. Again, a burning fever seized his brain,\nand he struck his forehead with the palm of his hand, and he wept\nand groaned aloud. Relieved by this sudden burst of affliction, he\nstarted from his resting-place, and knocking violently on his breast,\nas if to summon up all of man that was yet left within him,--\n\n\"Invereshie!\" cried he, addressing himself in unconscious soliloquy,\n\"Invereshie! where is thy boasted resolution? Whither hath thy\ncourage fled? But it shall come to thee now!\" said he, setting his\nteeth together, and clenching his hands. \"Hah! nor mortal nor demon\nshall keep me in this unhallowed state of enchantment, if it be in\nthe power of fire or of water to break the spell. Let me think,\"\nsaid he again, striking his forehead, as if to rouse up his sharpest\nintellect; and then after a pause, during which he strode for a few\nturns backwards and forwards beneath the deep shadow of the rock,\n\"I have it!\" he exclaimed, and he urged on his steps with reckless\nhaste towards his home.\n\nThe distant murmurs of its mirth and its revelry came on his ears\nwhilst he was yet above a bowshot off,--an arrow itself could not\nhave rent his heart more cruelly. He flew forward, and brushing\nalmost unnoticed through the crowd of serving-men in gay attire\nthat obstructed his entrance, he sought a lonely chamber, where,\nin darkness and in silence, he sat brooding over his misery, and\nnursing the terrible purpose that possessed him. Every now and\nthen his soul was stung to madness by the shouts of mirth, the\nmusic, and the other sounds of jollity which, from time to time,\narose from the festal hall below, until, unable longer to bear the\ntorture he suffered, he rushed forth again into the woods. There he\nwandered for some hours to and fro, torn by his contending passions;\nfor love was still powerful within him, and would, even yet, often\nrise up for a time to wrestle hard with the wizard Superstition, who\nhad now so irrecoverably entangled and bemeshed his judgment. But\never as the recurrence of the tender emotion was felt within him,\nhe summoned up his sterner nature to exorcise it forth as something\nunholy. At length the broad moon arose, lighted up the bold front\nof the lofty Craigmigavie, spread its beams over the far-stretched\nsurface of Loch Inch, shed a pale lustre on the distant Craigou,\nthe Macpherson's watch-hill, and fully illuminated the wild scenery\nand the sparkling waters of the Feshie, and the noble birches that\nwept over its roaring rapids, and its deep and pellucid pools.\n\nIt is not for me to say what were these mysterious associations\nwhich came over the mind of Invereshie as he beheld the ample disc\nof the glorious luminary arise over the mountain top, and launch\nitself upward to hold its silent and undisturbed way through the\nimmensity of ethereal space. They seemed to bring an artificial calm\nto his bosom. But it was the calm of a mind irrevocably wound up to\na determined purpose. And now, with his arms folded with convulsive\ntightness over his breast, as if to prevent the possibility of that\npurpose escaping thence, he stalked with a steady and resolute step\ntowards the house.\n\nIt was now midnight. The revelry which had raged within its walls was\nsilent, and the guests, wearied with the feast and the dance, and the\ntired servants, were alike buried in sleep. John of Invereshie stole to\nhis lady's chamber. She, too, had retired to rest, and that deep and\nquiet sleep which results from purity and innocence of soul had shed\nits balm upon her pillow. Her lamp was extinguished, but the moonbeams\nshone full through the casement directly on the bed where her beautiful\nform was disposed, and touched her lovely features with the pale\npolished glaze of marble. Had it not been for her long dark eyelashes,\nand those raven ringlets that, escaping from their confinement,\nhad strayed over her snowy neck, she might, in very deed, have been\nmistaken for some exquisitely sculptured monumental figure. For one\nmoment Invereshie's purpose was shaken. But it was for one moment only;\nfor as memory brought back to him the lonely churchyard, her appeal to\nthe moon, the mysterious events that followed their nocturnal meeting,\nand all those after circumstances which had combined to produce that\nawful and to him infallible judgment which accident had led him to\nhear his old nurse pronounce, his dread purpose became firmly restored\nto his mind. He stretched forth his hand and griped the wrist of the\ndelicately moulded arm that lay upon her bosom. The lady awoke in\nalarm, but instantly recognising her husband, her fears were at once\ntranquillised, and springing from her recumbent posture, she threw\nherself on his neck. Surprised thus unexpectedly into her embrace,\nInvereshie stood silent and motionless. Love thrilled through every\nfibre with one last expiring effort. Aware of the potency of its\ninfluence over his heart, he threw his eyes upwards, and--ignorant\nand unhappy man!--blinded by the dark and bewildering mists of the\nwild superstition that had dominion over him, he actually prayed to\nHeaven to give him power to go through with his work; and then, with\na fixed composure, gained from that fancied aid which he imagined he\nwas thus experiencing, he calmly and quietly turned to the lady.\n\n\"Dost thou see yonder moon?\" said he; \"never was there sky so fair,\nor scene so glorious. The night, too, is soft and balmy. Say, will\nye wander forth with me a little while to note how the eddies of the\nFeshie are distilled into liquid silver by her beams?\"\n\n\"Let me but wrap me in my robe and my velvet mantle, and I will forth\nwith you with good will,\" replied the lady, quite overjoyed to be thus\ngratified by her husband in the indulgence of her romantic propensity\nfor such walks. \"How kind in you, my love, to think thus of my fancies\nwhen rest must be so needful for you.\" And having hastily protected her\nperson from the night air, she slipped her arm within her husband's,\nand with a short light step, that but ill accorded with the solemn\nand funereal stride of him on whom she leaned, she tripped with him\ndown stairs and across the dewy lawn.\n\n\"It is, indeed, a most glorious scene!\" exclaimed the enraptured\nlady. \"But, in truth, thou saidst not well, Invereshie, in saying\nthat never was there sky so fair or scene so glorious.\" Then smiling\nin his face, and sportively kissing his cheek, she innocently added,\n\"I trust thou art no traitor.\"\n\n\"Traitor!\" exclaimed Invereshie, with a sudden start that might have\nbetrayed him to any one less unsuspicious.\n\n\"Aye, traitor in very deed!\" replied the lady laughing. \"Traitor\ntruly art thou if thou canst forget the lonely churchyard where you\nbound yourself to me for ever, and that broad moon which then shed\nover us her magic influence!\"\n\n\"Magic influence!\" groaned Invereshie in a deep and hollow tone\nof anguish.\n\n\"Alas! are you unwell, my dearest?\" earnestly exclaimed his anxious\nand affectionate wife. \"I fear you have already done too much to-day;\nand your kindness to me would make thee thus expose thyself when\nthou wouldst most need repose. See yonder dark cloud, too, pregnant\nwith storm. Look how it careers towards the moon; might not one fancy\nthat some demon of the air bestrode it? Had we not better return to\nbed? Thou art not well, my love. Come, come, let us return.\"\n\n\"No!\" replied Invereshie, in a tone calculated to disguise his feelings\nas much as possible. \"I shall get better in the air. A sickness, a\nslight sickness only; a little farther walk will rid me of my malady.\"\n\nThe lady said no more; and Invereshie walked onwards with a slow,\nfirm, but somewhat convulsive step, treading through the checkered\nwood by a path that wound among green knolls covered with birches\nof stupendous growth, and that led them to the rocky banks of the\nFeshie. There they reached a crag that projected over a deep and rapid\npart of the stream. Its waves were dancing in all the glories of that\nsilver light which they borrowed from the bright luminary that still\nrode sublimely within a pure haven in the lowering sky, its brilliancy\nincreased by contrast with the dense, and pitchy, and portentous cloud\nthat came sailing sublimely down upon it, like a huge winged continent.\n\n\"Invereshie!\" cried the lady, her feelings strongly excited by the\ngrandeur and beauty of the scene; and bursting forth in rapturous\necstacy, \"do we not seem like the beings of another world as we stand\non this giddy point, with the moon thus pouring out upon us all its\npotent enchantment?\"\n\n\"Now God and Jesu be my guides but I will try thine enchantment!\" cried\nInvereshie.\n\nSteeling up his heart to the deed, and nerving his muscular arms to\nthe utmost, he lifted the light and sylph-like form of his lady. One\npiercing shriek burst from her as he poised her aloft,--a benighted\ntraveller heard it at a distance, crossed himself, and hurried onwards\nwith trembling limbs,--and ere the lady had uttered another scream,\nInvereshie had thrown her, like a breeze-borne snow-wreath, far\namid the bosom of the waves. The wretched man bent forward from the\nrock, his fingers clenched, his teeth set together, and his eyeballs\nstretching after the object which his hands had but just parted with.\n\n\"Holy Virgin, she floats!\" cried he as he beheld her, by the light\nof the moonbeam playing on the ripple that followed her form as it\nwas hurried down the stream, supported by her widespread mantle.\n\n\"Help! oh help! my love! my lord!--'twas madness!--'twas accident!--but\noh! mercy and save me!--save or I am lost for ever!\"\n\n\"She floats!\" hoarsely muttered Invereshie, drawing his breath rapidly,\nand with a croaking sound in his throat that spoke the agonising\ntorture he was enduring. \"Ha! she floats! by Saint Mary then was the\nold woman right! Ha! she struggles at yonder tree!\" He sprang from\nthe rock to the margin of the stream, and scrambled towards the spot\nwhither the eddy had whirled the already sinking lady. She had caught\nwith a death-grasp by one frail twig of an alder sapling, though her\nstrength was fast failing. Invereshie's eyes glared over her face as\nher head and her long dripping hair half emerged from the water.\n\n\"Help!--oh save!--oh help!\" was now all she could faintly utter,\nwhilst her expiring looked fixed itself upon her husband.\n\n\"Help, saidst thou? thou canst well help thyself by thy foul\nenchantments!\" cried Invereshie. \"Blessed Saint Michael be mine\naid! thou hadst well-nigh taken from me my all, fiend that thou art;\nthou may'st e'en take that twig with thee, too!\" and drawing from\nhis belt his skian dhu, he sternly divided the sapling at its very\nroot. As it parted from its hold, the lady disappeared amid the rough\nsurges of the rapid stream, and the blindness which superstition had\nthrown over him fell at once from her distracted husband.\n\n\"Holy angels, she sank!\" exclaimed Invereshie with a maddening yell\nthat overwhelmed for a moment the very roar of the flood. \"My love! my\nwife! O murderer! murderer!\"\n\nHe rushed wildly among the waters to save her. But the impenetrable\ncloud which had been all this time careering onwards, at that very\ninstant blotted out the moon from the firmament, and left his soul\nto the midnight darkness of remorse and despair.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA STRANGER APPEARS.\n\n\nOur friend Grant's sad story of John Macpherson of Invereshie and\nhis unhappy lady produced so powerful an effect on his auditors,\nthat we continued to walk on in silence for some time after he had\nconcluded, each of us musing after his own fashion. We had been\naccidentally joined by a stranger, a stout made athletic little man,\nin an old-fashioned rusty black coat and waistcoat, corduroy breeches,\nand grey worsted stockings. In one hand he carried a good oaken\nstick, and in the other a little bundle, tied up in a red cotton\nhandkerchief. This personage walked sturdily forth from a small\nhouse of refreshment by the wayside a few minutes before our friend\nhad commenced his narrative; and we had been too much occupied with\nour own conversation at the time of his appearance to notice him\nfurther than by exchanging with him the customary \"good day to you\"\nof salutation. But the stranger, having taken even this much as\na sufficient introduction among pedestrians travelling in the same\ndirection in so lonely a country as that we were then passing through,\nventured to continue to keep pace with us in such a way as to be\nall the while within earshot of what was said. To the story of John\nMacpherson he listened with most unremitting attention; and to our\nno small surprise he was the first person to open his mouth to make a\ncomment upon it, now that it was ended. After taking a short trot of\nseveral yards, to bring himself abreast of our friend the narrator, and\nat the same time taking off a very well worn hat with an air of marked\nrespect towards him whom he was addressing, he spoke as follows:--\n\nStranger.--Might I be so bold, sir, as to offer a few remarks,\ncritical, historical, and explanatory on the fragment of Macpherson\nhistory which you have just finished rehearsing?\n\nGrant (somewhat surprised).--Certainly, sir; I shall be very glad to\nhear them.\n\nStranger (with a grave and solemn air).--Why, then, courteous sir,\nwhilst I am altogether wishful to render unto your tale every such\npraise as may be justly found to be due to it as the produce of\none remarkable for that sort of inventive genius which caused Homer\nto contrive so pretty a story out of the bare facks of the Trojan\nWar, and which enabled Virgil to interest us so much with that long\ntale which he tells, by exaggerating those few dry adventures which\nbefell the Pious \u00c6neas as he fled from Troy to found a new kingdom\nin Italy, yet must I honestly admit that I cannot compliment the\nhistorical fragment which you have given furth to your friends for\nbeing parteeklarly verawcious.\n\nClifford.--Bravo! Well done, old fellow. Ha! ha! ha! You beat\nTouchstone all to sticks. Never heard the lie more ingeniously given\nin my life.\n\nStranger (with great earnestness, and very much abashed).--Howt no,\nsir. Upon my solemn credit, I meant no such-an-a-thing. I only meant to\nconvey to this gentleman, and that with all due respect and courtesy,\nmy humble opinion, that in a grave piece of history, having reference\nto a brave and honourable Highland clan, the true yevents should\nbe closer stuck to than it may be necessar to do where the subject\nmatter is nothing better than such dubious and unimportant trash as\nthat which the auncient Greek and Latin poets had to deal with.\n\nGrant (a little nettled).--And what reason have you to suppose that\nthis is not the true and authentic statement of the facts of John\nMacpherson's history as they really occurred? I gave them as I got\nthem from another. You do not suppose that I altered or invented them?\n\nStranger (with an obsequious inclination of his body).--Howt away,\nno, no. No such-an-a-thing. If you got them from another I have no\nmanner of doot but you have rehearsed them simply as ye had them,\nwithout adding, or eiking, or paring, or changing one whit. But,\nnevertheless, the real facks have been sorely and most grievously\ntampered with by some one.\n\nGrant.--Indeed. And how came you to know anything about this Macpherson\nstory? and what is your authority for saying that the facts have been\ntampered with?\n\nStranger (with oracular gravity).--Firstly, or, in the first place,\nI beg to premeese, that I am a schoolmaster; and therefore it is that\nI am greatly given to accurate and parteeklar inquiry. Secondly, or,\nin the second place, having daily practeesed myself into a habit of\ncorrecting the errors of my scholars, it is not very easy for me to\npass silently by the blunders of other folk. And, thirdly, or, in\nthe third place, and to conclude, I am a Macpherson myself; and as\nit is natural that I should on that account be all the more earnest\nand punctilious in expiscating the facks connected with the history\nof that great clan, so is it also to be presumed that I may have had\ngreater opportunity for conducking such an investigation. And so,\nhaving premeesed this much, I may add, by way of an impruvment on\nthe subject, that I shall be just as well pleased to correct your\nversion of this history as I should be to correct the theme of any\nof my own boys.\n\nGrant (smiling).--I am truly obliged to you for this gratuitous offer\nof your tuition.\n\nStranger (whom I shall now call Dominie Macpherson).--Not in the\nvery least obliged to me, sir. The greatest pleasure of my life is\nto instruct the ignorant; and in yespecial I deem it a vurra high\nhonour and delight to me to have this opportunity of instructing such\na gentleman as you. Proud truly may I be of my scholar.\n\nClifford (with mock gravity).--The master and the scholar, methinks,\nare quite worthy of each other.\n\nDominie (with a bow to the speaker).--I am greatly obligated to you for\nthe compliment, sir (then turning to Grant with a more confident and\nself-satisfied air than he had hitherto ventured to assume).--Firstly,\nor in the first place, then, sir, you must be pleased to know that\nJohn Macpherson of Invereshie did not espoose a south country woman;\nfor his wife was a Shaw of Dalnabhert, on Spey-side there. Secondly,\nor in the second place, the leddy never had any such extraordinar\nfascination over him as you have described her to have; for she\nwas in reality so ill-natured a woman, that she and her goodman\nwere continually discording and squabbling together. In the third\nplace, or, as I should say, thirdly,--and it being one of the few\nconditions in which your tale in some sort agrees with the true\nhistory,--she was undoottedly so great a spendthrift, that many was\nthe bitter quarrel that arose 'twixt her goodman and her, because\nof her extravagances. But, fourthly, or in the fourth place, the\nworthy John Macpherson did not throw the lady into the Feshie; and\nthis is a fack which I would in yespecial crave you to correct in any\nfuture edition, seeing that it brings an evil and scandalous report\nupon the said John, and would seem to smell of murder, when the true\nparteeklars of the history, known to me from the time I was a babe,\nare as follows, to wit:--It happened one day that the dispute between\nthem ran to a higher pitch than common, and the lady left the house\nwith the intention of fleeing to her father at Dalnabhert. There was\nneither bridge nor boat upon Feshie at that same time; but the woman\nwas so demented with rage that she plunged into the water with the\ndetermination of wading through. Well, she had not gone three steps\ninto the ford when she was carried off her legs entirely; but her\nbody being buoyed up by reason of her petticoats, of which it is said\nthat she was used to wear not less than four (my grandmother, honest\nwoman, did the same), she floated down the stream into the deep water,\nuntil being brought by the swirl of an eddy near to a jutting out rock,\nshe caught at a twig or branch that grew near the edge, and held by it\nlike grim death. And here I must admit that, fifthly, or in the fifth\nplace, Macpherson did of a surety apply the edge of his skian dhu to\nthe bit twiggy she had a grip of. But, then, most people charitably\nbelieve that it was nothing else but pure courtesy that induced him\nto do so to the lady; for, as appearances most naturally caused him\nto believe that she had taken to the water with the full intent of\nmaking away with herself by drowning, he thought that the least that\nhe as her husband could in common civility do, was to render to her\nwhat small help he could towards the effecting of her purpose. And\nthen, as to his parting with her in these memorable words--which, to\nthe great edification of all the wives of Badenoch, have since become\na proverb in that country, to wit, \"you have already taken much from\nme, you may take that with you too,\" it must strike you as being most\nevident, gentlemen, that if Macpherson was to part with his lady at\nall, he could not have parted with her in terms more truly obliging,\nor with words more generously liberal. But the most extraordinary\nand most important deviation from fack, of which the author of your\nromance has been guilty, yet remains to be noticed; for, in the sixth\nplace, or sixthly, Macpherson, who seems in the whole matter to have\nhad no other intention than that his lady should get a good dookie\n(as we say, Scottice) in the Feshie, whereby to extinguish the fire\nof her rage, did not only most gallantly jump into the water to try\nto save her life, but he actually did save it, or at least the lady's\nlife was saved somehow or other, seeing that she was afterwards the\nmother of \u00c6neas Macpherson of Invereshie, the direct ancestor of the\npresent worthy Laird of Invereshie and Ballindalloch.\n\nThe modest yet dignified air of triumph which the schoolmaster\ngradually assumed, as he thus went on unfolding fact after fact, and\nwhich was considerably augmented as he approached the conclusion of\nthis his critical oration, very much amused us all.\n\nGrant (with an assumed gravity).--I see that I have not only to do\nwith a gentleman of liberal classical acquirement, with one, too, who,\nblessed with great acumen, has made the art of criticism an especial\nstudy, but with a person who is also great as an authority touching\nthe particular historical point which is now in question. And yet,\ndaring as it may be in one of my inexperience to enter the arena with\nan opponent so powerful, I may perhaps be permitted to observe, in\ndefence of that version of this piece of history of which I have been\npossessed, that the apparent discrepancy between it and that which\nyou are disposed to consider as the true statement, is, in truth,\nlittle or nothing in importance, and may, after all, be very easily\nreconciled. For, if we attend to the circumstances, we shall find,\nfirstly, or in the first place, that there is nothing before us that\nmay render it impossible for us to believe that Miss Shaw of Dalnabhert\nmight not have received a boarding school education at Edinburgh, as\nmany young ladies of Badenoch unquestionably do, yea, and an education,\ntoo, which might have well enough fitted her to have mingled in the\ngaieties of a court. Secondly, or in the second place, as to the\ndiscordings which you say took place between her and her husband, I\nthink you must do me the justice to recollect that these were alluded\nto in my narrative, though they were delicately touched on, as you\nwill allow that all such family quarrels should be. But even if you\ndo not admit the propriety of this, you must at least grant that if\nI fell into an error at all in this respect, it was less an error of\nfact than of deeree. In the third place, or thirdly, the evidence of\nboth authorities is agreed as to the fact of the lady's extravagance,\nas well as in the important circumstance that her extravagance was\nthe cause which ultimately led the parties to the brink of the river\nFeshie. Fourthly, or in the fourth place, the conflicting statements\nin the two several reports regarding the mode in which the lady first\ngot into the water will appear to be of little or no moment when we\ngive to them a due consideration. We are nowhere informed that any\none was present but Macpherson and his wife; and when we reflect\nthat these two individuals must have been at the time in a state of\nexcitement and agitation so very great as altogether to deprive them\nof the power of judging distinctly of anything, it would be quite\nvain for us to look to either of them for any accurate statement as\nto how the matter occurred. All accounts, however, are agreed as to\nthe use made by Macpherson of the skian dhu. As to your sixthly, or\nin the sixth place, I think you will be disposed candidly to admit,\nthat as my informant saw fit to carry his narrative only to a certain\npoint of time, so as to break off at the black cloud and the despair,\nit is not only perfectly possible, but extremely probable, that he\nmeant to tell, in his second chapter, of the happy recovery of the\nlady from the waters of the Feshie,--of the perfect reconcilement of\nthe pair,--of her reformation in all respects,--of the retrenchment\nof her expenditure,--of the disappearance of all dandies with plumed\nhats and piked shoes,--of the happy birth of the young \u00c6neas,--and\nof his merry christening, with many other matters which the historian\nhas now left us darkly to guess at.\n\nThe astonished critic was utterly confounded by our friend's reply, so\nsolemnly and seriously uttered as it was; and after one or two \"hums\"\nand \"has!\" and a \"very true!\" or two, he fell back some footsteps in\nrear of us; and notwithstanding divers malicious attempts made on the\npart of Clifford to bring him once more into the fight, he relapsed\ninto an humble and attentive listener.\n\nAuthor.--Your tale, Grant, brings to my recollection a circumstance\nwhich, as tradition tells us, happened after the celebrated Raid\nof Killychrist.\n\nGrant.--I am not aware that I ever heard of the Raid of Killychrist,\ncelebrated though you call it.\n\nAuthor.--I believe the outline of the story of that raid has been given\nsomewhere or other in print by a literary friend of mine, though, to\ntell you the truth, I have never as yet had the good fortune to see\nit. But I will cheerfully give you my edition of it, such as it is,\nif you are willing to listen to it.\n\nClifford.--But stop for one moment; and, ere you begin your story,\ntell me, if you can, what that strange scarecrow looking figure is,\nwhich we see standing in yonder green marshy islet near the edge of\nthe small lake immediately before us?\n\nAuthor.--That figure has excited much speculation. It for some time\ngreatly puzzled myself. I passed by this way more than once in the\nbelief, from the cursory view I had of it, that it was a solitary\nheron. But my curiosity was excited at last, by observing that it\nwas invariably and immovably in the same spot in the islet, whilst\nI discovered to my no small wonder, that the islet itself was never\nfound by me twice successively in the same part of the little lake,\nbeing sometimes stationed in the middle of it and at other times\nsomewhere towards either end, or near to either of the sides.\n\nClifford.--Come, come! ha! ha! ha! you are coming magic over us\nnow. You don't expect that we are to believe any such crammer as this!\n\nAuthor.--I assure you that what I state is strictly and literally true,\nthough I must admit that you have some reason for doubt until you have\na further explanation; and I am glad that I have it in my power to give\nit to you as it was given to myself by an intelligent man who lives\nin this neighbourhood. What you see is in reality a floating island.\n\nClifford.--A floating island! I know that you Scots are said to be\nfond of migration; but I had no idea that any part of your soil was\nin the habit of making voyages either for profit or pleasure.\n\nAuthor.--Nay, nor does a Scot himself often move from any station\nwhere he finds himself comfortable, except it may be for the purpose\nof migrating into some other which may hold out yet greater advantages\nthan that which he possesses. But this whimsical islet shifts its\nposition without reason, exactly like an idle Englishman, who,\nwithout any fixed object, moves from one spot of Europe to another,\nhe cannot himself tell why, and merely as the breezes of caprice may\nblow him about.\n\nGrant.--A Roland for your Oliver, Master Clifford! But (addressing\nAuthor) tell us how you account for this strange phenomenon?\n\nAuthor.--The mass, as you see, is not very large. Its extent is only\na few yards each way. It is composed of a light, fibrous, peaty soil,\nwhich was probably originally torn from its connecting foundation\nby the influx of some sudden flood, aided by a contemporaneous and\ntempestuous wind. Being once fairly turned adrift in the lake,\nwe can easily conceive that its specific gravity must have been\nevery succeeding day lessened by the growth of the matted roots of\nthe numerous aquatic plants that grew on it, till it rose more and\nmore out of the water, and became at length so very buoyant as to be\ntransported about by every change of the wind.\n\nClifford.--Bravo! You have lectured to us like a geologist; and I must\nconfess, with as much show of reason in your theory as those of many\nof these antediluvian philosophers can pretend to. But you have yet\nto play the part of the zoologist, and to give us some account of that\nstrange animal, human being or beast, alive or stuffed, as it may be,\nthat so strangely stands sentry yonder in the midst of it. One might\nalmost fancy it to be one of Macbeth's weird sisters.\n\nGrant.--It has indeed a most uncouth and ghostly appearance when seen\nat this distance. It looks so much like some withered human figure,\nwhere we cannot easily reconcile it to reason that any human figure\ncould possibly be.\n\nAuthor.--Yes; and when we think what its effect must be when it is\nseen by a stranger, sailing slowly over the surface of the little\nlake, impelled by a whistling wind, at that hour when spirits of all\nkinds are supposed to have power to burst their cerements, when the\nmoon may give sufficient light to display enough of its wasted and\nwizard looking form to beget fearful conceptions, without affording\nsuch an illumination as might be sufficient to explain its nature,\nwe may easily believe that many are the rustic hearts that sink\nwith dread, and many are the clodpate heads of hair that bristle up\n\"like quills upon the fretful porcupine,\" whilst whips and spurs are\nemployed with all manner of good will on the unfortunate hides of\nsuch unlucky animals as may chance to be carrying lated travellers\npast this enchanted lake towards their distant place of repose.\n\nClifford.--I can well enough conceive all this. But you have yet to\ntell us what the figure really is.\n\nAuthor.--Notwithstanding its imposing appearance, it is nothing more,\nafter all, than a figure made of rushes and rags carelessly tied\nabout a pole by some of the simple shepherds of these wilds. It is\ncomparatively of recent creation; but I understand that the islet is by\nno means of modern origin, though I am led to believe that, like other\nmore extensive pieces of earth, it has undergone many changes since its\nfirst creation. It must have been liable to be increased and diminished\nby various natural causes at different periods of its history.\n\nDominie Macpherson (half advancing into the group, with a chastened\nair, and more obsequious inclination of his body than he had ever\nyet used.)--If I may make so bold as to put in my word--ha--hum. If\nI might be permitted to make so bold as to speak, I can assure you,\ngentlemen, that the bit island yonder has long existed. I have known\nthese parts for many a long year; and I can testify to the fack,\nfrom my own observation, added to and eiked out by that of men who\nwere old when I was born. Superstitious people call it the witches'\nisland, and believe that the weird sisterhood hold it under their\nyespecial control and governance.\n\nClifford.--Much better sailing in it than in a sieve. But have\nyou gathered none of the adventures of the Beldams to whom you say\nit belongs?\n\nDominie.--God forbid, sir, that I should say it belongs to such uncanny\npeople! But truly there is a very strange story connected with it.\n\nClifford.--A story, Mr. Macpherson, pray let's have your story\nwithout delay, if you please, that we may forthwith judge whether\nyou are to rank higher in the world of letters as an historian or as\na critic. \"Perge Domine!\"\n\nGrant.--You will gratify us much, sir.\n\nDominie.--I shall willingly try my hand, sir; and if you find not\nthe sweetness of Homer or Maro in my narrative, at least you shall\nbe sure of that accuracy as to fack which so much distinguished the\nelegant author of the Commentaries.\n\nClifford (with mock gravity).--Doth the narrative touch your own\nadventures, my friend? Are you, like C\u00e6sar, the historian of your\nown deeds?\n\nDominie.--Not so, sir; but I had all the facks from my father,\nwho knew the hero and heroine, and all the persons whose names are\nmentioned in it.\n\nClifford.--Ha! you have a hero, then, and a heroine too? Why that,\nmethinks, looks somewhat more like romance than history.\n\nGrant (smiling).--Be quiet, Clifford! You forget that you are all this\nwhile keeping us from our story. Pray, sir, have the goodness to begin.\n\nThe schoolmaster bowed; and taking a central place in the line of\nmarch, he proceeded with his narrative in language so mingled with\nquaint and original expressions, that I cannot hope, and therefore\ndo not always pretend, to render it with the same raciness with which\nit was uttered.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF THE FLOATING ISLET.\n\n\nI must honestly tell you, gentlemen, that my story hath much the\nair of a romance, as well as much of love in it, and many of the\nother ingredients of such like vain and frivolous compositions; but\nyou shall have the facks as told me by my much honoured father, who,\nbeing a well-employed blacksmith, not many miles from the spot where\nwe now are, may be said to have been the chronicler of the passing\nyevents of his day.\n\nAwell, you see, it happened that a well-grown, handsome, proper looking\nyoung shepherd lad, called Robin Stuart, had possessed himself of\nthe young affections of a bonny lassie, the daughter of Donald Rose,\none of the better sort of tenants of these parts. Their love for one\nanother had grown up with them, they could not well say how. Its\norigin was lost in the innocent forgetfulness of their childhood,\nas the origin of a nation is buried in the fabulous history of its\ninfancy; but, however born, this they both felt, that it had grown\nin strength and vigour every day of their lives, until with Robin it\nbegan to ripen into that honest and ardent attachment natural to a\nmanly young heart, which was responded to on the part of bonny Mary\nRose by all the delicacy and softness that ought to characterise the\nmodest young maiden's return of a first love. But however natural\nit was for the tender heart of the daughter to beat in unison, or,\nas I may say, to swing in equal arcs with that of her lover, just as\nif they had been two pendulums of like proportions and construction,\nit was equally selon les r\u00e8gles, as the modern men of Gaul would say,\nthat the churlish and sordid old tyke of a father, who had been\naccustomed to estimate merit more by the rule of proportion than\nanything else, exactly perhaps as he would have valued one of his own\nmuttons according to the number of its pounds, should have stormed\nlike a fury when he actually deteckit the callant Robin Stuart in\nthe very ack of making love to his daughter in his own house!\n\nA desperate feud of some years' standing had made Donald the declared\nenemy of Robin's father, old Harry the herd of the Limekilns, a\ncognomen which he had from the circumstance of his cottage being\nplaced on the side of yonder hill of that name, so called from\na prevailing tradition that the lime used in the building of the\nCastle of Loch-an-Dorbe was brought in the state of stone in creels\non horses' backs from the quarries near to Grantown, and burned\nthere. Old Harry was a poor man and a herd, whilst Donald Rose was\nwealthy, and especially prided himself on being a Duniwassel, or small\ngentleman, so that there thus existed three most active awgents, to\nwit, enmity, avarice, and pride, which combined to compel him to put\nan instantaneous stop to all such proceedings between Robin Stuart\nand his daughter Mary. Without one moment's delay, he thrust the\nyoung shepherd, head and shoulders, violently forth from his door,\nand smacking the palm of his hand significantly and with great force\nand birr on his dirk sheath, so as to cause the weepon to ring again--\n\n\"I'll tell ye what it is, my young birkie,\" said he, in a voice like\nthunder, \"gif I catch ye again within haulf a mile o' my dochter,\nye sall ha'e a taste o' sweetlips here! An' as for you, Mary, an' ye\ndaur to let siccan a beggarly chield as that come within a penny stane\ncast o' ye, by my saul but I'll turn ye out ower my door hauld wi' as\nleetle ceremony as I ha'e done the same thing to Rab himsell yonder!\"\n\nBut, as one of the ancient heathen poets hath it, love is a fire which\nno storm can extinguish; it feeds itself with hope, and only burns the\nbrighter the more it is blown against by adverse blasts. You know,\ngentlemen, how Pyramus and Thisbe contrived to hold secret converse\ntogether. Though Robin and Mary had no crack in a wall through which to\npour the stream of their mutual love,--nay, although their respective\ndwellings were some mile or two separate from each other, yet many were\nthe private meetings which the youth and maiden contrived to obtain,\nduring which they employed their time in fostering their mutual hopes,\nand in strengthening their belief that better and happier days were\nyet in store for them. And happy indeed would have been those days\nof their anticipation, if they could have proved happier than were\nthose stolen hours which they thus occasionally enjoyed together.\n\nNow, it happened one beautiful day, in the beginning of summer,\nthat Donald Rose rode off from his door to go to a distant market,\nwhence there was no chance of his returning till late at night. The\nold saying hath it, that when the cat is away the mice will play. This\nwas too favourable an opportunity to be lost by a pair of young lovers\nso quick-sighted as Robin and Mary. It had been marked by both of them\nfor some weeks before it came; and the farmer's long-tailed rough grey\ngarron had no sooner borne his master's bulky body in safety along\nthe ticklish and treacherous path that went by a short cut through\nthe long moss, and over the distant rising ground, than Robin Stuart,\ntrue to his tryst, appeared to escort his bonny lassie on a ramble of\nlove. No one was at home to spy out their intentions but old Mysie\nMorrison, the good-natured hireling woman of all work; and she was\ntoo much taken up with her household affairs to trouble her head\nabout watching the young lad and lass. Indeed, if she had thoughts\nof them at all, she was too much attached to her young mistress,\nand too well acquainted with her secret, and too shrewd to betray\nher either by design or by accident.\n\nAs you may see, gentlemen, there was no great choice of pleasure walks\nin this bleak destrick, but the two young creatures were so taken\nup with each other, and so full of joy in each other's company, that\nthe dreariest spot of it was as a rich and blooming garden in their\ndelighted eyes. They tripped along merrily together, and bounded like\nroe deer over the heathery knolls, scarcely knowing, and not in the\nleast caring, which way they went, until they found themselves by the\nside of the little lochan which we have but just left behind us. It\nwas then the season when the wilderness of this upland country was\nclad in a mantle of wild flowers, and thereabouts especially they\ngrew in so great variety and profusion that it seemed as if the\ngoddess Flora had resolved to hold her court in that place. There,\nthen, they resolved to rest a while; and Robin, producing the simple\ncontents of a little wallet which he carried under his plaid, they\nsat down together and feasted luxuriously.\n\nWhen they had finished their meal the lovers began to waste the\nhours in idle but innocent sport. They roamed about here and there,\ngathering the gaudy flowering plants that grew around them; and\nafter filling their arms with these wildling treasures, they again\nseated themselves side by side, to employ their hands in arranging and\nplaiting them into rustic ornaments. Whilst thus occupied they were too\nhappy and too much taken up with their own pleasing prattle to think\nof the progress of the sun, who was all this time most industriously\nurging his ceaseless journey over their heads, without exciting any\nof their attention, except in so far as his beams might have lent a\nlivelier hue to the gay garlands they were weaving for each other,\nor yielded a fresher glow to the cheeks, or a brighter sparkle to\nthe eyes, of those who were to wear them.\n\nWhilst they were thus so happily and so harmlessly occupied, they went\non, with all the innocent simplicity of rustic life, repeating over\nand over again to each other their solemn vows of eternal love and\nfidelity, as if they could never have been tired of these their sweet\nand sooth-fast asseverations, whilst, at the same time, they uttered\nthem with a copiousness of phraseology and a variety of dialogue\ntruly marvellous in such a muirland pair as they were. It would have\nabsolutely astonished all your writers of novelles to have overheard\nthem, and it would have puzzled any of these fiction-mongers to have\ninvented the like.\n\n\"Oh that your father was but as poor and as humble as mine,\nMary!\" exclaimed the youth at last, \"or, rich and proud as he is, that\nyou could leave him and content yoursel' wi' bein' a poor man's wife!\"\n\n\"Na, Robin!\" replied she, shaking her head gravely, and then laying\nher hand upon his arm, and looking up wistfully into his eyes, \"you\nwould never ask me, my father's ae bairn, to leave him noo that he\nhas grown auld, and that my dear mother has left us baith and gane to\nheeven! Gif, indeed, he could be but brought to look wi' a kind ee on\nyou--then--then\"--continued she, with a faultering tongue, whilst she\nblushed deeply, and threw her eyes down amidst the heap of flowers\nthat lay at her feet,--\"then, indeed, we might baith be his bairns.\"\n\n\"Oh! I wish again that he were but a poor man!\" cried Robin\nenthusiastically, \"for then might thir twa arms o' mine mak' me as gude\na match in his een as a' the bit tocher he could gie might warrant him\nto look for. Weel and stoutly wad I work for sic a prize as you, Mary!\"\n\n\"An' weel wad I be pleased that ye should ha'e it, Robin, little\nworth as it is!\" said Mary, with an expression of undisguised\nfondness. \"Though I could na gie up my father, I could gie up a'\nmy father's gowd, gif it wad but bring you hame to help him. And\ngif it warna for him,\" added she, with a tear trembling in her eye,\n\"I trow I could gang wi' you to the warld's end, an' I war never to\nsee anither human face!\"\n\n\"O Mary!\" exclaimed Robin, in a transport, \"I could live wi' you in\na desert. I could live wi' you in some wee uninhabited spot in the\nmidds o' the muckle ocean, aye, though it war nae bigger than the\nbit witches' island there afore ye, aye, and as fond o' flittin'\nas it is too, and that we sould never leave its wee bit bouns.\"\n\nThere was something so absurdly extravagant in the very idea of two\npeople being confined together to a space of a few yards square,\nto live the sport of every varying breeze that might blow over\nthe surface of the deep, that Mary's gravity was fairly overcome,\nnotwithstanding the high pitch of devoted feeling to which she had\nbeen wound up at the moment. She could not control herself; and she\ngave way to loud peals of laughter, in which her lover as heartily\njoined her. \"See!\" cried she, the moment she could get her breath,\nwhilst she pointed sportively to the little floating islet which\nwas at that moment lying motionless, and almost in contact with the\nshore near to the spot where they were sitting, \"see, see, Robby,\nhow our wee bit fairy kingdom is waitin' yonder to bid us welcome!\"\n\n\"Come, then, my queen, let us take possession o 't then in baith our\nnames!\" cried Robin, in the same tone, and gaily and gallantly seizing\nher hand at the same time, he, with great pretended pomp and ceremony,\nled her, half laughing, and half afraid, towards the place where the\nisland rested.\n\nAt the time my story speaks of the borders of the loch were less\nencroached upon by weeds and rushes than you have seen that they now\nare, and the island lay, as if it had been moored, as mariners would\nsay, in deep water close to the shore. It was, therefore, but a short\nstep to reach it, and Robin easily handed the trembling Mary into it\nwith as much natural grace, I'll warrant me, as the pious \u00c6neas himself\ncould have handed Queen Dido. The lassie's light foot hardly made its\ngrassy surface quiver as it reached it; but, full of his own frolic,\nand altogether forgetful for that moment of the precarious and kittle\nnature of the ground he had to deal with, he sprang in after her with\na degree of force which was far from being required to effect his\npurpose, and so great was the impetus which he thus communicated to\nthe floating islet, that it was at once pushed several yards away from\nthe shore. With one joint exclamation of terror both stood appalled,\nand they silently beheld the small fragment of ground that supported\nthem moving, almost insensibly, yet farther and farther towards the\nmiddle of the loch, so long as any of the force which Robin had so\nunfortunately applied to it remained, and then it settled on the\nmotionless bosom of the deep and black looking waters, at such a\ndistance even from the bank which they had just left as to forbid\nall hope of escape to those who could not swim.\n\nFled indeed, gentlemen, was now all the mirth of this unlucky\npair. Poor Mary was at once possessed by a thousand fears; and even\nthe firmer mind of her companion, though sufficiently occupied with\nits anxiety for her, was not without its full share of those individual\nsuperstitious apprehensions naturally produced by the place where they\nwere, and which secretly affected both of them. Neither of them could\nresist the belief that supernatural interference had had some share\nin producing their present distress. But whatever Robin's private\nthoughts may have been, he was too manly to allow them to become\napparent to Mary. Plucking up some long grass and sedges, therefore,\nand making them into a large bundle, he took off his jacket, threw it\nover it, and by this means made a dry seat for her in the very middle\nof the quivering and spongy surface of the islet. Then casting his\nred plaid over his shoulder, he stood beside her, now bending over\nher to whisper words of comfort and encouragement into her ear, and by\nand by stretching his neck erect, that his eyes might have the better\nvantage to sweep around the whole circuit of the dull and monotonous\nsurface of the surrounding wastes. How mixed, yet how antagonist\nto each other were the ideas which now passed rapidly through his\nmind! At one moment he felt a strange and indescribable rapture as\nthe mere thought crossed him that this small floating spot of earth\ndid indeed contain no other human being but himself and her whom he\nwould wish to sever from all the world besides, that she might be the\nmore perfectly dependent on himself alone, and therefore the more\nindissolubly bound to him; and then would he utter some endearing\nwords to Mary. Then, again, the shivering conviction would strike\nhim, that although there was no human being but themselves there,\nthere might yet be other unknown and unseen beings in their company\nthat neither of them wist of, and he looked fearfully around him,\nscanning with suspicious eye, not only the whole surface of the lake,\nbut every little nook and crevice of the shore. And then bethinking\nhim of night, he lifted up his eyes with anxious solicitude from\ntime to time, to note the position of the sun, whose progress he and\nhis fair companion had previously so much disregarded; and great was\nhis internal vexation when he perceived how rapidly his car was now\nrolling downwards, not, as the auncient poets would say, in his haste\nto lay himself in the lap of Thetis, but as if he had been eager to\nescape behind yon great lump of a muirland hill yonder to the westward.\n\nBut a yet more trying discovery soon began to force itself upon his\nattention. The islet on which they stood seemed, as he narrowly\nmeasured it with his eye, to have sunk some inches into the\nwater! Already in idea he felt its bubbling wavelets closing over\nhis own head and the dear head of her whom he so much loved! His\nheart grew sick at the very thought. Summoning up courage, however,\nhe contrived to allow no outward sign to betray his feelings to Mary;\nand taking certain marks with his eye, he set himself to watch them\nwith an anxiety so intense, and with a look so fixed, that he was\nunable rationally to reply, either by word or sign, to anything that\nthe poor lassie said to him, so that she began at length to entertain\nnew apprehensions at the wild expression which his countenance\nexhibited. By degrees, however, she became more assured, for, after\nlong and accurate observation had led him to believe that at least no\nvery rapid change was taking place, his features gradually relaxed,\nand hers were for the time relieved by that very sympathy which had\nso enchained them.\n\nAnd now the sun was fast approaching the horizon, and Robin's eyes were\neagerly employed in endeavouring to penetrate even the most distant\nshadows that were rapidly settling down upon the hills, behind which\nhe was about to disappear, whence they began to spread themselves\nover the wide extent of brown moors and black mosses that stretched\neverywhere around them. As the light passed away, his glances flew\nmore hastily in every direction, in the vain search for some human\nbeing. Above all, he earnestly surveyed the road where he for some time\nsanguinely hoped that he might discover some one returning from the\nmarket, who might yet lend them an aid, though he felt that it quite\ndefied him to form any rational conception as to what the nature of\nthat aid could be. Again, he would most inconsistently shrink back,\nand instinctively shut his eyes, as if that could have concealed his\nperson, from very dread that Donald Rose might come home that way\nand discover them in this their distressing and dangerous situation,\nfor he was fully aware that he had but little chance of rising in the\nold man's estimation by having thus had the misfortune to bring the\nlife of his only child into so great peril. As he thus ruminated,\nhe remembered that although this was not old Donald's shortest way\nhome, yet it was that which he was most likely to take towards night,\nas being the best. And he moreover distinctly perceived, that if he\ndid come that way before it was dark, he could not fail to discover\nthem. For as the rugged and irregular muirland road wound round nearly\none-third of the whole margin of the little loch, by reason of its\nhaving to cross the bit brook that issues from its western extremity,\nit was self-evident that no one could travel that way without having\nhis eyes intently fixed, for a considerable time, in a direction that\nmust compel him to survey the whole surface of the sheet of water,\nso that not a duck or a dab-chick could yescape them. And what if\nthe farmer did not come? Might they not be discovered by some other\nhard-hearted person, who, instead of assisting them, might be so wicked\nas to carry the news of their situation directly to old Rose, whose\nrage, he felt persuaded, would be enough to burn up the waters of the\nloch. Such a finis to the adventure was the least misfortune they could\nlook for from the malice of those evil spirits of the islet, by whom\nhe believed that he and Mary had been thus entrapped. Anxious as he\nhad at first been to descry some one, he now longed for night to fall\ndown on them and render them invisible. Then the utter hopelessness\nof eventual concealment occurred to him, for he reflected that the\nfarmer must return home at some hour during the night; that when\nhe did so return, he must find his daughter absent, and that his\nungovernable fury would not be diminished by the tormenting suspense\nin which he would be kept regarding her until next day, when they\nshould certainly be discovered. Robin's mind was tossed to and fro\namong such unpleasant thoughts as these, till they were all put to\nflight by the overwhelming force of that superstitious dread which\ntaught him to believe that night would soon give an uncontrolled\npower to those evil beings who had thus so cruelly used them.\n\n\"Oh, for a breeze of wind!\" cried poor Robin in his agony, as a\nthousand formidable and ghastly shapes began to dance before his\ndisturbed fancy. And--\n\n\"Oh, for a breeze!\" sighed the soft and tremulous voice of Mary\nRose, whose mind had all this while been silently following the same\nirregular train of thought, and sympathetically participating in the\ndistressing emotions which had been agitating her lover.\n\nAnd now the sun went down in a blaze of glory beyond the western hills,\nand his last beams took leave of the surface of the water, after\nhaving shed a radiance over it, as well as a cheerful glow over the\ncountenances of the two lovers, that but ill assorted with the misery\nof soul which they were enduring. By degrees a soft summer exhalation\nbegan to arise from the bosom of the loch, as well as from all the\nneighbouring pools, peatpots, and marshes. But balmy, and cheering,\nand invigorating as it was to all the parched offspring of nature\nthat grew in this desert, which opened their bosoms to receive it,\nand gratefully exhaled their richest perfumes, it chilled the very\nhearts of the lovers, as night fell darkly and dismally around them.\n\n\"Robin,\" said Mary in a voice that quivered from the effects of the\nchilling damp, combined with those secret terrors which were every\ninstant taking more and more powerful possession of her, in spite\nof all her reason and resolution to resist them. \"Robin, put on your\njacket, you will starve.\"\n\n\"Mair need for me, Mary, to gie ye this plaid o' mine,\" replied he\nin a tender tone. \"Here, tak' it about ye, my dearest lassie, and\nkeep up a gude heart.\"\n\n\"Na, I'll no tak' nae mair aff ye,\" said Mary gently, refusing to\nallow him to throw the plaid over her.\n\n\"Let me--let me gie ye haulf o't then,\" said he, with a modest\nhesitation.\n\nAfter some little further discussion, the matter was at last arranged,\nfor Mary stood up by Robin's side, and the ample plaid having been\nthrown over both of them, somewhat in the manner of a tent, the\nedges of it were held together by her lover's nervous arm, so as in a\ngreat measure to exclude the cold damp air. If it was not altogether\nshut out, Robin at least for some time felt none of its influence,\nfor, finding himself thus the sole protector of his beloved Mary,\nhis heart burned within him with love and pride, and all thoughts of\nevil spirits were banished for a time.\n\nThings had not been long accommodated in this manner, when Mary\ncomplained that her feet began to grow cold and wet, and the change in\nRobin's thoughts may be conceived when he too became convinced that the\nwater was certainly somehow or other gaining upon them. The darkness\nwas now such as to render it impossible for him to make any such minute\nobservation as he had done before. He could only now guess vaguely,\nand his whole frame shivered with horror as the suspicion crossed him,\nthat the unusual weight which the islet now bore having pressed it\ndownwards, the upper and more porous parts of it, which were formerly\ncomparatively dry, had imbibed a greater quantity of water than usual,\nand the specific gravity of the whole being thus increased, it was\ngradually sinking, and must soon be altogether submerged. I say not\nthat the poor lad reasoned thus upon pheelosophical principles, but,\nnevertheless, he did come to the conclusion that this treacherous bit\nof ground was sinking fast. How long or how short a time it might\npossibly take before the awful catastrophe should arrive, was more\nthan he had any means of determining. He had nothing now left but to\nnerve himself with resolution to enable him to conceal his fears and\nhis horrors from Mary, though, at the same time, he could not help\nclinging to her with an earnestness and a wildness of manner that\ndid anything but allay her terrors. Dark as the night was, all those\nsuperstitious fancies which had disturbed their minds were banished\nby the overpowering conviction of speedily approaching dissolution\nwhich individually possessed them in secret. The black gulf by which\nthey were environed seemed, in the mind's eye of each of them, to\nbe yawning to swallow them up; and the thought that they should die\nin each other's arms, was the only consolation that visited their\nafflicted souls in that awful moment.\n\n\"Let us pray to the Lord!\" said Mary solemnly, \"for our death-hour\nis come!\"\n\nRobert, who would now have deemed it to be a sinful ack to speak to\nher of hope, which he had himself so utterly abandoned, immediately\nobeyed her command. You know, gentlemen, that it is the glorious\npreevilege of our Scottish peasantry to receive education from the\npious and well conducked teachers of our parochial schools. Even the\nyoungest men are thereby exerceesed in prayer, so that it becomes\nso much of a habit with them, that they are at all times prepared\nto pour out their souls in extemporaneous offerings to the Deevine\nBeing. You can easily understand, therefore, that at such a moment when\nconvinced that he himself, and she whom he loved beyond all yearthly\nthings, were about to be summoned to the footstool of their Creator,\nhis prayer was solemn, yearnest, simple, and sublime. So certain did\nthe sealing of their doom now appear, that he put up few petitions\nfor present help in this world. The whole force of his supplication\nwas directed to their salvation through the merits of a Saviour,\nin that on which they were so soon to enter, and Mary clung closer\nto him as he spoke, and continued to follow all his expressions, now\ninternally and now audibly, with a fervour that sufficiently proved\nthe intensity of her faith and hope.\n\nWhilst the poor creatures were thus employed a dim gleam of light from\nthe eastern horizon seemed as if struggling through the dense fog that\nhung over the loch, and soon afterwards a gentle passing breath of\nair was distinctly felt by both of them. It murmured around them, and\nfanned them, as it were, for a moment, and found its way even within\nthe hollow of the plaid. Its voice was to them as the voice of their\nguardian angel, and it refreshed their drooping souls, although they\nknew not very well how it did so. In a very few minutes afterwards,\nhowever, the mist being broken up by the influence of a full moon that\nhad just risen, began to collect itself into distinct spiral columns,\nwhich dissipated themselves one after another, as if they had been\nso many spirits melting into air. The long wished-for breeze then\nat length came singing most musically as it skimmed over the surface\nof the perfumed heath. And it had not long curled the hitherto still\nsurface of the loch, till Robin and Mary began to perceive that the\nhalf-drowned island was sensibly increasing its distance from the\nshore whence they had taken their departure. There was something very\nfearful in this, and the poor lassie clung closer to her lover. But\nwith all their fears it now seemed as if Hope was sitting beckoning to\nthem on the opposite shore, towards which the breeze was so evidently,\nthough so slowly, propelling them.\n\nThe moon now shone forth in full radiance, and speedily dissipated\nthe broken fragments of the fog that yet remained. One mass only,\ndenser than the rest, still hung poised over their heads, naturally\nmaintained in that position by the attraction of the damp floating\nearth they stood on. To their great joy they perceived that the breeze\nwas increasing, and that their motion was gradually accelerating.\n\n\"Mary, my dear,\" cried Robin, \"keep a gude heart; I'm thinking that\nwe'll maybe mak out yet. Let's hoize up the plaid till it catches\nmair o' the wund.\"\n\nAnd, accordingly, they raised their arms and kept the plaid high over\ntheir heads, till it was bellied out by the breeze like the lugsail\nof a herring buss, and their velocity was tripled.\n\nThey were thus moving gallantly onwards, in anxious expectation that\na very few minutes more would moor them in safety to the shore, so\nthat there might yet be time for Mary to hurry home before her father\nshould arrive to question her absence, when they suddenly perceived\na horseman riding along the road which sweep't around the end of\nthe loch they were now nearing so fast. What think ye, gentlemen,\nwas the astonishment, dread, and mortification of the poor lassie\nand her lad when they beheld the moonbeams reflecked from a face as\nbroad and as pale as the disc of the luminary from which they had been\nlast projected? It was Donald Rose himself! As their supporting bit\nof earth drifted onwards with them, they stood together for a moment\npetrified with surprise and fear, whilst they beheld him check his\nhorse, and turn his head towards the loch, as if to gaze at them;\nand then, with one shriek from Mary and a deep groan from Robin,\nwhich might have made a good treble and bass for the psalmody of the\nmartyrs, both the two of them, by one simultaneous movement, sank\ndown together among the rank grass and water-weeds in which they\nwere standing, and the folds of the plaid collapsing around them,\nboth were completely shrouded beneath it. There they lay, abandoning\nthemselves to their perverse fate, and fearing to move or speak, until,\nin a very few seconds, they were drifted to the very spot where they\ntoo well knew that the enraged farmer must be already standing like\na roaring lion ready to devour them; and they were thus prostrated,\nas it were, at the very feet of him whose ungovernable rage they had\nso much reason to wish to have avoided.\n\nThe floating island had touched the terra firma for some seconds, but\nstill the conscious pair dared not to peep from beneath the covering\nthat enveloped them. They lay, as I might say, as quiet as two mice\nin a bag of meal. They uttered not a word. They hardly even dared\nto breathe. But tremblingly in need of support under circumstances\nso very trying, the poor lassie Mary clasped her Robin about the\nwaist with an energy equal to the terror she was moved by. It was\nthe feeling of this her utter dependence upon him for support and\ndefence that first subdued Robert's own fears, and awakened him to\na sense of his own dignity as a man.\n\n\"An' ye'll hae but a thoughty o' patience, Maister Rose, I'll tell\nye a' aboot it,\" said he, commencing his peroration from beneath the\nplaid, somewhat sotto voce, as the degenerate modern Romans would\nsay. But gaining greater boldness as he heard the sound of his own\nvoice, and that his words remained as yet unanswered, he went on\nto speak, gradually raising his tone as he did so, and at the same\ntime erecting his person by slow degrees from his abject attitude,\nthough without unveiling himself.\n\n\"Ye may think as ye like, Maister Rose, but I canna help lovin' Miss\nMary; I maun love her spite o' mysell, an' gin ye wad hae me no to\nlove her nae mair, ye maun just dirk me here at aince. But for the\nsake o' a' that's good!\" continued he, blubbering from very emotion,\n\"dinna offer to hurt ae hair o' her bonny head, for by my troth an'\nye do, Maister Rose!\"----\n\nThese last words were uttered in so loud and impassioned a key,\nthat it sufficiently indicated the nature as well as the resolute\ndetermination of the threat that was intended to follow, even if the\nfurious action of the uplifted arm and clenched fist had not left it\nquite unequivocal. So violent was the effect, that the plaid which\nhad risen along with the speaker, and which had up to this point\ncontinued to muffle his head and eyes, was suddenly thrown off.\n\n\"Gude keep hus a' he's gane!\" cried Robin with a stare of horror. \"As\nI'm a leevin' man!--as I houp and believe I am\"--continued he, pinching\nhis own arms and thighs as he said so, to convince himself of the fack\nthat he really was alive, \"it was your father's wraith we saw, Mary!\"\n\nHalf fainting from the effect of the complication of terrors which had\nsurrounded her, Mary Rose was hardly conscious of what Robin had said,\nand he for his part having gained that self-command of which the sudden\nnature of his alarm had for a moment deprived him, now bit his lip\nand studiously avoided uttering one word that might convey to her the\nleast inkling of that conviction which had just then flashed upon him,\nor that might distress her mind with any share of that superstitious\ndread which at this moment so completely filled his own.\n\n\"He's gane indeed, dear Mary,\" said he as he gently assisted her\nto rise; \"let's be thankful that we're safe on dry land, and let me\nhelp you hame to your ain house as fast as I can, and may the Lord\nbe aboot us!\"\n\nAdjusting his plaid over her, and placing his arm around her slender\nwaist to support her tottering steps, he guided her homewards by the\nlight of the moon through the rugged moor by a short path. Often as\nthey went did each of them secretly remember how auspiciously the\nmorning sun had shone upon them as they had danced lightly together\nover the blooming heather! But they were both too much sunk by the\nunfortunate issue of their day's adventures, believing as they,\npoor things, foolishly did, that the powers of evil themselves had\ncombined to thwart them; they were too much sunk, I say, to be able\nto utter much more than monosyllables to each other, or such words at\nleast as were expressive of gratitude to Heaven for having permitted\nthem to yescape with life, whilst an indefinite dread of the fate\nthat awaited them hung secretly lowering over each of their minds.\n\nLights blazed within the white-washed windows of Donald Rose's cottage\nas it appeared on a knoll before Mary's dizzy eyes. Whether these\nmight indicate her father's presence or not, she could not daur to\nguess. The poor lassie was so feared, that she hesitated to approach\nthe door herself; yet she felt that there was still greater danger\nthere for Robin, and, with a delicate pressure of the young lad's hand,\nshe bade him tenderly farewell.\n\n\"Robin, haste ye hame to the Limekilns,\" said she. \"Ye maunna face\nmy father. Leave me to face him mysell.\"\n\n\"No!\" said Robin boldly and with peculiar emphasis, \"I ha'e noo faced\nmair than your father, Mary; and sae I'm no ga'in' to flee your\nfather himsell, though he does wear a durk. Gif he be comed hame,\nye may the mair want my help to meet him.\"\n\nFearfully alarmed for the consequences, and still more apprehensive for\nher father's wrath against him than against herself, she endeavoured\nto argue with him on the folly of his rashness; and whilst they were\nboth engaged in an animated and somewhat imprudently loud discussion\non this subject, they were startled by the voice of Mysie Morrison,\nwho came suddenly upon them from the cottage.\n\n\"Bless ye, my bairns, is that you?\" exclaimed this good domestic. \"What\ni' the warld has keepit ye sae lang oot daffin'? An' is that the end o'\na' your courtin' after a', that you're to come hame an' end it that\ngate wi' a colly-shangy?\"\n\n\"Has my father come back frae the market yet, Mysie?\" tremblingly\ndemanded Mary.\n\n\"Na, he's no come hame yet,\" replied the old woman, \"and I'm thinkin'\nthat he'll no be comin' hame the night noo. I 'se warrant he's been\nweel set wi' some drouthy customer, an' he'll hae staid whar he\nwuz. But come ye're ways in, my bairns, an' get some meat; I trow ye\nmaun be clean starvin'.\"\n\nWith Robin's recollection of the spectre which he had beheld riding\nby the loch-side he had little heart, at that hour, to cross the wide\nmuir that lay between Donald Rose's house, where he then was, and his\nfather's cottage on the hill of the Limekilns. He much preferred the\nrisk of meeting Donald's substantial body of flesh and blood, dirk\nand fury and all, within the four walls of a well lighted up room,\nto having his moonlight path crossed upon the heath by the terrific\nsimulacrum or wraith which had already blasted his sight. In addition,\ntherefore, to the seducing attractions which Mary's society held out\nto him, coupled with those urgent admonitions which he was receiving\nat that moment from hunger and thirst, he had thus some vurra strong\nand powerful secret reasons for preferring to remain, to which he did\nnot choose to give utterance. Mary, for her part, was sorely buffeted\nbetween her wishes and her fears. She had every desire to do that\nhospitality to her lover which her own faintness began to remind her\nmust now be so highly necessary to him. On the other hand, she had\nthe strongest apprehension that her father might suddenly return, in\nspite of all that Mysie had said to the contrary, and she thus hung\nfor a moment in dootful equilibrio, as a body may say, between the two\nopposing forces which were thus operating on her. But Mysie, who was\nmuch less timorous, having done all she could to assure her that there\nwas no danger of a surprise, she at length hushed her fears and tacitly\nyielded to her wishes. She and Robin, therefore, were soon seated\nover some comfortable viands by a blazing hearth, whilst Mysie, with\na judgment and prudence that might have well befitted an attendant of\nQueen Dido herself when she took refuge from the storm with the Trojan\nking in the cave, retired to make security doubly sure, by setting\nherself to watch at the window of the neighbouring apartment, where,\nby the light of the moon, she might see her master return, so that she\nmight give timeous notice to Robin Stuart to yescape by the back-door,\nwhilst old Rose was occupied in putting his horse into the stable.\n\nThis was well enough arranged in the old woman, gentlemen. Caius\nJulius C\u00e6sar himself could not have made better dispositions to\nhave prevented a night surprise. But, as our immortal bard, William\nShakespeare, hath it, in the words which he hath put into the mouth\nof the lively Rosalind, time goes at different paces with different\nindividuals. Upon this occasion it certainly went fast enough with\nRobin Stuart and Mary Rose. For, though their minds were for a short\ntime crossed occasionally by very fearful visions of the past, of\nsome of which they dared hardly to speak to each other, yet these\nwere soon banished altogether by their mutual smiles, and by the\nardent and endearing expressions which they went on interchanging\ntogether. Swift flew the minutes, and their conversation was still\nwaxing more and more interesting. They were seated close together;\nand, as their tender dialogue became more intensely moving, Robin's\narm had unconsciously found its way around Mary's waist, whilst\nhers had fallen carelessly over his shoulder, and had accidentally\ncarried with it the folds of his plaid, which she had not yet thrown\noff. The cheerful gleam from the blazing moss-fir faggots threw a\nstrong effect of light from the ample chimney over their figures. They\nindeed believed, from their inaccurate calculation, that this their\nfelicity had endured for some short half hour only, whilst, by the\ndrowsy account of old Mysie, who had sat nodding, and every now and\nthen catching her head up to save it, if she possibly could, from\ndropping irrecoverably into the lap of Morpheus, the god of sleep,\nfour good hours had gone by. As the truth probably lay between, I\nshall take the mean of these two extremes, and therefore I may say,\nwith some degree of confidence, that about two hours had yelapsed when\nshe at last yielded to the soporific influence, and fell into a sleep\nso profound, that ere it had endured for ten minutes, ten cannons or\nten claps of thunder could hardly have awakened her; and whilst matters\nwere in this state the door of the apartment where Robin and Mary were\nso comfortably seated as I have just described them to be,--the door\nof the apartment was suddenly opened, and Donald Rose himself, covered\nwith mud from neck to heel, and with a countenance pale and haggard\nas death, entered,--followed, gentlemen, still stranger to tell,\nby--Harry Stuart, the herd of the Limekilns! The surprise by which\nthe lovers were thus taken was perfectly complete. Their presence of\nmind was altogether gone. They started up together at once, without\neven attempting to unfold or withdraw their arms from the different\npositions which they had respectively assumed, whilst the drapery\nof the plaid hung over both of them, mingled with the garlands which\nthey still wore. They stood as if they had been converted into statues.\n\n\"Gude keep us a' frae evil!\" cried Donald Rose the moment he entered,\nwhilst, to their utter astonishment, he started back as he said so,\nhis eyes glaring at them with a ghastly look of fear and horror\nthat was much too natural not to be perfectly genuine. \"Gude keep\nus frae a' evil, are ye wraiths or are ye real? The same plaid! the\nsame garlands! and the same guise! Speak! speak! what are ye? But I\nsee,\" continued he, after a pause, during which he recovered himself\na little; \"I see, Gude be thankit! that ye are baith flesh and bluid.\"\n\n\"Aye, flesh and bluid we are,\" said Robin Stuart, summoning up all\nhis resolution and speaking in a determined tone. \"We are flesh and\nbluid truly, and I trust that we shall soon be one flesh and one\nbluid too! Our souls are already as one! sae let not ane auld man's\navarice rend asunder twa leal hearts already joined by Heeven!\"\n\n\"Joined by Heeven, indeed, Rabby!\" replied old Rose, with a solemn\nand mysterious air; \"and Heeven forbid that sic a miserable vratch\nas I am sould daur to interfere. What Heeven hath joined let not man\nput asunder! O bairns! bairns!\" continued he, as he swopped himself\ndown into his great oaken elbow chair, as if quite overcome with\nfatigue both of body and mind; \"och, bairns! bairns! what ane awfu'\ngliff I hae gotten this blessed night! As I was on my road hame frae\nthe market--an' at a decent hour, too,--for the drover an' me had\nbut three half mutchkins a-piece whan we pairted at Grantown--whan\nI was on my road hame, as I was sayin', an' just as I was gaein' to\npass round this end o' the Witches' Loch, to cross at the bit fuirdy\nyonder, what does I see, it gars my very flesh a' creep again to think\non't--what does I see, I say, but your twa figures, as plain as I see\nye baith at this precious moment, in thay very garments ye hae on, an'\nwi' thay very garlands about your necks, an' shouthers, an' breasts,\nan' baith claspit thegither, as ye war just yenoo whan I came in. I\nsay, I saw ye baith in that very guise, an' in that very pouster,\ncomin' skimmin' o'er the surface o' the deep water o' the loch, wi'\nthat very red plaid aboon ye baith for a sail. But, Gude proteck us\na'!--what think ye?--The full moon was just risen in the east, an'\nher very light was shinin' through the twa spirits, an' aboot them\nthere was a kind o' a glory, just like unto the mony coloured brugh\nthat ye hae nae doot aften seen about the moon hersel'. Och me,\nit wuz a grusome sight! I wish I may e'er won ower wi't!\"\n\nRobin and Mary exchanged intelligent glances with each other during\nthis part of old Rose's narrative; but he was too much overpowered\nwith what he had seen, and too full of his subject, to observe what\npassed between them.\n\n\"Tak a wee drap o' this, father,\" said Mary, handing him a brimming\ncuach; \"you will be muckle the better o't.\"\n\n\"Thank ye, thank ye, my bonny bairn!\" said the farmer, giving her back\nthe empty cuach, and kindly patting her head as he did so. \"I'm sure,\nmy dauty, it was ill my pairt to cross ye as I did. But, stay!--whaur\nwas I?--Weel, ye see, just as the twa speerits war comin' whush athort\nthe loch upon me far faster than ony wild duke could flee,--the very\ndumb brute that I was on started back wi' fear, whurled aboot in a\nmoment, an' whuppit me awa' back o'er the moss in spite o' mysel',\nregairdless o' ony road; and I trow I never stoppit till I wuz on the\nt'ither side o' Craig Bey, whar, by good luck, I forgathered wi' Harry\no' the Limekilns there--fear, like death, will pit oot the fire o'\nthe auldest feud; and whan Harry heard the cause o' my flight,--for\nwhan he met me I was fleein' like a muir-cock down the wund,--I\nsay, whan Harry heard o' what an a sight I had seen, an' he bein',\nas it were, in some degree conneckit wi' it, as weel as mysel',\nI trow he wuz as glad to hae me wi' him as I wuz to hae him wi me,\nwi' the houp o' keepin' aff waur company. Harry had nae better wull\nto gae by the Witches' Loch than I had, and sae we cam' ower by the\nshort cut through the lang moss thegither. A bonny road, truly, for\nsic an afu' late hour of the night, for a' that we had the moon, as\nye may see well eneugh by the dabbled state o' my trews. I'm sure my\npuir beast 'ill no be able to crawl the morn after a' the gliffin',\nan' galloppin', aye, an' I may say soomin' too, that he has had,\nfor I hae some doots gif there be ae moss hole atween Craig Bey an'\nthis hoose that he has na' had to swatter through.\"\n\n\"Let me get dry stockin's for ye, father,\" said Mary.\n\n\"Na, my dauty, its no worth while for a' the time!\" replied\nDonald. \"An' noo, Harry, man,\" continued he, turning to his companion,\nwho had been all this while standing near the door, \"cum ben, man,\nan' sit doon; what for dinna ye sit doon? An' noo, I say, although\nye are but a poor man, Harry, an' no just sae weel come by deschent\nas I am, wha, as ye are maybe awaur, am come o' a cousin sax times\nremoved of the Laird of Kilravock himself, which a' the warld kens\nto be ane o' the maist auncientest families in Scotland,--I say,\nthough ye are no just descended frae siccan honourable forebears,\nyet ye are ane honest man.\"\n\n\"I trust that I am sae, neebour,\" said Harry modestly, but with his\nhead yereck, as ane honest man's always should be.\n\n\"Aweel, aweel!\" cried old Rose impatiently, \"as I was gaein' to say,\nwe's just owerlook a' thae things, an' souther up a' oonkindness that\nmay hae been atween us, an' sae we'll mak' the best o't, an' hae your\nladdie an' my lassie buckled thegither as soon as the minister can mak'\nthem ane. Come, man, gie's your hand on't!\"\n\n\"Wi' a' my heart!\" replied Harry Stuart, with a good-natured chuckle;\n\"an' I'll tell ye what it is, Carl, maybe ye'll find after a' that\nthe son o' Harry the herd o' the Limekilns is no just sae bare a\nbargain as ye wad hae yemagined. The herdin' trade gif it maks little\nit spends less; an' I hae na been at it for better nor fifety years\nwithout layin' by a wee bit pose o' my ain; an' gif a gude bien bit\nhill farmie can be gotten for the twa, I'se no say but I may come doon\nwi' as muckle as may buy the best end o' the plenishen an' stockin'.\"\n\n\"That's my hearty cock!\" exclaimed old Rose, slapping Harry soundly\non the back. \"Mary, my dauty! I was sae muckle the better o' the wee\ndrap ye gied me yon time, that I think neither Harry nor me wad be\nthe waur o' anither tasse.\"\n\nIt would be yequally vain and unnecessar, gentlemen, for me to attempt\nto describe the happiness of the two lovers, or the general joy of\nthat night. If Homer or Maro were alive, and here present, they would\nfail to do justice to such a theme. I may shortly conclude by simply\ntelling you, however, that Mysie's slumbers were rudely broken by the\nstentorian voice of her master,--that she was speedily put to work\nat her yespecial occupation in the kitchen,--that the rustic feast\nwas quickly spread,--that the bowl circulated, or, rather, to speak\nwith a due regard to fack, that it passed backwards and forwards\nvery frequently from lip to lip of the two thirsty seniors,--that\nthe young couple were in Elysium,--that the old men were garrulously\njoyous,--that Mysie was frantic, and danced about like a daft woman,\nand that the sun peeped in upon them from the distant eastern hills\nere they even began to think of terminating their revels.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nDOMINIE DELIGHTED.\n\n\nGrant.--Why, sir, you are quite as great as a story-teller as you\nare as a critic.\n\nClifford.--Homer or Maro could never have held a candle to you! Why\nyour floating island would beat a steamer. But, joking apart, we are\nreally much obliged to you for the very interesting story you have\ntold us.\n\nDominie (bowing).--I am yespecially proud and happy that you are\npleased with it, sir.\n\nAuthor.--We are all very much indebted to you indeed, for you have\nhelped us very agreeably over the most dreary part of our road.\n\nThe good man rose an inch or two higher than he had hitherto appeared,\nand his cheek glowed with satisfaction.\n\nWe had now come to the Pass of Craig-Bey, where the Grantown country\nopened to us. A rocky hill arose on our right, wildly wooded with\ntall Scottish pines, whilst, on our left, the ground declined\ninto a hollow, through which the dark streamlet that drains the\nextensive peat-bog, whence the villagers of Grantown are supplied\nwith fuel, throws itself into a deep rocky ravine, along which our\nroad skirted. At some distance to our left, and on the farther side\nof the glen, a beautiful smiling portion of Highland country arose in\nswelling grounds, simply cultivated, amidst natural birchen groves;\nwhilst every now and then we had a transient view directly downwards,\nwhere the stream threw itself into a fairy little holm, surrounded by\ntall castellated rocks, richly tinted with warm coloured mosses, and\nrising picturesquely from among woods of golden-leaved aspen and birch.\n\nClifford.--Is there no story connected with that beautiful spot below?\n\nAuthor.--The place is called Huntly's Cove. It has its name from some\ncavity in the crag, which is said to have been the place of concealment\nof George, second Marquis of Huntly, in the time of Charles I.\n\nClifford.--I forget his history at this moment.\n\nAuthor.--He was married, if I remember rightly, in 1609, to the Lady\nAnne Campbell, eldest daughter of Archibald, seventh Earl of Argyll;\nand he was, therefore, brother-in-law to Archibald, the eighth Earl of\nArgyll, who so strenuously exerted himself in the cause of the people\nagainst King Charles I., and who, as you may recollect, was appointed\nby the Convention of Estates, 16th April, 1644, commander-in-chief of\nthe forces raised to suppress the insurrection of his brother-in-law,\nthis very Marquis of Huntly of whom we are now talking. The Marquis,\nyou know, rose in arms for the King in the north; but Argyll marching\nagainst him, dispersed the Royalists, and obliged Huntly to fly to\nStrathnaver, in Sutherland. Huntly again appeared in arms in 1645,\nand refused to lay them down even when commanded by the King, who\nwas then under the control of the Parliament of 1646. He was exempted\nfrom the pardon granted on the 4th March, 1647, and he was that same\nyear taken prisoner. I remember the peerage account of him states\nthat his capture took place in Strathnaver--a blunder occasioned by\nthe circumstance of his having fled to that district of country upon\nthe first-mentioned occasion. It was in Strathaven that he was taken,\nand the similarity of names assisted in producing the confusion. Before\nhis capture he lay concealed in Strathaven, or as it is very commonly\ncalled Stradaun, and when more than ordinarily alarmed by an increased\nactivity in the search for him, he used to come over to hide himself\nhere for greater security. I think it was an ancestor of the present\nSir Neil Menzies of Castle Menzies who took him, but the legendary\ncircumstances have escaped me, if I ever knew them.\n\nGrant.--Thus it is that some of our most curious and valuable\ntraditions are lost.\n\nClifford.--It is truly provoking that it should be so. As we have\nRoxburghe, and Bannatyne, and Maitland Clubs for the preservation\nand printing of old writings, would it not be a meritorious thing to\nestablish a Legend Club, the object of which should be to proceed\nsystematically throughout every part of the British dominions to\ncollect and write down all the legendary and traditionary matter\nwhich may yet remain?\n\nGrant.--There is no doubt that an immense mass of materials might\nthus be gathered together for the use of the novelist and playwright.\n\nClifford.--Nay, nay, Grant; but joking apart, I do think that although\nthe great mass might be rubbishy enough, and, perhaps, much fitter\nfor the compounder of melodramas than for anything else, croyez moi\non doit cependant trouver des perles, ou plutot des diamants, dans ce\ngrand fumier. And then when you think that the numerous fitful beams\nof light which might proceed from these recovered diamonds should be\nconcentrated into one focus, it is not very impossible that history\nitself might receive some fresh illumination from the flame that\nmight be kindled.\n\nAuthor.--Your scheme is amusing enough, and by no means undeserving\nof attention; but I conceive that the utility of such a society as you\nspeak of would very much depend upon the efficiency of its secretary.\n\nClifford (with an arch look).--Why, no doubt, it would so. And\ntherefore I should propose to confer that important and distinguished\npost upon our new acquaintance, Mr. Macpherson here, seeing that he\nis so much given to searching out the truth of such things, and that\nhe has, moreover, proved himself to be so able a narrator of them\nafter he has found them out.\n\nDominie (his eyes glistening with pride and delight as he again\nadvanced to fill that place in the line of march which he had occupied\nduring the time we were listening to his tale).--What could be more to\nmy mind than such an occupation! And yet, sir, seeing that I am already\nplanted as a teacher of youth in a comfortable house in Caithness,\nwith a small garden and a cow's grass appended thereto; to all which\nthere falls to be added a salary, which, though small, yet sufficeth\nfor my mainteenance, who have no wife or \"charge of children,\" as Lord\nChancellor Bacon hath it, save that of the children of other people,\nwhence there arises to me not expense but yemolument, it would be\nwell to know what sum of money by the year might be incoming to the\nholder of that secretaryship of which you have spoken; seeing that\nprudence bids us be sure that we move not our right foot until our\nleft be firmly set down.\n\nClifford.--As to the matter of revenue, I fear there would be more of\nhonorary dignity than of edible income attached to the situation. I\nwould, therefore, earnestly advise you, since I now learn that your\nlot has already been so pleasantly cast, to hold your right foot\nfast in Caithness, where, were the society to go on, you might be\nappointed one of its honorary corresponding members.\n\nDominie.--Thank you, sir, your advice is good. I could by no means\nafford to throw away my cow's grass and potato-yard to the dogs, to\nsay nothing of my salary, without something better. I shall therefore\ne'en hold as I am.\n\nClifford.--What mountain is that which I see rising blue and grand\nyonder in the eastern distance?\n\nGrant.--I have now a right to step forward as your cicerone, Clifford,\nfor this is the country of the great clan to which I belong. Yet I must\nconfess that I have no great knowledge of its history. I can at least\ntell you, however, that the mountain you are inquiring about is Ben\nRinnes, the hill which rises over the ancient house of Ballindalloch,\nat the junction of the rivers Avon and Spey. Ballindalloch belongs\nto an old family of the Grants.\n\nDominie.--I could tell you a curious legend about the building of the\nCastle of Ballindalloch, were it not deemed presumption in me to tell\nof the Grants in presence of so accomplished a member of the clan.\n\nGrant.--Sir, I shall cheerfully trust to you to do justice to the\nGrants, and especially to the Grants of Ballindalloch; for since the\nMacphersons are now engrafted on the family of that house, I think\nyou will be disposed to say nothing that may be in anywise to their\ndisparagement.\n\nDominie.--God forbid that I should. They have always been kind friends\nof mine.\n\nClifford.--I protest against any more stories till after dinner. I\npresume we shall find an inn at Grantown, and I therefore beg leave\nto move that all lengthened communications be adjourned until we are\nfairly set in to be comfortable for the evening.\n\nGrant.--Agreed. Now, then, follow me in at this gate that opens to our\nleft here, and through this plantation, and I, as your cicerone here,\nshall show you something worth looking at.\n\nWe had no sooner burst from the confinement of the trees, than a wide\nand extensive and grand prospect opened to us. From the immediate\nforeground the eye ran gently down some sloping cultivated inclosures,\ntill, passing over the widespread woods by which these were surrounded,\nit swept with eagle flight across the wide valley of the Spey and the\nendless forests of Abernethy, and rested with joy and with a feeling\nof freedom on the blue chain of the Cairngorum mountains, rising\nhuge and vast above these minor dependent hills that were congregated\nabout their bases. To the left our view was bounded by tall groves of\ntimber-trees, chiefly beeches, and after penetrating these, the lofty\nbulk of Castle Grant presented itself within an hundred yards of us.\n\nClifford.--I think it will not be considered as any breach of the rule\nwe have just laid down, if you should give us an outline, in three\nwords, of the history of this the feudal residence of your chiefs.\n\nGrant.--All I can tell you regarding it is, that it has been the\nseat of the chief of our clan ever since the fourteenth century, when\nthe surrounding lands were taken from the Cumins and bestowed on the\nGrants by the Crown. Another large cantle of the ancient possessions\nof the Cumins came into the family by the marriage of Sir John Grant\nwith Matilda or Bigla, the heiress of Gilbert Cumin of Glenchearnich.\n\nDominie.--True, true, sir, I have a curious story about that. You see,\ngentlemen, Gilbert Cumin, whose cognomen was Gibbon More----\n\nClifford.--You will forgive me for interrupting you, sir, but you\nwill recollect, that although we allowed Grant to tell us what he knew\nabout the castle, we have just laid it down as a rule, that we are to\nhave no more long stories upon empty stomachs. Let us hasten to see\nthe interior of this chateau, and then to Grantown and to dinner with\nwhat appetite we may. You shall dine with us, and I shall book you\nfor there giving us Gibbon More, or any More you may be possessed of.\n\nDominie.--Your pun is most excellent, sir, ha! ha! ha!--your reproof\nis most just, and your invitation most kind, and readily accepted. And\nas I can be of little use to you here, gentlemen, perhaps I shall\nbe most benefeecially employed, both for your interest and my own,\nby stepping my ways on to Grantown, and looking to the preparation\nfor your accommodation and entertainment at the inn.\n\nAuthor.--No, no, sir, we have already secured all that by the gilly\nwho has preceded us with the pony. We cannot part with you so, your\ninformation may be useful to us.\n\nClifford.--This huge pile seems to have been built at various periods,\nand with no great taste. That tower is the only picturesque part\nabout it.\n\nGrant.--That is called the Cumin's Tower, and it is perhaps the only\nvery old fragment of the building. The most modern part is the northern\nfront, the style of which is quite inappropriate.\n\nClifford.--Come, let us hasten to discuss the interior; my appetite at\npresent is sufficiently sharp, yet it is for something more digestible\nthan granite and mortar.\n\nWe hurried through the castle, admired the great hall, some fifty\nfeet by thirty in size, and were particularly delighted with some of\nthe old family portraits, which are extremely curious as to costume.\n\nClifford.--What a fierce old white-bearded fellow that is in the bonnet\nand tartan plaid, drawing a pistol as if he was about to shoot us. I\nshould not like to meet in a wood with such an one as he appears to\nhave been, unless I met him as a friend.\n\nDominie.--That is old Robert Grant of Lurg. I can tell you many a story\nabout him. He was surnamed old Stachcan, or the Stubborn; and--a----\n\nClifford.--Unless you are determined to deserve that surname, as\nwell as ever the said Robert Grant did, you had better attempt no\nmore stories till after dinner, my good friend. And now, methinks,\nwe have seen enough of these bearded, belted, and bonneted heroes;\nand if you have no objections, I think we may as well proceed to\nmarch into quarters for the night.\n\nA walk of little more than a mile brought us to the village of\nGrantown, and a period of time something less than a couple of hours\nfound us all seated, after a very good dinner, round a cheerful fire,\neach preparing to light his cigar, and moderately to sip the fluid\nthat was most agreeable to him.\n\nClifford (opening his tablets).--Let me see what my book\nsays. Ha!--Legend of the Raid of Killychrist--Building of\nBallindalloch--Gibbon More--Old Stachcan! The raid comes first--the\nraid stops the way,--so drive on with the raid if you please.\n\nAuthor.--Since you desire it, I shall do so, in order, as you say,\nto get it out of the way. But I must tell you that the Raid of\nKillychrist does in fact form so small a part of that which I have\nto narrate to you, that I might rather call it the Legend of Allan\nwith the Red Jacket.\n\nClifford.--Pray call it what you please, but quocunque nomine gaudet,\nlet us have your legend, if you please, without further loss of time.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF ALLAN WITH THE RED JACKET.\n\n\nAs a prelude to the legend of the Raid of Killychrist, or Christ's\nChurch, I must condemn you to listen to a considerable portion of the\nprevious history of the great rival clans of MacDonell and MacKenzie,\nwhich led to that event. A deep-rooted feud had existed for many years\nbetween these two neighbouring Highland nations, as I may well enough\ncall them. So savage was their mutual hatred, that no opportunity was\nlost, upon either side, of manifesting the bitterest hostility towards\neach other. They were continually making sudden incursions with fire\nand sword into each other's territory,--burning cottages--destroying\ncrops--driving away cattle--levying contributions on defenceless\ntenants--carrying off hostages, and massacring such unfortunate\nindividuals or straggling parties as might happen to fall in their\nway, without always showing much regard to age or sex. It was one\nunvarying history of rapine and bloodshed, uninterrupted except at\nsuch times and for such periods when both parties happened to be too\nmuch exhausted to act on the offensive.\n\nIt was fortunate for the MacDonells, that about the beginning of the\nseventeenth century Donald MacAngus MacDonell of Glengarry, chief\nof the clan, had so harried the MacKenzie country in one dreadful\nand destructive raid, and had so swept away its wealth and thinned\nits people, as to have rendered them comparatively innocuous for a\nnumber of years; for, during the lapse of these, he became so old\nand infirm, as to be not only quite unable for any very active or\nstirring enterprise, but he would have been unequal to the defence\nof his own territories against the inroads of his neighbours. He had\ntwo sons, but neither of them was old enough to relieve him of the\ncares and fatigues incidental to the government of such a clan. Angus\nthe eldest, indeed, although only some fifteen or sixteen years of\nage, was extremely bold and impetuous. Like the most forward and\nbest-grown eaglet of the aerie, he would have often rashly braved,\nwith unpractised wing, the storms which raged around the cliff where\nhe was bred, had it not been for the wholesome restraint which the\nold man was with difficulty enabled to put upon him, and which he\ncould hardly enforce, even with the assistance of his nephew, Allan\nMacRaonuill MacDonell of Lundy, who being then in the prime of life,\nacted as captain or chief leader of the clan Conell.\n\nAllan of Lundy, so called from the loch of that name near Invergarry,\nwas the pride and darling of the clan, and it was not wonderful that\nhe should have been so, for he possessed all those qualities which\nwere likely to endear him to Highlanders in those savage times. He was\nremarkable for his great activity of body, for his wonderful agility\nin leaping, and his extraordinary swiftness of foot, and endurance\nin running. But these were not the qualities which the clansmen most\nespecially prized in him; for, whilst he was kind to every one who bore\nthe name of MacDonell, he was ever ready to visit those who were their\nenemies with the most ruthless and remorseless vengeance. He delighted\nin wearing a splendid jacket of scarlet plush richly embroidered with\ngold, and when the day of battle came, the brave MacDonells always\nlooked to that jacket as to a rallying point, with as much devotion\nand confidence as they looked to the banner of the chief himself,\nfor they were always certain to see it in the front of every charge,\nand in the rear of every retreat. It was from this that he acquired\nhis most distinguished cognomen, that of Allan with the red jacket.\n\nIt was not surprising that a youth of a haughty and impetuous temper,\nlike that of Angus MacDonell, could ill brook the well intended\nadmonitions which he received from a cousin, upon whose interference\nin the affairs of the clan he was taught, by the vile insinuations\nof certain sycophantish adherents, to look with a jealousy which\nwas but an ill requital for all Allan of Lundy's affection towards\nhim. That affection, though it came from a bosom which was capable\nof nursing that fierce and cruel spirit which animates the tiger,\nwas deep and sincere. It was an affection which had its basis in\ngratitude, in love, and in veneration for the old chief, his uncle,\nwho had been to Allan as a father, and, therefore, it was born with\nthe birth of the boy Angus. It was an affection which had grown\nstronger and stronger every day with the growth of its object, on\nthe development of whose character the future happiness and glory,\nor misery and disgrace, of the clan, must depend. It was an affection,\nin short, which nothing could shake, and which even the often unamiable\nconduct of Angus towards him could never for one moment chill.\n\nIt happened one rainy and tempestuous night, that whilst a party of\nclansmen, returning from some distant expedition, were approaching the\ngate of Invergarry Castle, they suddenly encountered a tall man wrapped\nup in an ample plaid. He started when the MacDonells came upon him.\n\n\"Friend or foe?\" cried the leader of the party.\n\n\"A friend!\" coolly replied the other, \"unless you are prepared to tell\nme that the days are past when a MacIntyre may claim hospitality from\na MacDonell.\"\n\n\"The day can never come when a MacIntyre shall not be welcome to a\nMacDonell,\" replied the other. \"Are they not but as a limb of the\ngoodly pine stock of clan Conell? say, what wouldst thou here?\"\n\n\"I am a wayfaring man,\" answered the stranger, \"and all I would ask\nis shelter and hospitality for an hour or twain, till this tempest\nblow by.\"\n\n\"Thou art come in the very nick of time, my friend,\" said the\nMacDonell, \"for, hark! the piper has gone to his walk, and he is\nalready filling his drone as a signal for us to fill our stomachs. The\nbanquet is serving in the hall, so in, I pray thee, without more delay;\ntrust me, we are as ready as thou canst be for a morsel of a buck's\nhaunch, or a flagon of ale.\"\n\nThe old chief of the MacDonells had already occupied his huge\nhigh-backed chair on the dais, at the upper end of the hall, and his\neldest son Angus, and his cousin Allan of Lundy, the captain, and\nthe other chieftains of the clan, had taken their seats around him,\nand the greater part of the places at the board had been filled,\nas rank might dictate, down to the very lower end of it, when the\nstranger was announced,--\n\n\"Give him entrance!\" cried the hospitable old chief. \"This is a\nnight when the very demons of the storm seem to have been let loose\nto do their worst. No one would drive his enemy's dog to the door in\nsuch a tempest. Were he a MacKenzie we could not see him refused a\nshelter from so bitter a blast. A MacIntyre, then, may well claim a\nhearty welcome.\"\n\nThe door of the hall was thrown open, and the stranger entered. He\ndoffed his bonnet, and bowed respectfully to the chief, and to\nthose assembled, yet his countenance remained partly shrouded by\nthe upper folds of his plaid, which had been drawn over his head\nas a shelter from the fury of the elements, and it now hung down\nthence so as entirely to conceal his person. There was enough of him\nvisible, however, to show that he was a tall, broad-shouldered, and\nvery athletic man, in the prime of life, with large fair features,\nsmall sharp eyes, overhanging eyebrows, severe expression, and a\nprofusion of yellow hair and beard that very much assisted in veiling\nhis face. The retainers who were nearest to him eagerly scrutinised\nhis plaid, as such persons were naturally enough wont to do; but it\nwas so soiled with the mud-water of the mosses in which it seemed to\nhave been rolled, that knowing as some of them were in the tartans\nof the different clans, they could not possibly make out the set of\nthat which he wore. They saw enough, however, to satisfy them that\nit was green, and as they knew that to be the prevailing hue of the\ntartan of the MacIntyres, they examined no further.\n\n\"Friend, thou art welcome!\" said the chief; \"a MacIntyre is always\nwelcome to a MacDonell. Take your seat among us as your rank may\nwarrant, and spare not the viands or liquor with which the board\nabounds--Slainte!\" and with this hospitable wish of health and welcome,\nhe emptied the wine cup which he held in his hand.\n\n\"Thanks!\" said the stranger, bowing his head with an overstrained\npoliteness; and without more ado he seated himself in a retired\nand rather darksome nook, near the lower end of the board, where he\nimmediately engaged himself deeply, and without any very great nicety\nof selection, with such eatables and drinkables as came within his\nreach, so that he speedily ceased to be any further interruption\nto the conversation which had been begun at the head of the table,\nto which everyone had been most attentively listening when he came in.\n\n\"What sort of hunting had you to-day, Angus?\" said Allan of Lundy.\n\n\"I brought down a royal stag,\" replied Angus, with an air of sullen\ndignity.\n\n\"That was well,\" replied Allan of Lundy; \"it was as much as I did.\"\n\n\"And why should I not do as much as you, cousin?\" demanded Angus\nsomewhat peevishly.\n\n\"When you come to your strength, Angus, you may perhaps do more,\"\nreplied Allan.\n\n\"My body,\" said Angus haughtily, \"aye, and my mind, too, are strong\nenough for everything that a chief of Glengarry may be called upon to\nperform. And now I think on't, father,\" continued he, turning towards\nthe chief, \"I grow tired of this wretched mimicry of war which I\nhave so long waged against the deer of our hills. I would fain hunt\nfor bolder game. It is time for me to be hunting the Cabar Fiadh\n[1] of the MacKenzies! Why should our ancient enmity against them\nhave slept so long? We seem to have forgotten the disgrace of that\nignominious day, never to be washed out but in rivers of MacKenzie\nblood, when fifty galleys of our clan fled from before the Castle of\nEilean Donan, defended as it was by no other garrison than Gillichrist\nMacCraw and his son Duncan alone, when a single arrow from the boy's\nquiver pierced our chief, and dispersed his formidable armament. Let\nus hasten to wipe away so foul a disgrace.\"\n\nThe speech of the young chief of Glengarry had been repeatedly cheered\nduring the time he was speaking; and he finished amidst vociferous\napplause. The stranger in the green plaid halted in his meal to bend\nan anxious attention to everything he uttered.\n\n\"Angus,\" said the old chief, \"you have spoken unadvisedly, boy. These\nare subjects fitter for the private chamber of council than for the\nfestive board. You, moreover, seem to have forgotten that the quiet\nwhich the MacKenzies are forced to keep, is owing to some successful\nenterprises of my own, from the humbling effects of which they have\nnot even yet recovered.\"\n\n\"If that be the case, father,\" cried Angus energetically, \"let us\nkeep them down when we have them down! Let me finish what you so nobly\nbegan. Promise me that you will grant me to lead a raid against these\nstags-heads. Promise me, dear father!\"\n\n\"A raid! a raid led by the young chief!\" cried the vassals, starting\nup from the table as one man with enthusiastic shouts.\n\n\"Aye,\" said Angus, \"and the young chief shall not go unattended. Every\nwarrior of the name of MacDonell, nay, every marching man who can\ntrace one drop of his blood to the clan Conell, shall share in the\nglory to be gathered in the first raid of Angus MacDonell against\nthe MacKenzies!\"\n\n\"All shall go! all shall go!\" cried the clansmen who were present.\n\n\"Aye, all shall go!\" cried the young chief, warming more and more\nwith the applause he was receiving. \"And here, as a good omen of our\nsuccess, here have we this night a MacIntyre among us. You, sir,\"\ncontinued he, addressing himself to the stranger in the green plaid,\n\"you shall bear a message from me to your chieftain. Tell him to whom\nyou owe service, that the tenth day of the new moon shall be the day\nof our gathering. It is long since our war-cry of Craggan-an-Fhithick\nhas rung in a MacKenzie's ear!\"\n\n\"Craggan-an-Fhithick!\" shouted the clansmen.\n\n\"Tell him to whom you owe service, that Craggan-an-Fhithick shall\nonce more rend the air,\" said Angus; \"and that the young chief of\nGlengarry shall lead a raid against the MacKenzies, of the fame of\nwhich senachies and bards shall have to speak for ages to come.\"\n\n\"I shall surely bear your message to him to whom I owe service,\"\nsaid the man in the green plaid, after rising slowly, and making a\ndignified but respectful bow. And then putting on his bonnet, and\ngathering his plaid tightly about him, he paced solemnly and silently\nout of the hall, and departed.\n\n\"Methinks you have been somewhat rash and hasty in this matter,\nAngus,\" said the chief, with a cloud on his brow. \"I have as yet\ngiven no consent. What think you of this affair, Allan of Lundy?\"\n\n\"Much as I am wearying to wreak my vengeance on the MacKenzies,\"\nreplied Allan of Lundy, \"I do think that my young cousin has been\nsomewhat precipitate in this matter. A year or two more over his head\nwould have confirmed his strength, and made him fitter for enduring\nthe fatigue of such an enterprise. He is too young and unripe as yet\nto be gathered by death in the bloody harvest of the battlefield. The\nloss of one of so great promise would be a severe blow to our clan.\"\n\n\"The loss of me, indeed?\" cried Angus, with a lip full of a contempt\nwhich it had never before borne towards Allan of Lundy, and which\nAllan of Lundy could not believe had any reference to him. \"If you\ndid lose me you would only thereby be the nearer to my father's seat.\"\n\n\"Speak not so, Angus!\" said Allan with a depth of feeling to which\nhe was but little accustomed. \"Speak not so, even in jest.\"\n\n\"Come then, MacDonells,\" cried Angus again, \"let our gathering be\nfor the tenth day of the new moon, and let the dastard MacKenzies\nonce more quail before our triumphant war-cry of Craggan-an-Fhithick!\"\n\n\"Craggan-an-Fhithick!\" re-echoed the clansmen, with a shout that\nmight have rent the rafters; and deep pledges instantly went round\nto the success of the expedition.\n\nAt this moment Ronald MacDonald, the chief's younger son, a shrewd\nboy of some eight or ten years of age, entered the hall,--\n\n\"What has become of the stranger in the green plaid?\" cried he eagerly.\n\n\"He is gone,\" answered several voices at once.\n\n\"Then was he a foul and traitorous spy,\" said the boy. \"When my brother\nwas speaking about the raid, I perceived that he was devouring every\nword he was uttering. His grey eye showed no friendly sympathy. I\nresolved to watch him, and the more I did so, the more were my\nsuspicions strengthened. I was struck with the dirty state of his\nplaid. As it was green it might have been MacIntyre. But to make sure\nof this I borrowed old nurse's shears, and whilst he was intent on\nwhat Angus was saying, I contrived to get near to him unperceived;\nand I clipped away this fragment, which nurse has since washed--and\nsee!\" said he, holding it up to the light of a lamp that all might\nhave a view of it. \"See! it has the alternate white and red sprainge\nof a base and double-faced MacKenzie!\"\n\n\"MacKenzie, indeed, by all that is good!\" cried the old chief. \"Out\nafter him, and take him alive or dead!\"\n\n\"Fly!--after him!--out! out!--let us scour the country!--haste,\nhaste!--out, out!\" were the impatient cries that burst from every one\nin the hall, and in an instant there was a rushing, and a running, and\na mounting in haste, and a flying off in all directions. Shouts came\nfrom different quarters without the castle walls; and by and by all\nwas silence, for those who had gone in various ways after the fugitive\nwere already out of hearing; and after a night of fruitless toil, they\nreturned in wet and draggled parties of two and three, each expecting\nto hear those accounts of success from others which they themselves\nhad it not in their power to give, and all were equally disappointed.\n\nIt now suits my narrative best to leave the Castle of Invergarry for\na while, in order to notice what passed some little time afterwards\nin that of Eilean Donan, where Kenneth MacKenzie, Lord Kintail,\nwas seated in his lady's apartment trifling away the hours. A page\nentered in haste.\n\n\"My lord,\" said he, \"Hector Mackenzie of Beauly is here, and would\nfain have an audience.\"\n\n\"Hector of Beauly!\" exclaimed Lord Kintail, \"what, I wonder, can\nhe want? With your leave, my lady, let him be admitted. Hector,\"\ncontinued his lordship as his clansman entered, \"where have you come\nfrom, you look famished and jaded?\"\n\n\"'Tis little wonder if I do, my lord,\" said Hector, \"for the last\nmeal of meat that I ate, and though good enough of its kind, it was\nbut a short one, was in the Castle of Invergarry.\"\n\n\"The Castle of Invergarry!\" cried his lordship in astonishment.\n\n\"Aye, in the Castle of Invergarry, my lord,\" continued Hector; \"and\nif my meal there was short, I have had a long enough walk after it\nto help me to digest what I ate.\"\n\n\"Are you in your right mind, Hector?\" demanded his lordship. \"Quick,\nexplain yourself.\"\n\n\"I cannot say that I altogether intended to honour the Glengarry\nchief's board with my presence,\" said Hector, drawing himself up; \"but\nhaving some trifling occasion of my own to pass through the Glengarry\ncountry, I rolled my plaid in a moss-hole, and took the wildest way\nover the hills; and thinking that I might pass unnoticed amidst the\ndarkness and howling of a most tempestuous night, I ventured so near\nto the castle, that before I knew where I was, a band of MacDonells\nwere suddenly upon me. Seeing that there was nothing else for it but\nto brave the danger, I had presence of mind enough to pass myself\nfor a MacIntyre, was invited into the castle, sat at the same table,\nand feasted with the old raven and his vassals, and heard that young\nhalf-fledged corby Angus MacDonell plan and arrange a raid of the\nwhole clan Conell and its dependent families against the MacKenzie\ncountry. Taking me for a MacIntyre, he told me to bear his message to\nhim to whom I owed service. To give obedience to his will, therefore,\nI have travelled without stop or stay, or meat or drink, save what I\ntook from the running brooks by the way, in order that I may now tell\nyou, my lord, to whom I owe service as my chief, that the MacDonells'\ngathering is to be for the tenth day of the moon, when their fire\nand sword will run remorseless through our land.\"\n\n\"Hector, you are a brave man,\" said Lord Kintail, \"you shall be\nrewarded for this. Meanwhile hasten to procure some refreshment and\nrepose; for assuredly you must sorely need both.\"\n\nI presume that it is scarcely necessary for me to tell you that Lord\nKintail and his lady had a speedy and very anxious consultation\ntogether. She was a woman of very superior talents, of quick\nperception, and equally ready in devising expedients as prompt in\ncarrying them into execution. It was at once agreed between them,\nthat this was too serious and impending a danger to admit of delay in\npreparing to resist it. Feeling, as they did, that the clan had not\nyet altogether gathered its strength since the last sweeping raid which\nold Donald MacAngus, chief of the clan Conell, had committed on their\nterritories, both saw the necessity of losing no time in procuring all\nthe foreign aid they could obtain. It was therefore agreed between them\nas the best precaution that could be taken, that Lord Kintail should\nforthwith set out for Mull to procure auxiliary troops from his friend\nand kinsman MacLean. Preparations were instantly made accordingly in\nperfect secrecy for his departure; and in the course of little more\nthan an hour after the communication of Hector's intelligence, his\nlordship's galley stood out of Loch Duich and through the Kyles of\nSkye, and left the straits with as fair a north-eastern breeze as if\nhe had bought it from some witch for the very purpose of wafting him\nto Mull. But secrets are difficult to keep; for notwithstanding the\nprivacy of all these arrangements, not only Lord Kintail's destination,\nbut the cause and object of his voyage, was known. Had the discovery\nbeen traced, perhaps it might have been found to have originated with\nmy lady's woman, from whom it gradually spread, until it was quickly\nwhispered, with every proper and prudential caution as to silence,\ninto every ear in the Castle of Eilean Donan, whence it spread like\nwildfire over the whole district.\n\nThe MacDonells, too, could have their scouts as well as the\nMacKenzies. When the hubbub occasioned by the hurried and hopeless\nchase after the false MacIntyre had subsided, a patient, painstaking,\nand most sagacious Highlander set off to try what he could make of it;\nand having once found a trace of the track the MacKenzie had taken,\nhe never lost sight of it again, until he had followed him so far\ninto the enemy's territories, that he had to thank a most ingenious\ndisguise which he wore for saving his neck from being brought into\nspeedy acquaintance with the gallows-tree of Eilean Donan. This man\nreturned immediately to Invergarry with the intelligence that the\nprojected raid of the MacDonells was as well known in Kintail as it\nwas in Glengarry, and that Lord Kintail himself had gone to Mull to\nprocure the powerful aid of his cousin MacLean.\n\nYoung Angus of Glengarry was furious when he found that all his\nschemes, so well laid as he thought they had been, for establishing\nhis own glory and that of the clan, had been thus baffled.\n\n\"If that yellow-bearded buck's-head shall ever chance to cross my\npath again,\" said he, \"young as my arm is, he shall have a trial of\nmy sword.\"\n\n\"Thy spirit is good, boy,\" said Allan of Lundy; \"'tis like that of\nyour father and your grandfather before you. But it will be wise\nin you to check its rashness until your sinews are better able to\nback it up. That same Hector MacKenzie whom we saw here among us,\nis moulded for some other sort of work than to give and take gentle\nbuffets with a boy.\"\n\n\"Thank thee, kind kinsman, for thy care of me,\" replied Angus, in\nanything but an agreeable tone.\n\n\"'Tis true what Allan says,\" observed the old chief. \"I rejoice in thy\nspirit, boy; it recalls to me mine own early days. But for the sake\nof the clan Conell, to whom your life is precious, and,\" added he,\nwith a voice that age, or perhaps some strong feeling operating upon\nage, made falter, \"and for the sake of your old father, who doats\nupon you, for the sake of your sainted mother, let me not have to\nmourn over the too early fate of her first-born!\"\n\n\"I shall not be rash, I shall be prudent, father,\" replied Angus,\nconsiderably touched by the old man's appeal. \"But why should we\nnot hasten to strike some blow ere their succours shall have time\nto arrive?\"\n\n\"There is something in that,\" said Allan of Lundy. \"And since my young\ncousin so burns to flesh his maiden sword, there can be no safer\nway of his doing so, or with the certainty of a more easy victory,\nthan by making a sudden attack on the shores of Loch Carron.\"\n\n\"Safety! easy victory!\" muttered the young chief, with an expression\nof offended dignity and ineffable contempt. \"But 'tis well,\" added he,\ntoo much filled with joy at having any enterprise at all in prospect,\nto allow any other feeling to occupy his mind for a moment; \"let us\nnot lose time in talk. If we are to move with the hope of a surprise,\nit were fitting that not one moment be lost. Let all within reach be\nspeedily summoned. By to-morrow's dawn we must march to Loch Hourn,\nwhere our galleys are lying. Said I not well now, father?\"\n\n\"Let it be so then, my son,\" said the chief, with a sigh which he\ncould not check; \"and oh! may all that is good attend and guard you!\"\n\nThe sun rose with unclouded splendour over the mountains to the\neastward of Loch Carron, and poured out a stream of golden radiance\nover the surface of its waters, which were gently lifted into tiny\nwaves by a western breeze. The whole of this Highland scene was glowing\nand smiling. The early smoke was tinged with brighter tints of orange,\nblue, and yellow, as it curled upwards from the humble chimneys of\nthe cottages which were scattered singly or in small groups among\nirregular shreds of cultivation, that brightened the strip of land\nbordering the shore. The whole happy population was astir, and little\nboats were pushing forth from every creek amidst the sparkling waves,\ntheir crews eagerly engaged in preparing their nets and lines for\nfishing. Already had some of the old men taken their seats on their\naccustomed bench, to inhale the fresh breath of life from the pure\nmorning air, and to look listlessly out to sea, that they might idly\nspeculate on the wind and the weather. It was hardly possible that\neye could have looked upon a more peaceful scene.\n\nSuddenly some two or three boats, which had gone down the little\nfrith during the night, for the purpose of reaching a more distant\nfishing ground by the early dawn, were seen returning with all sail,\nand toiling with every oar. Curiosity first, and then alarm, brought\nout the inhabitants from the interior of their lowly abodes. The\nnearer fishing-boats drew their lines and half-spread nets hastily in,\nand there was one general rush, each individual crew making towards\nthat point of the shore which was nearest, without any regard to the\nconsideration whether it was the point most adjacent to their home or\nnot. By this time all eyes were straining seaward, to discover what\nit was that created all this panic, when, one after another, there\ncame sailing round the distant point, galley after galley, till a\nconsiderable fleet of them had appeared, their white sails filled with\nthe favouring breeze, and shining with a borrowed lustre from the rich\nstream of light that poured aslant upon them from the newly-risen sun.\n\nWhat a scene of dismay and confusion now arose! Clamorous\ndiscussions began among the timid spectators,--all action seemed\nto be paralysed. None appeared to think of arming, where the force\nof the armament that was advancing was manifestly so resistlessly\noverwhelming. There were but few who had any doubts as to what clan\nit might probably belong; and these doubts were speedily removed\nas the fleet came on, by the appearance of the displayed red eagle,\nwith the black galley that formed the bearings on the broad banner\nof Glengarry, together with the crest of the raven on the rock,\nwith the appalling motto of Craggan-an-Fhithick.\n\nAnd now a bugle was heard to blow shrilly from the leading vessel,\nand in an instant the several galleys darted off from one centre\ntowards different parts of the loch; and the defenceless inhabitants\nof the hamlets and cottages might be seen abandoning their dwellings\nand flying inland. And no sooner did the prow of each vessel touch\nthe bottom, than the armed men which it contained were seen rushing\nbreast-deep through the tide towards the shore, the broadswords\nin their hands flashing in the morning light. One band was led by\nthe brave young chief of Glengarry, shouting his war-cry, with the\nfaithful and affectionate Allan of Lundy by his side, intent on little\nelse but to protect his precious charge from harm.\n\nThere were but few men of the MacKenzies there to make a stand,\nand those who tried to do so were scattered, overpowered, and\ncut down. Wild were the shrieks that arose, as the miserable and\ncomparatively defenceless people, leaving their wretched houses and\nboats to destruction, and their effects and cattle to be plundered,\nfled away towards the mountains. The impatient Angus no sooner\nreached the dry land, than he rushed impetuously after the flying\nMacKenzies,--and soon indeed did he overtake the rearward; but it\nwas composed of the women, the aged, and the young, and these he\npassed by and left unharmed behind him to press on after those who\nmight be more worthy of his sword. On he hurried for miles after the\nfugitives, calling on them from time to time to halt and yield to\nhim but one fighting man as an opponent. But his appeal was in vain;\nand tired, and disappointed, and chagrined, he stopped to breathe,\nand he gnashed his teeth in a disappointment which even the friendly\ncounsels of Allan of Lundy could not allay.\n\n\"I'll warrant I could soon catch those caitiffs who are disappearing\nso swiftly over the hill-top yonder,\" said he; \"but I care less to-day\nabout taking the life of a MacKenzie or two, than I do about keeping\nthe MacKenzies from taking thine.\"\n\n\"Thank ye, cousin,\" replied Angus, his mortification by no means\nmoderated by this well-meant speech. \"I hope this arm will defend\nthe citadel of my life's blood from all harm without other aid.\"\n\nAs Angus returned slowly towards the shore, he was somewhat shocked\nto discover that some of his followers had been less scrupulous in the\nuse of their swords than he had been; and he met with spectacles which\ninformed him of deeds of atrocity and of blood wantonly perpetrated. He\nbeheld those cottages in flames which were lately smoking in peace;\nand his heart smote him that he was now too late to prevent that\ncarnage in which the grey hairs of the old were blended in one common\nslaughter with the fair locks of the young and helpless.\n\nThere was no glorious triumph or splendid achievement to gild the\nhorrors of this day, or to stifle that disgust which they naturally\nexcited in a young man even of those times. Little pride or pleasure\nhad he in the miserable articles of plunder which he saw his ruthless\nclansmen bearing off with blood-stained hands to their galleys; and\nhe sat him down with Allan of Lundy, in a faint and feverish state\nof disquietude of mind, on one of those patriarchal benches which had\nbeen so lately and so placidly occupied by some of those elders of the\nhamlet whose lips were now cold, and whose hearts had now ceased to\nbeat. I need not tell how long the young chief was compelled to tarry\nthere, in the endurance of thoughts that bid defiance to all repose\nof mind, until he beheld the various bands of skirmishers return\neach to its own vessel, after having spread ravage and devastation,\nand fire and sword and murder, far and wide around that which was\nlately so happy a district.\n\nIt happened that the Lady Kintail had gone on the battlements of\nher Castle of Eilean Donan, in order to enjoy the fresh air and the\nbeautiful scenery of those twin sea-lochs which branch off from one\nanother at the spot near to which that rocky island lies which gives\nname to the building that stands upon it, when, as she cast her eyes\nnorthward, she beheld a scattered crowd of people rushing down towards\nthe point which creates the narrow ferry of Loch Ling. Some boats were\nmoored there, and as she saw them hastily loose and put to sea to cross\nover to the castle, her anxiety to know what news they bore became so\ngreat, that she hurried down to the little cove where the landing-place\nwas, that she might the sooner gain the intelligence they brought.\n\n\"The MacDonells!\" cried these scared and unhappy people. \"The\nMacDonells are upon us, lady! They have burnt and harried all Loch\nCarron! and, och hone! we are ruined men!\"\n\n\"Och aye, my lady! och hone! we're all harried, and murdered, and\nburned!\" cried some half a dozen of them at once.\n\n\"Answer me like rational men,\" said the Lady Kintail impatiently,\n\"and do not rout and roar like a parcel of stray beeves. How is\n't say ye? the MacDonells!\"\n\nAnd then proceeding to question them, she, by degrees, gathered from\nthem that which had at least some resemblance to a true statement of\nwhat had happened.\n\nThe lady was nothing daunted by all she heard. Her first step was\nto despatch certain trustworthy scouts to reconnoitre, and to bring\nher accurate information how matters stood; and then she retired\nto hold counsel with some of those leaders among her clansmen in\nwhom she had most confidence. With their advice and assistance every\nprecaution was immediately taken to secure the safety of the castle,\nas well as to receive into it such a garrison and stock of provisions\nas might enable her to hold it out until her husband's return, against\nwhatever force might be brought to attack it; and her heroic heart beat\nso high with the resolute determination of resistance, that she felt\nsomething like a pang of disappointment when her scouts returned with\nintelligence that taught her to believe she had no reason to expect any\nassault. One of her people, who was no other than Hector of Beauly,\nbrought back the most perfect information regarding the motions of\nthe enemy. They were already glutted with slaughter, cumbered with\nspoil, and, in a great measure, sickened of their enterprise; and,\nfrom the top of a hill, he had seen their galleys weighing to stand\nout of Loch Carron.\n\n\"They are tired of their raid for this time,\" said the lady with\nbitterness. \"It has been undertaken, I'll warrant, but as a first\nfleshing for that young corby of an evil nest,--that Angus MacDonell;\nand his young beak having been once blooded by this mighty exploit\ndone against women, old men, and children, he will be carried home\nto croak his triumph to his dotard old sire, and then he will be\nmewed up in safety till his wings grow long enough to admit of his\nflying in earnest. Would I had a good man or two who would deliver\nhim a message from me, as he passes homewards through the Kyle Rhea\nin his dastard flight to Loch Hourn.\"\n\nNow, as we have no map here, I must remind you that there are three\nsea-lochs on that part of the coast of Scotland, all of which debouche\ninto the western sea. Of these Loch Carron is the most northerly,\nand Loch Hourn the most southerly, and that Loch Duich, which lies\nbetween both, opens through the expansion at its mouth, which is\ncalled Loch Alsh, into the narrow strait between the Isle of Skye\nand the mainland, which is called the Kyle Rhea.\n\n\"Would I had a good man or two who would deliver a message from me to\nthat young chough Angus MacDonell as he passes through the Kyle Rhea,\"\nrepeated the lady.\n\n\"That most willingly will I, most noble lady,\" cried Hector of\nBeauly. \"Have I not carried one message from the young Glengarry to\nmy lord, and shall I not claim the honour of carrying that which the\nLady Kintail has to send to the young Glengarry?\"\n\n\"Thanks, gallant Hector!\" replied the lady. \"Then shalt thou speak\nit from the mouth of a cannon! Trust me thou shalt make him hear on\nthe deafest side of his head.\"\n\nThen calling him aside, she quickly explained to him the scheme she\nhad conceived; and desiring him to select the individuals whom he\nshould most wish to have in his party, and to choose the boat which\nhe considered best fitted for such an expedition, she ordered two\nsmall cannon to be put on board, together with sufficient ammunition\nfor their use; and as no time was to be lost, he and his brave and\nwell-armed companions leaped immediately into the little craft, and\npushed off. They pulled with all their strength, and with the utmost\nexpedition, down through Loch Alsh to that isolated rock called the\nCailleach, which lies close off the eastern angle of the Isle of Skye,\nand near to the northern entrance of the narrow strait of the Kyle\nRhea. There they secretly ensconced themselves to await the return\nof the MacDonells.\n\nThe night fell cold and calm, and the moon arose clear and bright,\nilluminating every part of these narrow seas, and every headland\nand rock that projected into them from either shore. It was in the\nlatter part of the year, and by slow degrees some fleecy clouds\narose from the horizon, and, after spreading themselves like a film\nof gauze over the expanse of heaven, they thickened in parts into\ndenser masses, whence, as they passed overhead, some small, thin,\nand light particles of snow began to fall gently and rarely, such\nas the sky usually sends down as its first wintry offering to the\nearth. This was enough to complete the concealment of the party,\nhid as they were beneath the shadowy side of the rock, without much\nobscuring the surface of the sea elsewhere. There then they lay,\nwith everything prepared, waiting impatiently for their prey.\n\nAt length a distant sound of oars was heard, for there was not a\nbreath of air in these land-locked seas to render a sail available;\nand the breaking of the billows on the shore, though hoarse, was\nneither so loud nor so frequent as to disturb the listeners. All ears,\nand all eyes, too, were on the stretch. The measured sound of the oars\ngrew stronger, keeping time to a low murmuring chant which proceeded\nfrom those who pulled them, more for the purpose of preserving the\nregularity of the stroke than for any music that they might have\nmade. By and by a galley appeared, dimly seen at some distance, and,\nas it drew nearer, it was at once known to be that which contained\nyoung Angus MacDonell from the broad banner that floated over it,\nthough there was not light enough to descry the bearings of Glengarry.\n\n\"Now, my gallant cannoniers,\" said Hector to those who had the\ncharge of the small pieces of artillery, \"be prepared. Remember,\nwhen I give the word, you go first, Ian, and then you are to follow,\nHamish, in about as much time as you might easily count ten without\nhurrying yourself. But fail not to attend to my word. In the meanwhile,\nsee that you level well.\"\n\nOn came the young chief's galley. It approached the rock with a\ncourse which pointed to pass it clear at some fathoms distance to\nthe eastward of it. But whilst it was yet in progress towards it,\nHector, with great expedition and adroitness, pointed his first piece,\nand watched his time; and his fatal\n\n\"Now!\" resounded over the surface of the deep.\n\nEre yet the lint-stock had been applied to the touch-hole, the galley\nwas seen to quiver. Every motion of it indicated the alarm that\nhad already been struck into its crew and helmsman by this ominous\nword. But the boom! of the first gun followed with the quickness of\nlightning; and the accuracy of the shot was told by the crashing of\nthe balls with which it had been crammed upon the timbers of the hull\nand upper works, as well as by the cursing and confusion of the people\non board, the groans and plaints of the wounded, and the swerving of\nthe galley from its course.\n\n\"That has done some small work, I'll warrant,\" said Hector, as he\nstooped to point the second piece. \"Are you ready, Hamish? Now!\"\n\nAnd boom! went the second gun with yet more decided effects. In the\npanic produced by this shot the helm was left to itself, the oars\nwere abandoned, the galley swung round with the tide, and in a few\nseconds it was driven full upon the rock.\n\n\"Angus of Glengarry!\" cried a voice like thunder. \"I, Hector MacKenzie,\nbore thy message to him to whom I owe service, and I have now brought\nthee the answer!\"\n\nSingling out the young chief, and springing upon him like a tiger,\nhe stabbed him to the heart with a left-handed blow of his dirk, ere\nthe unhappy youth had recovered his footing from the shock which the\nlittle vessel received on the rock. The next moment saw his corpse\nfloating on the waves.\n\nBut Hector's broadsword was instantly needed to defend his own\nhead. Desperate was the conflict which Allan of Lundy maintained with\nthis hero of the MacKenzies. There was something awful in the wild\nyells of the combatants, the clashing of their claymores, the groans\nof the dying, and the choking and gasping of the drowning. The very\nsea-birds, which had been roused in clouds by the flash and roar of\nthe two cannon shots, and which had soared about for some moments,\nscreaming in affright at this rude and unwonted intrusion upon their\nsolitary slumbers, now winged themselves in terror away. The crew of\nthe galley were in a few seconds overpowered from the vantage ground\npossessed by the assailants, as well as by the sudden nature of the\nassault itself; and the slaughter was dreadful. The fearless Allan\nof Lundy fought furiously hand to hand with Hector, backed as the\nMacKenzie champion was by those who came to aid him after putting\ntheir own opponents to death. Terrific were the blows he dealt around\nhim, and murderous were the wounds inflicted by the broad blade of\nhis sweeping sword. But the number of those who were thus opposed to\nhim individually went on increasing as his people fell around him,\nuntil all were gone; and he saw that he must be overwhelmed and taken\nif he should any longer attempt to continue his resistance. At once\nhe took his resolution, and bounding boldly into the air, he dived\ninto the bosom of the sea, leaving his astonished enemies filled with\ndoubt and suspense as to his fate.\n\n\"He's food for the fishes like the rest of them,\" said some of the\nMacKenzies.\n\n\"The foul fiend catch him but yonder he goes!\" cried one of them,\nas he saw him rise to the surface at some distance from the rock.\n\n\"To your oars, men of Kintail!\" cried Hector, \"to your oars, I say,\nand let him not escape!\"\n\nMeanwhile, stoutly did Allan of Lundy breast the tide, and so great\nwas the confusion that prevailed among the Kintail men, that ere they\ncould push off the boat, man the oars, and make her start ahead, the\npowerful swimmer had made considerable way against the billows. Soon,\nhowever, would they have diminished the distance he had gained, and\nsoon would he have been the prey of those who thirsted so eagerly\nfor his life, had not the other galleys at that moment appeared;\ntheir prows bearing gallantly onwards with the favouring tide, making\nthe sea foam and hiss again with the sweep of their numerous oars,\nand the rapid rush of their course. In an instant the Kintail boat\naltered the direction of her head, and shot away off in an easterly\ndirection; her rowers bending to their work like men who were anxious\nto escape from a pursuing danger. Allan with the red jacket was easily\nrecognised amid the waves; but ere they could get him into the galley\nthat first came up, the boat of the MacKenzies was already lost\nto their eyes in the gloom that brooded over the more distant part\nof the straits. Hopeless of overtaking her, the MacDonells, after\nbewailing the calamity that had befallen them, and looking for some\ntime in vain for the remains of their young leader, pursued their\nsad and darksome voyage, with the pipes playing a wailing lament,\nuntil they reached Loch Hourn, whence most of them were to prosecute\ntheir melancholy march back to Invergarry Castle.\n\nThe lady of Kintail was no sooner informed of the success of her\nenterprise, than she despatched a quick-sailing boat to the island\nof Mull to bear the news to her lord. This boat was observed to\npass southwards by the MacDonells, as they were lying by for a short\nrepose. The object of its voyage was quickly guessed at, but Allan\nof Lundy judged it unwise to interrupt it.\n\n\"It is toiling to work out our revenge,\" said he to his people. \"It\ngoes to invite the lord of Kintail homewards. See that ye who are to\ntarry here keep a lively watch for him, and so shall his blood pay\nfor that of our lamented young chief. Would that I could have remained\nto have wreaked my vengeance on his head! But I have other duties to\nperform,--I must go to soothe a bereaved father's sorrow. Alas! how\nshall I break the news of this sad affliction to the old man!\"\n\nI need hardly tell you that the old chief of the MacDonells remained\nin a state of extreme mental anxiety after the departure of Angus with\nthe expedition. He felt that not only the honour of the clan, but the\nhonour and the life of his son, were at stake. He was restless and\nunhappy; yea, he cursed himself and his feeble limbs because he had\nnot been able to go, as he was once wont to do, at the head of his\npeople. Twenty times in the course of every hour did he fancy that\nhe heard the triumphant clangour of the pipes played to his son's\nhomeward march, and as often was he disappointed. At last something\nlike their shrill music at a distance did strike upon his ear.\n\n\"Hah!\" cried he with an excited countenance, \"heard ye that?--my boy\ncomes at last. Heard ye not the sound? Though I be old, yet is mine\near sharp when it watches for the coming of my gallant boy! Help\nme to the barbican, that I may behold him! Well do I remember the\ntime when I first came back in triumph! It was on that memorable\noccasion when----Merciful Heaven!\" exclaimed he after a pause,\noccasioned by the unexpected appearance at that moment of Allan of\nLundy, who had come on before the rest, and who now entered the hall\nwith downcast and sorrowful looks, and with his arms folded across\nhis bosom. \"Merciful Heaven! Speak Allan! Tell me why look ye so\nsad? Where is my Angus? Where is my boy?\"\n\n\"Alas! alas!\" said Allan of Lundy, \"I cannot--cannot tell thee that\nit is well with him.\"\n\n\"What!--wounded?\" cried the old chief; \"so was I in my first field. He\nmust look for such fate as fell to the lot of those who have lived\nbefore him.\"\n\n\"Alas! alas!\" cried Allan of Lundy, weeping at the old man's words,\n\"Alas! his fate has indeed come too soon!\"\n\n\"Hush!\" said the old chief, suddenly starting and stretching\nhis ear to listen. \"What strains are these the bagpipes are\nplaying?--a coronach! Ah! then am I a bereft father! Oh! my\nboy!--bereft!--bereft!--bereft!\" and, springing convulsively from his\nchair, he smote his breast violently, his head turned round to one\nside, his neck suddenly stiffened, his eyes rolled fearfully, and then\nprotruding themselves from their sockets, they became horribly fixed\nand glazed, his breath rattled in his throat, and sinking back into his\nchair, he had died before Allan of Lundy could rush forward to his aid.\n\nNow indeed did the coronach raise its wild lament on the pipes, the\nwomen mixing with it their wailings, and the men their groans. It\nwas for their old chief--their ancient strength, Donald MacAngus\nMacDonell, and for the young and promising flower of their hopes,\nAngus, the eldest son and heir of Donald. The days of mourning,\nthough not long, were sad, and the funeral obsequies of the chief\nwere performed with all the solemnity, and pageantry, and ceremonial\nthat were due to them, whilst those of his son were denied to them\nby the unhappy nature of his death.\n\nThe council of the clan had already determined that Allan of Lundy\nshould govern for the young Ronald, who being in boyhood was deemed\nquite unfit for so weighty and important a charge. The experienced\nwarrior assumed the important trust with his usual boldness and\nconfidence, though altogether overpowered by that honest and unfeigned\ngrief which oppressed his heart for the loss of those relatives whom\nhe had so long held dear. But his warlike and revengeful spirit was not\nlong suffered to remain so clouded, for he had hardly been installed in\nthe situation, to which the universal suffrages of the clan had raised\nhim, when a breathless messenger from Loch Hourn entered the hall.\n\n\"What news?\" cried Allan impatiently--\"say, has the young blood of\nour lamented Angus been avenged? Has the red tide from Kintail's\nheart been mingled with the angry currents of the narrow seas?\"\n\n\"Alas, no!\" replied the messenger, \"no such good fortune has attended\nus!\"\n\n\"How then?\" demanded Allan, \"methinks that if your leader had but\nfollowed the simple guidance which I gave him ere we parted, our\ngrief might have been now somewhat assuaged by the thought that we\nhad made that woman a widow who hath caused our woe, and that clan\nmourners who were rejoicing over the grief which they have wrought\nto us. But speak quickly, what hath happened?\"\n\n\"Your counsel was strictly followed,\" replied the messenger. \"Our\nfleet of boats were all ready to be launched, and our men were lying\nprepared to embark at the first signal. Whilst all were on the watch,\na galley appeared in sight, and we began to hurry on board. Suddenly\nwe perceived that she was steering directly for the island where we\nlay, and we all went on shore again in the belief that she was the\nvessel with those friends we looked for from Ardnamurchan.\"\n\n\"Quick, quick! what then?\" cried Allan of Lundy.\n\n\"On she came with her prow direct towards the port,\" replied the\nmessenger, \"and she continued to keep it so till she came within hail\nof the very entrance of it. Then the pipes played up Cabar Fiadh, and,\nere she tacked to bear away again with all her oars out and hoisting\nher canvas to the uttermost, a hoarse voice came thundering from on\nboard,--'The Lord Kintail here sends you his greeting by the hands\nof his captain, the captain of Cairnburgmore;' and in the same moment\nthey poured out so murderous a storm of bullets from their falconets\nupon us who were then actively launching our boats to be after her,\nthat many of our men were killed and wounded. The confusion among\nus was great, and she escaped to so great a distance before we were\nready to pursue, that all pursuit became vain.\"\n\n\"Curses be on her and on her crew!\" cried Allan of Lundy, gnashing his\nteeth in bitterness; \"it seems as if some fiend helped them! Curses be\non Cairnburgmore! and curses be on the freight his galley carried! But\nI will be revenged on these MacKenzies! Here I swear,\" continued he,\ndrawing his sword and striking it against the banner of the MacDonell\nthat was then floating at the upper end of the hall. \"Here do I\nsolemnly swear to make so terrible a reprisal on the MacKenzies,\nthat men's flesh shall creep upon their bones as they listen to the\ntale of it; and yet shall it be but as an earnest of what I shall\ninflict on that accursed clan for the grief and sorrow they have so\nlately wrought us!\"\n\nThese then, gentlemen, were the circumstances that preceded and gave\nbirth to the celebrated Raid of Killychrist, and after so long a\npreliminary history, I shall now hasten to give you the particulars\nof that horrible piece of atrocity.\n\nIt was Saturday, and the most active preparations were instantly\nordered by Allan of Lundy to be made for a night-march. He had heard\nthat there was to be a numerous gathering of the MacKenzies next day\nin the church of Killychrist, or Christ's Church, a short mile or\ntwo above the little town and priory of Beauly. Putting himself at\nthe head of a determined band of followers therefore, he took his way\nacross the mountains with inconceivable expedition, so that he found\nhimself, early on the Sunday morning, in the heart of the MacKenzie\ncountry, and crossing the river Beauly, he was soon at the church of\nKillychrist, and he surrounded it with his MacDonells before any of\nhis miserable victims were in the least aware of his presence.\n\nThe church was filled with all ranks of the clan, but there was a\ngreat proportion of the higher class among them. Psalms were singing,\nand all within the sacred building were absorbed in that attention\nor abstraction which attends real or pretended devotion.\n\nSuddenly the doors were taken possession of by the armed MacDonells,\nwith the grim and unrelenting Allan of Lundy at their head. In an\ninstant the nasal chant of the psalmody was drowned by the screams\nof the timid, who already saw nothing but death before them, and\nby the exclamations of those who sought to make resistance, and to\nfight their way through their foes. But utterly impervious were the\nserried spear points that bristled through the low-arched doorways,\nas well as through every narrow lancet window of the holy fane; and\nstern and resolute, and utterly devoid of feeling, were the war-scarred\ncountenances of those whose ferocious eyes glared in upon them.\n\nAll was now panic and confusion among the MacKenzies, who filled the\narea of the church, where individuals crowded and jostled so against\neach other, that few could draw a dirk, much less a claymore from\nits sheath. Meanwhile shouts were heard without, and immediately\nafterwards those of the MacDonells who kept the doors and windows\ngave way for one single instant; but it was only to admit of the\napproach of a number of their comrades, who speedily threw in heaps\nof blazing faggots together with stifling balls of rosin and sulphur,\nand other combustibles. In an instant the ancient carved screens and\nother woodwork of the interior were ignited, and the very clothes\nof the unfortunate people caught fire; and still heaps upon heaps\nof inflammable materials were hurled incessantly inwards, until all\nwithin was in one universal blaze.\n\n\"They have light enow within I trow,--they lack not light from\nwithout,\" cried the remorseless Allan of Lundy; \"shut and fasten the\ndoors and windows, and block them up with sods.\"\n\nHis orders were speedily obeyed, and those within were now left to\ntheir agonising fate; but well I ween that the fancy of no one can\nimagine what were the horrors conveyed in those sounds that came half\nstifled from within the walls of that church. Even to Allan of Lundy\nthey became utterly intolerable.\n\n\"Alister Dhu!\" cried he to the piper, \"play up, man!--up with your\nhoarse melody, and drown these sounds of torture and death that fill\nour ears, as if we had been suddenly transported to the regions of\nhell. Play up, I tell you!\"\n\nThe piper instantly obeyed his command, and blew up loud and\nshrill; and, after having made his instrument give utterance to a\nlong succession of wild and unconnected notes, altogether without\nany apparent meaning, he began his march around the walls of the\nchurch, playing extemporaneously that pibroch which, under the name of\nKillychrist, has ever since been used as the Pibroch of Glengarry. For\na brief space of time, the horrible sounds which came from within the\nbuilding continued to mingle themselves with the clangour of the pipes;\nbut by degrees these became fainter and fainter, and the piper had\nnot made many circles around the church till the shrieks, the groans,\nand the wailings had ceased; their spirits had been released from\ntheir tortured bodies, and all was silent within its walls.\n\nAllan of Lundy had no desire to unbar this scene of horror, that he\nmight look upon his work ere he went. The preservation of his people,\nmoreover, required that he should retreat as expeditiously as he\npossibly could. He was well aware that the whole MacKenzie country\nmust very speedily be alarmed; that all of the clan who were within\nreach would be immediately in arms, and that the body of MacDonells\nwhich he had with him would be as a mere handful compared to that\nof his foes, if he should allow them time to assemble. He moved off\ntherefore with the utmost expedition; but, with all the haste he could\nuse, he could not shake off the MacKenzies, who collected in irregular\nnumbers and followed him, harassing his rear and his flanks, whilst,\nlike a lion retreating before the hunters, he marched on boldly,\nendeavouring to beat away the assailing crowds by halting from time\nto time as he went, and charging back upon them with resistless fury,\nmaking many a brave MacKenzie bite the dust. But still they continued\nto increase in force by fresh accessions.\n\nAt length he had recourse to a manoeuvre which he hoped might have\ndistracted the attention of his foes. He hastily divided his little\nband into two parties, and having given secret orders to a trusty\nleader to start off at the head of one band in the direction of\nthe Bridge of Inverness, and so to pursue his way homewards by the\nsouth side of Loch Ness, he commanded the other to follow himself,\nintending to hold directly onwards over the hills by the route which\nthey had come during the preceding night. This plan so far succeeded,\nthat the MacKenzies were for some time much baffled and perplexed. But\nafter some considerable delay, they recovered themselves so far as\nto divide their men also in the same manner; and one large body,\nunder the command of Murdoch MacKenzie of Redcastle, followed hard\nafter the first party of the MacDonells, whilst MacKenzie of Coull\npressed onwards on the retreating steps of the captain of Glengarry.\n\nAvailing himself of the temporary check which his pursuers had thus\nmet with, Allan of Lundy and his party made extraordinary exertions,\nby which they gained so much ground on their pursuers, that they fairly\nleft the MacKenzies out of sight. They were thus enabled to rest for\na little while, like a tired herd of chased deer, in the hills near\nthe burn of Altsay. But their repose was short. The pack of their\nenemies, who were following on their track, soon opened in yells\nlike those of hounds when they came in view of them, and they were\ncompelled to stand to their arms. A very sanguinary skirmish was the\nconsequence, fought with great success on the part of the MacDonells,\nwho slew numbers of their enemies; but this availed them little, for\nstill the MacKenzies came crowding and gathering on in fresh numbers,\nwhilst the ranks of Glengarry were every moment growing thinner and\nthinner. Retreat, therefore, became again expedient.\n\nAllan of Lundy made one desperate charge that scattered his foes\nover the hill-side, and then his bugle unwillingly gave the word\nof command for his brave MacDonells to retire. They did so with the\nutmost expedition, and at the same time with all the steadiness and\ncoolness which became them. But as they moved on, many among their\nnumber were, from time to time, prostrated and sprinkled, man by man,\non the earth, by the distant shots fired at them by their pursuers;\nand many a gallant clansman fell whilst endeavouring to cover from\nharm the scarlet-clad body of his leader, that conspicuously attracted\nthe aim of his enemies. At length the number of the MacDonells became\nso much reduced, and the pursuit waxed so hot, that even a show of\nresistance was rendered utterly vain.\n\n\"Men of Glengarry!\" cried Allan of Lundy, \"nothing now remains for us\nbut flight. But ere we fly, let us make one more furious onset against\nthese cowardly Bodachs. Let us first scatter them to the four winds\nof heaven, and then, when I give you a bugle blast, see that ye in\nyour turn flee off suddenly apart, and so let each try to find his own\nway home. I shall shift well enough for myself. Now charge on them.\"\n\nUnprepared for this instantaneous assault, the effect of it was\ntremendous. Many of the MacKenzies were slain, and the whole of the\nremainder were dispersed like a flock of sheep. The MacDonells had\nhitherto kept together like a ball; but no sooner did they hear the\nshrill blast of Allan of Lundy's bugle, than they burst asunder, and\neach individual bounded off in that direction which seemed to offer him\nthe best chance of baffling his pursuers. As hounds are astonished and\ndivided by the sudden appearance of a trip of hares starting all at\nonce from some well-preserved patch of furze, so were the MacKenzies\nconfused by this new expedient of their enemies. For some time they\nstood confounded, until at last they gathered into little irregular\nbands, each of which followed that fugitive to whom the eyes of those\nthat composed it were accidentally directed. But the splendid scarlet\njacket of Allan of Lundy, which was as well known to the MacKenzies as\nto the MacDonells, and which upon this occasion particularly struck\nthem as participating in the hue of that element which had recently\ndone so cruel work upon the miserable wretches at Killychrist, drew on\nhim the fixed attention of by far the greatest body. This was exactly\nwhat he wished for, as he saw that in this way even his flight would\nbe the means of contributing to the safety of his men.\n\n\"After the firebrand!\" cried a powerful and athletic champion of\nthe MacKenzies. \"It is Allan with the red jacket himself. After\nhim! See where he flies along the slope! But I'm thinking that there\nis something yonder afore him that will bring him to a check!--after\nhim! after him!\"\n\nLike greyhound freed from the slips, did this leader of the MacKenzies,\nand a great mass of those who followed him, burst away after Allan of\nLundy, who seemed to devour the very ground by the rapidity of his\nflight, and the crowd of those that were after him very soon showed\na long tail like that of a comet.\n\nThe MacKenzie champion who had cheered them on to the pursuit,\nsoon shot far-a-head of the great body of his party, some five or\nsix of whom only could keep at all near him. He was well aware that\nthe MacDonell had taken a course which must lead him to a fearful\nravine,--a yawning chasm, something not much less than twenty feet in\nwidth, that seemed to sink black and fearful into that eternal night\nwhich may be supposed to exist in the bowels of the earth. The very\nstream that was heard to rush through it was there invisible. It was\nthis that the MacKenzie leader had counted on as certain to prove\na check to the flying Allan of Lundy. But little did he know that\nthe bold hero of the MacDonells, trusting in his wonderful powers,\nhad taken this very course with the hope of being thereby enabled to\nrid himself entirely of his pursuers. As Allan flew with a velocity\nthat seemed to vie with that of the heathcock as he skims over\nthe heather tops on a hill-side, he looked now and then over his\nshoulder to ascertain the state of the pursuit; and perceiving as he\ncame within a few yards of the ravine, that the MacKenzie leader was\nconsiderably in advance of the handful of stragglers who toiled after\nhim, he halted, and planted himself firmly in a position to await\nhis assault. Nor was this halt of his altogether unseasonable; for\nhis breathing came somewhat hurriedly for a few moments; but before\nhis enemy came near to him, his lungs were again playing easily; and\nif his erect bosom heaved at all, it did so more with indignation and\ncontemptuous defiance, than from over-exertion. The MacKenzie champion\ncame to a stop within ten paces of him whom he had been pursuing.\n\n\"Now!\" cried he, whilst his words came thick and half-smothered by\nthe exhaustion under which he laboured. \"Now! now, Allan of the red\njacket!--Now I have got ye!--The last time we met, you escaped from\nthis good claymore by diving like a duck. Do so now, if you can. Dive\nnow, if you dare, or stand like a man, and face Hector MacKenzie of\nBeauly,--Hector MacKenzie who slew\"----\n\n\"Villain!\" cried Allan of Lundy, \"you need say no more. I thank thee\nfor thus recalling to me thine accursed visage and name. The very\nsight of thee gives a new edge to this reeking blade of mine.\"\n\nAllan of Lundy rushed furiously at his foe, who advanced a step or two\nto meet him. A terrible single combat ensued. But active and adroit\nas the MacDonell leader had ever proved himself to be as a swordsman,\nhe found in Hector MacKenzie of Beauly a cool, an experienced, and\na powerful opponent. Conscious that his adversary had at that moment\nthe advantage of him as to wind, and being aware that some five or six\nstark fellows of his own clan were fast nearing the scene of action,\nhe saw that his game lay in protracting the fight, till numbers on his\nside might make his enemy an easy prey. He contented himself therefore\nwith guarding and parrying the furious and not always well-directed\ncuts and thrusts of Allan of Lundy, until his aid should arrive to\nrender his victory sure. They did come up at last, panting like overrun\nblood-hounds; and the brave MacDonell had just presence of mind enough\nto see that if he meant to save his life from that certain destruction\nthat awaited it, from the fearful odds by which he was so speedily to\nbe surrounded, he had no time to lose. With one desperate cut, which,\nthough guarded, made his adversary reel beneath the very weight of it,\nhe turned suddenly from him, and ran three or four steps towards the\nravine--halted--threw back on his enemies a withering look of rage and\nscorn, and then darting towards the yawning gulf, he sprang over its\nfearful separation with the bound of a stag, and uttering a taunting\nlaugh, he quietly leant upon his sword on the opposite bank to await\nthe issue. The followers of Hector MacKenzie shuddered involuntarily as\nhe sprang, but impelled by the rage of disappointment, Hector himself\nflew towards the chasm. He checked for a moment on the very brink,\nwith his plumed bonnet thrown back, and his arms and sword high in\nair; and then casting one wild and searching look into the abyss\nthat yawned beneath his feet, he retreated a few steps, and nerving\nhimself with all his resolution, he flew at the desperate leap.\n\n\"He is over!\" shouted one MacKenzie.\n\n\"God be here, he is down!\" cried another.\n\nNeither of them were accurately right. He had failed in clearing the\nchasm by a single inch. His toes scratched away the loose earth and\nmoss, and down indeed went his feet. His naked claymore dropped from\nhis hand; but he caught at a young birchen sapling that grew from the\nvery verge of the rock. It bent like a rope with his weight, and he\nhung over the black void into which his trusty weapon had disappeared,\nand down which it was still heard faintly clanging as it was dashed\nfrom side to side in its descent. Allan of Lundy looked remorselessly\ndownwards upon the wretched man whose eyes glared fearfully amidst his\nconvulsed features, as with extended jaws he uttered some incoherent\nand guttural sounds, which even the horrors of his perilous situation\nand impending fate could not compel his indomitable spirit to mould\ninto anything like a petition for mercy from a MacDonell.\n\n\"Hector of Beauly!\" cried Allan of Lundy, \"would that thou hadst but\nreached this solid ground claymore in hand! Then, indeed, might my\nrevenge have been sweeter and more to my mind. But thy weird will\nhave it so, and vengeance may not longer tarry. You it was who reft\nfrom us young Angus, the hope of our clan; and this day hast thou\ntaken many of my brave fellows from me, and many trophies too hast\nthou taken. So thou mayest e'en take that too!\"\n\nWith one sweep of his claymore he cut the sapling in twain; and the\nagonised visage of his powerful foe dropped away and disappeared from\nhis eyes. No shriek was heard; but Allan of Lundy started involuntarily\nbackwards as a heavy muffled sound came upwards from the descending\nbody, as it grazed against the successive projections of the chasm;\nand when the prolonged plunge that arose from an immeasurable depth\nbelow, told him of the utter annihilation of what had so lately been\na man as full of life, of action, and of courage, as he still felt\nhimself to be possessed of.\n\nAllan of Lundy stood for some moments as if transfixed to the\nspot. Wheresoever he gazed around him, the glaring eyeballs\nand the convulsed features of Hector of Beauly still haunted his\nimagination. But at length a shot from an arquebuse, that passed very\nnear to him, and cut down a tall plant of bracken [2] immediately\nbehind him, brought him back to his recollection. He then saw that\na great mass of the pursuing MacKenzies had already joined those two\nor three men who had so closely followed Hector of Beauly, and these\nwere now gathered on the opposite side of the ravine, raging with\nfury for the loss of their champion. He felt that it was no time or\nplace for him to halt to be a butt for them to shoot at. He sprang\nagain like a deer to the hill. But as he climbed its steep face,\nmany were the bullets that were sent whizzing after him. By one of\nthese random shots he was wounded in the leg, not very severely, but\nso as to produce a considerable effusion of blood. The MacKenzies\nsaw that he was hit, and like huntsmen marking the effect of their\ndischarge against a deer, they stood for some moments to observe him\nas he made his way up the hill-side.\n\n\"He flags!\" cried one.\n\n\"He faints!\" cried another.\n\n\"He is mortally wounded!\" cried a third.\n\n\"He moves on!\" cried a fourth.\n\n\"Away! away!\" cried another. \"Away to the ford above the waterfall. He\ncannot last long. We shall soon come up with him.\"\n\nBut the game was of a very superior description to what those who\nhunted him supposed; and they soon found that he was not quite so\neasily secured as they had calculated. Before they had made their\ncircuit in order to cross the stream that poured itself headlong\ninto the ravine which had been so fatal to their champion Hector of\nBeauly, the red jacket of Allan of Lundy had disappeared over the\nhill-top. But he had left his blood upon his track. A consultation\nwas held as to what was best to be done.\n\n\"Let us have Rory Bane's trusty sleuth-hound,\" said one of\nthem. \"See! yonder is his cottage on the other side of the moss.\"\n\nThe advice was approved of, and with one consent they hastened to\nprocure the dog. The animal was no sooner put upon the trail of\nthe fugitive, than he was like to pull down the man who held his\nleash. But the steady Highlander kept his hold of him, for he was\nwell aware that if once let slip the keenness of the animal would\nlead him on hot foot till he overtook the MacDonell, in which case\nthe creature's death would be sealed long ere they could come up\nto lend him their aid. In order to benefit by his sagacity, they\nrequired to keep with him, and they found it hard enough work to do\nso. With his leash stretched till its collar almost choked him, he\nwent bounding and yelling after the chase, whitening the very heath\nas he passed along with the foam of his mouth, and keeping not only\nthe man who held him, but all those who were with him, going at a\ndesperate pace. But still the temporary breathing which the Glengarry\nleader had enjoyed at the ravine, and the long start which he had\ngained whilst his pursuers were making their circuit to avoid it,\nand going out of their way to procure the dog, together with the time\nwhich the hound took in picking up the scent in parts where Allan of\nLundy had forded the mountain streams, enabled that hero, who was so\nswift and enduring of foot, to reach the great valley of Loch Ness,\neven before the deep baying of the hound had first struck upon his ear.\n\nThen it was that a shout rang from the echoing face of the mountain\nthat overhung the lake, for his red jacket had been descried by his\npursuers, and they redoubled their speed. But Allan of Lundy was\nnow incapable of increasing his. The blood that had continued to\ndrop from his wound as he ran had now left behind it that incipient\nfaintness, which the MacKenzies vainly thought had fallen on him at the\ntime when they saw that the shot had told on him. But many miles of\nrough ground had he since fled over with little diminution of speed;\nand now the blue waters of Loch Ness stretched as it were from his\nfeet far up between its retreating mountains. And only now it was\nthat he felt a growing weakness, that told him that the chase could\nnot endure a much longer time. Yet still he urged his flying steps,\nand still the baying of the hound, and the shouts of his pursuers,\ncame nearer and nearer to his rear; and now and then a bullet would\nwhistle among the foliage of the bushes that grew to right or left of\nhim, or would tear up the turf in his very pathway, as circumstances\ngave those who followed him a chance view of him, whilst the echoes\nreverberated the sound of the discharge which had sent it.\n\nAlready had he fled for some miles along the rocky and wooded faces\nof those mountains which arise from the northern side of Loch Ness,\nstopping from time to time for a few seconds on some knoll-top, to\ninhale the western zephyrs that blew on him with refreshing coolness\nfrom the wilds of Invergarry. But his exertions were so great and so\nlong protracted, that even these his native breezes ceased to afford\nsufficient renovation to his wearied lungs and beating temples. He\nfelt himself growing fainter and fainter, and this, too, when his\npursuers, many of whom had but recently joined in the chase, were\nevery minute gaining upon him more and more. Yet still he laboured\non until even the very mountains seemed to conspire with his enemies\nagainst him. His path became reduced to a narrow and confined track,\nby the crags which towered above him on one hand, and the precipices\nthat stooped sheer down into the loch on the other. All chance of\nescape seemed now to have departed from him. In his despair he flung a\nhasty glance over the waves that danced below him, and, as he did so,\nhe descried a little boat about half-way across the sheet of water,\nwith two or three individuals in it employed in fishing. The shouts\nof the MacKenzies now pressed closer and closer upon him. Like a\nstricken stag, he took his desperate resolve, and scrambling down to\na pointed cliff that jutted out into vacancy over a deep and still\npart of the lake, he stood for a short time to breathe on its giddy\nbrink. The yells of his enemies rent the air as they rushed wildly\nonwards to secure their prey, whilst the hound gave forth his deep\nbass to complete their terrific music. They were almost upon him. He\ncast his eyes once more downwards, then clasped his arms tightly over\nhis breast, drew in one full draught of breath; and as the MacKenzies\nwere clambering hurriedly along the dangerous path with their eyes\nfixed eagerly and intently upon his figure, they were astonished\nand confounded to perceive Allan of Lundy's well-known scarlet\njacket shooting like a falling star through some fifty or sixty feet\nof air into the profound below! So perfectly had he preserved his\nperpendicular position during his descent, that he entered the water\nlike an iron rod, so as scarcely to produce a ripple; and the simple\naction of stretching out his arms having instantly brought him like a\ncork to the surface, he was seen breasting his way towards the distant\nboat, with a vigour only to be accounted for from the circumstance,\nthat the action he now used had brought a fresh set of muscles into\nplay. Several random shots were fired at him by the MacKenzies but\nunsuccessfully; and he was soon beyond the reach of their bullets.\n\nGrouped upon the point whence he had thus so miraculously sprung stood\nhis panting and toilworn pursuers, wondering at this extraordinary\neffort of his desperation; whilst the disappointed sleuth-hound\ncontinued to rouse the echoes with his prolonged howlings. And\nnow they eagerly watched the fate of him whom they not unnaturally\nbelieved to have escaped from their weapons only to be drowned in\nthe unfathomable depths of the loch. For the little boat was still\nfar from him, much farther than any strong swimmer could well hope\nto reach; and although he swam stoutly enough at first, they began\nto perceive that he was striking out more and more heavily, as if\ndeath was fast shackling his powerful sinews.\n\nBut now again, to their grievous disappointment, they saw that those\nin the boat had perceived him, and were pulling lustily towards him.\n\nIt happened that the owner of the boat was no other than Fraser\nof Foyers, who had come out from his own place near the celebrated\nwaterfall of that name, on the south side of the lake, to waste a few\nidle hours in fishing. He was the staunch ally of the MacDonell; and\nalthough he was at a considerable distance from the spot at the time,\nthe meteor descent of the red jacket had struck his eyes so forcibly,\nthat he immediately suspected that something had befallen Allan of\nLundy, whose garment he guessed it to be. Having ordered his men to\nrow in the proper direction, he soon began to recognise the red speck\nforcing its way through the water, and leaving a long line of wake\nbehind it, while the hostile tartans that waved from the verge of\nthe cliff, and the echoes that were awakened by the baying of the\nhound and the shouts of the men, told him enough of the story to\ninduce him and his rowers to strain every nerve to save the gallant\ncaptain of Glengarry. And great as were their exertions, they were no\nmore than were necessary for effecting their object; for they reached\nhim as he was on the eve of sinking from very exhaustion. Fraser of\nFoyers had no sooner saved his friend, than he stood up in his boat\nand gave three hearty cheers, and then hoisting his tiny white sail,\nhe availed himself of a favourable breeze, and bore away for the upper\nend of the lake, whilst the MacKenzies followed it with their eyes,\nand continued to pour out maledictions upon it, till it was lost in\nthe yellow haze of the sunset in the western distance.\n\nThe captain of the MacDonells returned to Invergarry Castle, to\nbrood over the dire, though dear-bought revenge he had reaped in this\nterrible raid. His heart was especially filled with savage joy whilst\nruminating on the dreadful death which he had bestowed on him who had\nkilled his cousin Angus MacDonell. But these triumphant thoughts soon\ngave way before that ideal phantom of Hector of Beauly, which never\nceased to haunt his fevered imagination, and which exhibited the last\ndespairing, yet resolute look of that bold man, ere Allan of Lundy had\ncut the only remaining hold he had of earth, and sent him, as it were,\ninto the very bowels of the infernal regions. Nor did the cries which\narose from the burning church of Killychrist ever leave his ears.\n\nBut few of the MacDonells who partook of this expedition survived with\ntheir leader. Even those who went round by the Bridge of Inverness did\nnot escape; and it was somewhat remarkable that they died by a fate\nworthy of those who had been engaged in so cruel an expedition. Having\nbeen overcome with fatigue, they stopped to refresh themselves in a\nhouse of public entertainment near Torbreck, where they supposed that\nthey were beyond all risk of further attack. But they were woefully\nmistaken; for MacKenzie of Redcastle having followed them thither\nwith his party, suddenly surrounded them, and burned every one of\nthem to death.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nFEUDAL HEROES.\n\n\nDominie.--That same Allan with the Red Jacket was surely a terrible\nchield. I'm thinking that his moral and religious yeddication must\nhave been vurra much neglected.\n\nClifford (gravely).--I should strongly suspect so.\n\nDominie.--Something might surely have been made of him by subjeckin\nhim to proper early nuture and restraint.\n\nClifford.--Aye, there is no saying what might have been made of him\nif you had had the flogging of him, Mr. Macpherson.\n\nDominie.--Preserve me, sir! no salary upon yearth could have tempted\nme to undertake the flagellation of such a birky.\n\nClifford.--Why, to be sure he might have rebelled a little under\nthe lash; and if he had once run away from you, you would have been\nsomewhat troubled to have caught him again. He would have been a\ngrand fellow for a steeple-chase. He would have beaten the world on\nfoot across a country.\n\nDominie.--These MacKenzies and MacDonells were fearful chaps. I have\nmany a story about them.\n\nGrant.--I have a few myself; and a legend which a friend gave me of\na MacDonell of Glengarry and a Lord Kintail has this moment occurred\nto me, suggested by its similarity in certain circumstances to part\nof that to which we have been listening.\n\nAuthor.--Will you favour us with it?\n\nClifford.--If he does, it must be by my especial licence. Our friend,\nMr. Macpherson, is first in my book. But as I see he has lighted a\nfresh cigar, and as Grant has smoked his to the stump, he may e'en\nend it by throwing it into the fire, and commence his tale without\nfurther loss of time.\n\nGrant.--I bow to your supreme will.\n\nClifford.--Pray make it short, if you please, for I begin to be rather\nsleepy, and I should be sorry to affront you by yawning. Besides,\nI mean to be up betimes to-morrow to try for a salmon.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nGLENGARRY'S REVENGE.\n\n\nMy legend has to do with that very Castle of Eilean Donan with\nwhich yours has already made us so well acquainted. The time of\nthe action was about the early part of the seventeenth century, and\nthe great actor in it was a very celebrated MacDonell of Glengarry,\nwhose name I have forgotten, but who is said to have been remarkable\nfor his gigantic figure and Herculean strength. The Lord Kintail of\nthat period was a great favourite with the Court, so that he thereby\nrose to great power and influence, which he very naturally employed,\naccording to the laudable custom of those days, in humbling his\nenemies. Amongst these, none bore him a larger share of animosity\nthan his hereditary foes, the MacDonells of Glengarry. It was not\nin their nature tamely to submit to the dominion which Kintail was\npermitted to exercise, with comparative impunity, over some of the\nother clans. On the contrary, they were frequently disposed not only\nto resist themselves, but they also very often found means to stir\nup others to resistance, and in this way they sometimes furnished\nKintail with specious grounds for accusing them, when all apology\nfor doing so might have been otherwise wanting.\n\nIt happened that the chief of Glengarry was on one occasion engaged\nfor some days in a hunting expedition in that range of his own country\nwhich surrounds the sea lake of Loch Hourn, already so often mentioned\nin the last legend. The sun was setting on a mild and beautiful\nevening, and the breeze was blowing softly from the sea, when, as\nGlengarry was returning from the chase, attended by a small party of\nhis followers, he espied a couple of galleys standing in towards the\nvery part of the shore where stood the little group of black bothies,\nthat at such times formed his temporary place of encampment. Doubtful\nwhether the approaching vessels might contain friends or foes, he\ndeemed it prudent to put himself and his people into ambush behind\nsome broken ground, where they might lie concealed until they could\npatiently observe the progress and the motions of those who came,\nand so judge as to the result.\n\n\"Knowest thou the rig of those craft, Alaister More?\" demanded\nGlengarry of his henchman, as they peered together over the black\nedge of a moss bank, and scanned the approaching sails with earnest\neyes. \"Whence may they come, thinkest thou?\"\n\n\"I would not say but they may be Kintail's men,\" replied Alaister.\n\n\"Kintail's men!\" exclaimed Glengarry, \"what would bring Kintail's\nmen here at this time?\"\n\n\"I'm not saying that I am just exactly right,\" replied Alaister,\n\"but I'm thinking it looks like them.\"\n\n\"Curses on them!\" said Glengarry bitterly, \"they are bold to venture\nhither while I am here.\"\n\n\"They are so, I'm thinking,\" said Alaister; \"but it may be that they\nhave no guess that Glengarry is here. But, troth, that Kintail holds\nhis head so high now-a-days, that I'm judging his men think themselves\nfree to thrust in their noses just where they like. He's king of the\nnorth-west, as a man might say.\"\n\n\"Accursed be his dastard dominion!\" said Glengarry, with bitterness of\nexpression; \"and shame upon the slavish fools that yield their necks as\nfootstools to his pride. Is't not galling to see it? Is't not galling\nto see men of wisdom and bravery, such a man as my staunch friend and\nally, MacLeod, for instance, yielding so ready an obedience to one whom\nall should unite to oppose, overthrow, and crush as a common enemy.\"\n\n\"That's very true that you're saying, Glengarry!\" observed Alaister;\n\"but I'm thinking that they are not all just blessed with your\nspirit. If they had been so, I'm judging that the MacCraws could not\nhave been left as they were without help but what they got from you.\"\n\n\"By all that is good, it was our help alone that saved them,\" cried\nGlengarry in an animated tone. \"Half of them would have been hanged\non the gallows-tree but for our interference. The MacKenzies had no\nreason to pride themselves on the event of that day, nor had we any\ncause to boast of the zeal of those whom we have been wont to reckon\namong our allies.\"\n\n\"Troth, you're not wrong there, Glengarry,\" said Alaister. \"So I'm\njudging that we must even go on to trust to our own MacDonell swords\nin all time coming; and we have reason to be thankful that their\nblades are not just made of cabbage stalks.\"\n\n\"Thank God, indeed, that they are made of better metal!\" said\nGlengarry, smiling proudly. \"And small as this our party is, would,\nwith all my heart, that these were Kintail's men, with Kintail himself\nat the head of them!\"\n\n\"I should not be that sorry to see Kintail,\" said Alaister.\n\n\"We should give him a hotter welcome than this cold coast might lead\nhim to look for,\" said Glengarry.\n\n\"We'll not be slow in giving him that same, I'm thinking,\" said\nAlaister.\n\n\"Stay! dost thou not make out a banner yonder?\" demanded Glengarry.\n\n\"I'm thinking I do see something like a banner,\" replied Alaister.\n\n\"With this failing light we cannot hope even to guess at the bearing\nwith which it may be charged,\" said Glengarry, straining his eyes,\n\"but if that be a banner, as I believe it to be, then is there\ncertainly a chief there. Look to your arms, MacDonells, and let us\nbe prepared for what may happen!\"\n\nBy degrees the galleys drew nearer and nearer; but as the night\nwas falling fast, their forms grew less and less distinct as their\nbulk swelled in the eyes of the MacDonells, till at last they came\nlooming towards the shore like two dark opaque undefinable masses,\nwhich were suddenly reduced, by the displacement of their sails,\nto about one-fourth part of the size they had grown to. For a time\nthey were rocked to and fro until their keels became fixed in the\nsand by the receding tide. The dusky figures they contained were\nthen seen pouring out from them, and passing like shadowy spectres\nacross a gleam of light that was reflected on the wet sand from the\nupper part of the sky; and they showed so formidably in numbers, as\nto render some short council of war necessary before assaulting them\nwith an inferior force, not from any fear of defeat on the part of\nhim who took this precaution, but dictated by his prudence to prevent\nall risk of the escape of those whom they were about to attack.\n\nWhilst Glengarry was thus concerting his measures, the strangers\nwere seen moving a body towards the cluster huts, which stood at\nsomething less than an hundred yards from the water side, and speedily\ndisappeared within their walls, and lights soon afterwards began to\nstart up within them, as if they were preparing to make themselves\ncomfortable for the night. Glengarry observed this, and in order that\nhe might lull all apprehension of attack, he resolved to give them\nfull time to employ themselves in cookery, or in whatever occupation\nthey might find to be necessary.\n\nThe broken ground which concealed the MacDonells discharged a small\nrill, that ran between the banks of mossy soil, in a diagonal line,\nand opened on the sand at a point almost opposite to the spot where the\ntwo galleys were lying. No sooner was the chief of Glengarry satisfied\nthat the time was come when the assault could be most opportunely made,\nthan he led his handful of men silently down between the hollow banks\nof the brook, so as to get unperceived between the enemy and their\nvessels. So far everything went well with them, but as they debouched\nfrom the mouth of the water-course, the partial light that gleamed\nfrom the upper part of the sky glanced unexpectedly on the blades of\ntheir naked claymores, and instantly a loud bugle blast blew shrilly\nfrom on board the nearer of the two galleys.\n\n\"Dunvegan! Dunvegan!\" cried a loud voice from the bothies, after the\nbugle had ceased.\n\nIn an instant their little black heaps gave forth their living\ncontents, some armed, and others with blazing torches of moss-fir,\nplucked suddenly from the great fires they had kindled.\n\n\"'Tis MacLeod!\" said Glengarry in a peevish tone, that sufficiently\nbetrayed the disappointment he felt that his well-concerted scheme of\nattack was thus rendered useless. \"'Tis but MacLeod, then, after all!\"\n\n\"Hoo!\" said Alaister, \"sure enough it's MacLeod, and no one else. So\nwe'll be supping, I'm thinking, and drinking together like friends,\ninstead of fighting like wild cats.\"\n\n\"Would it had been otherwise!\" said Glengarry, \"much as I love MacLeod,\nI would at this moment rather a thousand times have encountered the\nLord of Kintail. By the rood, but I was more i' the humour for dealing\nin blows than pledging in beakers! But since it could not be Kintail,\nI rejoice that it is MacLeod, for as I could desire no better foe\nthan the one, I can have no worthier friend than the other.\"\n\n\"Both good of their kind surely, I'm thinking,\" said Alaister.\n\nNothing could exceed the joy and cordiality of the friends at thus\nmeeting so unexpectedly. The fattest buck of the chase was dragged\ntowards a fire, kindled for culinary purposes in one of the huts,\nsteaks cut from its haunch were added to the fare which MacLeod's\npeople were preparing, and after a hasty and unceremonious meal,\nthe two chiefs retired with some of those in whom they reposed most\nconfidence, into a separate bothy, where they might have leisure for\nfull converse over a cup of wine.\n\n\"To what happy accident am I to attribute our meeting thus in\nKnoidart?\" demanded Glengarry.\n\n\"If I had not chanced thus to meet you here,\" said MacLeod, \"I should\nhave gone on to Invergarry Castle, as I originally intended. But it\nis well that I am saved so long a journey.\"\n\n\"Nay, by all that is friendly, that is not well said of you, MacLeod,\"\nsaid Glengarry. \"But I shall not be baulked of your visit. We shall\nbreak up hence, and set forward thither before to-morrow's dawn. If\nthere be deer on my hills, fish in my streams, steers in my pastures,\nor wine in my castle-vaults, thou shalt be feasted like a prince as\nthou art.\"\n\n\"That may not be,\" said MacLeod, \"for this is no time for you to devote\nto friendship and feasting. Thou knowest not that the object of this\nvoyage of mine was no other than to warn thee of certain wicked plots\nthat are about to be brought to bear against thee.\"\n\n\"What! some evil machinations of the accursed Kintail, I warrant me,\"\nsaid Glengarry.\n\n\"Thou hast guessed, and guessed rightly too,\" replied MacLeod.\n\n\"Cowardly villain that he is!\" cried Glengarry, \"what has he done?\"\n\n\"Thou knowest that he is in high favour at Court,\" said MacLeod. \"They\neven talk now of his being made an earl. But be that as it may, he\nhath somehow or other acquired the means of using the King's ear. And\nfoully doth he misuse it, by pouring poison into it to further his\nown ambitious and avaricious views, to the injury of the innocent.\"\n\n\"'Tis like the cold-hearted knave,\" said Glengarry. \"But what, I pray\nthee, hath he said of me?\"\n\n\"I know not what he may have said of thee,\" answered MacLeod, \"but I\nknow that he must have sorely misreported thee, seeing that through\ncertain channels he hath persuaded his Majesty to arm him with letters\nof fire and sword and outlawry against thee.\"\n\n\"What said'st thou?\" cried Glengarry, choking with his rising anger;\n\"did I hear thee aright? Letters of outlawry, and of fire and sword,\nput into the hands of MacKenzie of Kintail, to be executed against\nme! Oh, impossible!\"\n\n\"What I tell thee is too true,\" said MacLeod.\n\n\"The dastard dare not use them!\" cried Glengarry, grinding his teeth\nfrom the violence of his rage.\n\n\"Backed by the King, as he now is, he may dare do anything,\" said\nMacLeod.\n\n\"I defy him though he be backed by the King,\" cried Glengarry in\na fury; \"aye, and though both were backed by the black monarch of\nhell? God forgive me for coupling the name of a sovereign whom I\nwould fain love and honour, if he would but let me, with those of\nMacKenzie of Kintail, and that devil whom he delights to serve.\"\n\n\"Moderate your passion, Glengarry,\" said MacLeod, \"and listen to\nme quietly, until I put thee in possession of all that is brewing\nagainst thee.\"\n\n\"I am calm,\" said Glengarry.\n\n\"It is my duty as a friend of thine to tell thee, then,\" said MacLeod,\n\"that a meeting is summoned for three days hence at the Castle of\nEilean Donan of all those whom Kintail chooses to call the King's\nfriends in these north-western parts, who are called together for\nthe ostensible purpose of giving him counsel how best to put in force\nthose letters against thee, which he affects to be deeply grieved to\nhave been charged with.\"\n\n\"Hypocritical villain!\" cried Glengarry.\n\n\"I am one of those friends of the King who are thus summoned,\" said\nMacLeod, \"and my present object was to prove to thee, that although\nI may be so ranked, I am not the less a friend of thine. I wished to\nmake thee fully aware of the whole state of matters before I go to\nEilean Donan to swell, as in regard to my own safety I must needs do,\nthat majority which he looks for to strengthen his hands against thee.\"\n\n\"Thou hast proved thyself a friend indeed,\" said Glengarry, after\nruminating a few seconds. \"Thou hast proved thyself to be that old\nand steady friend of mine which I always have believed, and ever will\nbelieve thee to be. And now it is my turn to ask thee, whether thou\nhast ever found me in one instance to fail thee?\"\n\n\"Thou hast never failed me, Glengarry,\" said MacLeod, \"and I trust\nour clans shall be ever linked together like one bundle of rods.\"\n\n\"Aye!\" said Glengarry, with a bitter laugh, \"a bundle of rods which I\ntrust may one day be well employed in scourging this pitiful tyrant\nof the north-west. I love thee too much to demand thine open aid\nat present. But haply thou mayest well enough find some excuse for\nnot going to this meeting thou speakest of. An excuse, mark me,\nto be sent after the day is past. Thou canst be grievously ill, or\nanything may serve as an apology, if an apology should be required;\nfor I have friends at Court, too, and I may yet find the means so to\nbring things into proper joint, as to render apologies more necessary\nfrom Kintail than from us. All that I ask of thee then is, that you\nmay not appear at this nefarious assemblage at Eilean Donan.\"\n\n\"MacDonell,\" replied MacLeod, \"I know the risk I run, but I am ready to\nincur any risk for so old a friend as thou art, especially in a case\nwhere the securing aid in arms rather than in council is so evidently\nthe object of Kintail in calling us together. Say no more then; we\nshall weigh hence for Dunvegan by to-morrow's dawn, and be assured\nnothing shall drag me thence to be marshalled against thee in any way.\"\n\n\"Thank thee--thank thee!\" said Glengarry, cordially shaking MacLeod\nby the hand. \"This is no more than I expected of thy generosity and\ngood faith. Thy kind and friendly information shall not be thrown away\nupon me. I shall start for Invergarry Castle by to-morrow morning's\nsunrise. But thou shalt hear from me without fail. And if thy little\nfinger be but brought into jeopardy, thou shalt have my neck to answer\nfor it.\"\n\nThis important conversation between the two chiefs being now ended,\nthey gave themselves up to the enjoyment of that good fellowship and\nrevelry which arose between their two clans. Small was that portion\nof the time subjected to the rule of night which was by them devoted\nto slumber, and soon were they both astir each to pursue his separate\nway; and as the rising sun was glancing on the arms of Glengarry and\nhis people as they wound inland over the muirland hills, they looked\nback towards Loch Hourn, and beheld the galleys of MacLeod winging\ntheir way for Skye, under a favouring land breeze, that seemed to\nhave been begotten by the genial beams of morning, which then poured\na flood of brilliant light after them as they flew over the trembling\nsurface of the waters.\n\nThe tide was fully up around the little island which gives name to the\nCastle of Eilean Donan, and the ferry-boat was moored on the landward\nside of the strait, when the shades of night began to descend upon it,\nand upon the whole of the surrounding scenery, on the evening of that\nday which was fixed for the gathering that Lord Kintail had summoned.\n\n\"A plague take this MacLeod,\" said the boatman in Gaelic to his\nassistant, as they sat glued to their benches, listening with envy to\nthe sounds of mirth that came to their ears from within the castle\nwalls. \"A plague upon this MacLeod, who keeps us waiting here in\nthe cold when we might be warming our toes at a blazing fire, and\ncherishing our noses with a goodly flagon of ale!\"\n\n\"A plague upon him, with all my heart,\" echoed the other man. \"Is it\nfor him alone that we are condemned to tarry here?\"\n\n\"Aye, Donald,\" said the master, \"MacLeod is the only man awanting,\nit seems; and, sure enough, I think there be plenty without him. Hast\nthou ever before seen such an inpouring of eagles' wings into the\nCastle of Eilean Donan? There is surely something a-brewing.\"\n\n\"Whatever may be brewing, Master Duncan, we seem to have but little\nhope of drinking of it,\" said the man, laughing heartily at his\nown joke.\n\n\"Faith, Master Donald, they may be brewing some browst which\nneither you nor I would be very eager to drink,\" replied the master;\n\"I would rather be turning up a creaming cup of the castle ale than\nhave aught to do with any such liquor. But hold, heard ye not the\ntread of men? Come, loose the rope, and to your oars. That will be\nMacLeod at last. Who comes there?\" cried he, as he dimly perceived\na small party of men approaching the spot where the boat lay.\n\n\"MacLeod!\" cried a voice in reply, and immediately a tall and\nbulky figure, completely enveloped in an ample plaid, advanced,\nand after having given some secret directions to his followers, to\nwhich the impatient boatmen neither cared nor tried to listen, he\nstepped solemnly and silently alone into the boat, and was speedily\nrowed across.\n\nThe hall of Eilean Donan was that night crowded beyond all former\nprecedent. The feast was already over, and Lord Kintail was then\npresiding over the long board, where flowing goblets were circulating\namong the numerous guests, who were all his friends or allies, or\nwho at least feared to declare themselves to be otherwise. But fully\naware of the uncertain materials of which this great assemblage was\ncomposed, the chief of the MacKenzies had most prudently intermingled\nthe stoutest and bravest individuals of his own clan among these\nstrangers; and, as was customary in these rude times, each man sat\nwith his drawn dirk sticking upright in the board before him, ready\nfor immediate use, in case of its services being required; and this\nprecaution was the more naturally adopted upon the present occasion,\nbecause every one at that table was jealous and doubtful of those\nsitting to right and left of him.\n\nOn a sudden the door of the hall was thrown open, and a huge man\nstrode slowly and erectly into the middle of it. He was muffled up\nin a large dark plaid, of some nameless tartan; and it was so folded\nover the under part of his face as completely to conceal it; whilst\nthe upper part of his features was shrouded by the extreme breadth\nof the bonnet he wore. His appearance produced a sudden lull in the\nloud talk that was then arising from every mouth, the din of which\nhad been making the vaulted roof to ring again. The name of \"MacLeod\"\nran in whispers around, and Lord Kintail himself having for a moment\ntaken up the notion that had at first so generally seized the company,\nhe signed to his seneschal to usher the stranger towards the upper\nend of the table where he himself sat, and where a vacant chair on\nhis right hand had been left for the chief of Dunvegan.\n\nThe stranger obeyed the invitation, indeed; but he sat not down. He\nstood erect and motionless for a moment, with all eyes fixed upon him.\n\n\"MacLeod!\" said the Lord Kintail, half rising to acknowledge his\npresence by a bow, \"thou art late. We tarried for thee till our\nstomachs overmatched our courtesy. But stay, am I right? art thou\nMacLeod or not? Come, if thou art MacLeod, why standest thou with thy\nface concealed? Unfold thyself and be seated; for there are none but\nfriends here.\"\n\n\"I am not MacLeod!\" said the stranger, speaking distinctly and\ndeliberately, but in a hollow tone from within the folds of his plaid.\n\n\"Who art thou, then, in God's name?\" demanded Kintail, with some\ndegree of confusion of manner.\n\n\"I am an outlawed MacDonell,\" replied the stranger.\n\n\"A MacDonell!\" cried Kintail, with manifest agitation. \"What wouldst\nthou under this roof?\"\n\n\"I am come to throw myself on thy good faith, Lord Kintail, with the\nhope that thou mayest be the means of procuring a reversal of the\nhard sentence which hath been so unjustly passed upon me and my clan.\"\n\n\"I must first know more of thee,\" said Kintail. \"I can give no promise\nuntil I know who thou art.\"\n\n\"I said I was a MacDonell,\" replied the other.\n\n\"That is a wide name,\" said Kintail. \"Heaven knows that for the peace\nof the earth it holds too many that bear that name.\"\n\n\"That may be as men may think,\" said the stranger, with greater\nquickness of articulation.\n\n\"What MacDonell art thou, then?\" demanded Kintail. \"Pray, unmuffle\nthy face.\"\n\n\"One MacDonell is like another,\" said the stranger carelessly.\n\n\"That answer will not serve me,\" said Kintail. \"I must see thy\nface. And methinks it is a bad sign of thee, that thou shouldst be\nashamed to show it.\"\n\n\"Ashamed!\" said the stranger, with emphasis--and then, as if commanding\nhimself,--\"In times of feud like these,\" added he, after a pause,\n\"thou canst not ask me to uncover my face before so promiscuous\na company as this, where, for aught I know, I may have some sworn\nand deadly personal enemies, who may seek to do me wrong. But give\nme thy solemn pledge, Lord Kintail, that I shall suffer no skaith,\nand then thou shalt see my face.\"\n\n\"I swear to thee before this goodly assemblage,\" said Kintail, \"that\nwhoever thou mayest be, or whatever enemies of thine may be amongst\nus, thou shalt be skaith-less. Nay, more; for thy brave bearing thou\nshalt have free assoilzieing from outlawry and all other penalties,\nbe thou whom thou mayest, with one exception alone.\"\n\n\"Whom dost thou except?\" demanded the stranger, eagerly advancing\nhis body, but without unveiling his face.\n\n\"Glengarry himself,\" said Lord Kintail.\n\n\"By all that is good, Glengarry may well be a proud man by being\nso distinguished,\" said the stranger, with great energy both of\nvoice and of action. And then, after a short pause, he made one\nbold step forward, and throwing wide his plaid, and standing openly\nconfessed before them all, he exclaimed in a voice like thunder,--\"I\nam Glengarry!\"\n\nThere was one moment of fearful silence, during which all eyes were\nturned upon the chief of the MacDonells with the fixed stare of\npeople who were utterly confounded. Then was every dirk plucked from\nthe board by the right hand of its owner, and the clash which was\nthus made among the beakers and flagons was terrific; and the savage\nlooks which each man darted upon his neighbour, in his apprehension\nof treachery, where each almost fancied that the saving of his own\nlife might depend on the quick dispatching of him who sat next to\nhim, presented a spectacle which might have frozen the blood of the\nstoutest heart that witnessed it. But ere a stroke was struck, or a\nsingle man could leave his place, Glengarry sprang on Kintail with the\nswiftness of a falcon on its quarry; and ere he could arm himself,\nhe seized his victim with the vice-like gripe of his left hand, and\npinned him motionless into his chair, whilst the dirk which he had\nconcealed under his plaid now gleamed in his right hand, with its\npoint within an inch of the MacKenzie's throat.\n\n\"Strike away, gentlemen,\" said Glengarry calmly; \"but if that be your\ngame, I have the first cock!\"\n\nThe MacKenzies had all risen, it is true. Nay, some of them had even\nmoved a step forward in defence of their chief. But they marked the\ngigantic figure of Glengarry; and seeing that the iron strength he\npossessed gave him as much power over Lord Kintail as an ordinary\nman has over a mere child, and that any movement on their part must\ninstantly seal his doom, each man of them stepped back and paused,\nand an awful and motionless silence once more reigned for some moments\nthroughout the hall.\n\n\"Let any man but stir a finger!\" said Glengarry in a calm, slow, yet\ntremendous voice, \"and the fountain of Lord Kintail's life's-blood\nshall spout forth, till it replenish the goblet of him who sits in the\nlowest seat at this board! Let not a finger be stirred, and Kintail\nshall be skaithless.\"\n\n\"What wouldest thou with me, MacDonell?\" demanded Kintail, with\nhalf-choked utterance, that gave sufficient evidence of the rudeness\nof that gripe by which his throat was held.\n\n\"Thou hast gotten letters of outlawry and of fire and sword against\nme and against my clan,\" said Glengarry.\n\n\"I have,\" said Kintail. \"They were sent me because of thy rescue of\ncertain men of the MacCraws, declared rebels to the King.\"\n\n\"I ask not how or whence thou hadst them,\" said Glengarry. \"But I\nwould have them instantly produced.\"\n\n\"How shall I produce them, when thou wilt not suffer me nor any one\nto move?\" said Kintail.\n\n\"Let thy chaplain there--that unarmed man of peace--let him produce\nthem,\" said Glengarry.\n\n\"Go then, good Colin,\" said Kintail to the chaplain, \"go to yonder\ncabinet, thou knowest where they lie. Bring them hither.\"\n\n\"This is well!\" said Glengarry, clutching the parchments with his armed\nhand from the trembling ecclesiastic, and thrusting them hastily into\nhis bosom. \"So far this is well. Now sit thee down, reverend sir,\nand forthwith write out a letter from thy lord to the King, fully\nclearing me and mine in the eyes of his Majesty from all blame, and\nsetting forth in true colours my own loyalty and that of my brave\nclan. Most cruelly have we been belied, for before these gentlemen\nI do here swear that, as God shall be my judge, he hath nowhere more\nfaithful subjects.\"\n\n\"Use thy pen as he dictates,\" said Kintail, \"for if he speaks thus,\nI will freely own he hath been wronged in the false rumours which\nhave been conveyed to me, and through me to his Majesty.\"\n\n\"'Tis honest at least in thee to say so much, Lord Kintail,\" said\nGlengarry, \"and since thou dost grant me this, thine amanuensis here\nmay as well write me out a short deed pledging thee to the restitution\nof those lands of mine which were taken from me, by the King's order,\non former false statements of delinquency. And be expeditious,\ndost thou hear, lest thy good lord here may suffer too long from\nthe inconvenience of this awkward posture in which thou art thyself\ndetaining him by thy slow and inexpert clerkship.\"\n\n\"Write as thou art bid, and as expeditiously as may be,\" said Kintail,\nsincerely coinciding with Glengarry's last recommendation. Accordingly,\nthe papers were made out exactly as he desired, signed by Kintail,\nand then placed in the capacious bosom of the MacDonell chief.\n\n\"All this is so far well,\" said Glengarry. \"Now swear me solemnly\nthat I shall be permitted to return home without molestation, and\nthat thou wilt faithfully, and truly, and honestly observe all these\nthine engagements.\"\n\n\"I swear!\" said Kintail, \"I solemnly swear that thou shalt pass hence\nand return into thine own country, without a hair of thy head being\nhurt; and I shall truly and faithfully observe everything I have\npromised, whether in writing or otherwise.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Glengarry, quietly relinquishing his grasp, sheathing\nhis dirk, and coolly seating himself at the board as if nothing had\nhappened; \"then let us have one friendly cup ere we part,--I would\npledge to thy health and to thy rooftree, my Lord Kintail!\" and,\nsaying so, he filled a large goblet of wine and drained it to the\nbottom, turning it up when he had finished, to show that he had done\nfair justice to the toast.\n\n\"Glengarry!\" said Kintail, \"thou shalt not find me behind thee in\ncourtesy. Thine to be sure hath been in certain respects somewhat\nof the roughest to-night, and I must own,\" continued he, chafing his\nthroat, \"that a cup of wine never could come to me more desirably than\nat this moment, so I now drink to thee as a friend, for enemies though\nwe have ever been, thy gallant courage has won my full applause.\"\n\n\"And I repeat the pledge, and in the same friendly guise, Kintail,\"\nsaid Glengarry taking him by the hand, and squeezing it till this\ndemonstration of his new-born friendship became almost as inconvenient\nto the chief of the MacKenzies, as the effects of his ancient enmity\nhad so lately been. \"And now I must bid you all God-speed in a parting\ndraught,--Slainte!\"\n\n\"One cup more, Glengarry, to Deoch-an-dorrus!\" said Kintail.\n\n\"With all my heart,\" said Glengarry, and this last pledge was a deep\none. Again he squeezed Kintail's hand, till he made the tears come\ninto his eyes. \"Be assured,\" said he, \"thy letter to the King is in\nsafe hands, my Lord Kintail, for I shall see it delivered myself.\"\n\n\"Lights and an escort there for Glengarry!\" cried Lord Kintail;\nand the bold chief of the MacDonells, bowing courteously around him\nto all that were assembled in the hall, left them full of wonder at\nhis hardihood, whilst he was marshalled with all due ceremonial and\nhonour to the boat, and ferried across to his impatient people. He\nfound that his little knot of MacDonells, with Alaister More at their\nhead, had been kept so long in a state of anxiety, and they had begun\nto doubt and to fear so much for his safety, that they were on the\nvery eve of resolving to endeavour to break into the castle, that\nthey might ascertain what had befallen him, or to die in the attempt.\n\n\"My horse, Alaister!\" cried Glengarry, as soon as his foot had touched\nthe shore; and throwing himself into the saddle, he let no grass\ngrow at his heels till he reached the capital, and was presented at\nCourt, where he speedily re-established himself in the good opinion\nof his sovereign.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLONG YARNS.\n\n\nClifford (yawning).--Now, Mr. Macpherson, your story comes next,\nand if it is but of brevity as reasonable as that which we have now\nheard,--aw!--aw--I think,--aw-ah-ah-aw!--that in justice to you,\nwe are bound to hear it ere we go to bed--a--aw-aw.\n\nDominie.--I cannot positively say what my story might measure out to\nin the hands of ane able story-teller. Some clever chield like Homer,\nor Virgil, or Sir Walter Scott, for example, any one of whom could\nspin you a thread as if they were working it off by the hundred ells,\nwith that machine once vurra much used by the Highland wives, called\nthe muckle wheel. But, plain man as I am, you can never expeck me to\ntell anything but the bare facks. Yet I must not let you yemagine,\ngentlemen, that there is any fack at all in the foolish fairy story\nI am now going to tell you.\n\nClifford.--Why, Mr. Macpherson,--aw--aw--ha! if I have any of my\nlogic left in me at all, I think I can prove that de facto you have\nno story to tell. As thus:--\n\nYou tell nothing but facks.\n\nIn your story there is no fack.\n\nTherefore you have nothing to tell.\n\nQuod erat demonstrandum. Ergo, as a corollary, I think we had\nbetter--aw--aw--a--go to bed.\n\nGrant.--Very ingeniously made out, Clifford. But we know from\nexperience, that logic and common sense are not always equal to the\nsame thing, and therefore they are not always equal to one another. So,\nto cut the argument short, I now move that Mr. Macpherson do forthwith\nbegin his story.\n\nAuthor.--I second the motion.\n\nClifford.--Well, I shall--aw, aw--light another cigar, and if he does\nnot finish in the smoking of it, I for one shall bowl off to bed.\n\nGrant.--Come then, Mr. Macpherson, pray take the start of him.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF THE BUILDING OF BALLINDALLOCH.\n\n\nAs you go down the avenue leading from the bridge to the present house\nof Ballindalloch, gentlemen, you cross a small rivulet that rushes\nheadlong with a cheerful sound from the wooded banks rising on your\nright hand, the which, after finding its way under the road through\nwhat is commonly called a cundy bridge, throws itself over the rocks\ndirectly into the pellucid stream of the Aven, that accompanies you\non your left. If you should chance to go down that way, and if you\nshould be tempted to trace that little rill upwards through the wild\nshrubbery, and among the tangled roots of the venerable oaks and other\ntrees which shoot up everywhere in fantastic shapes from its sides,\nand by throwing their outstretched arms across its bed here and there,\nproduce a pleasing contrast of checkered light and shade, you will\nfind many a nook amid its mazes which a fanciful yemagination might\nset apart as a haunt befitting those frisking creatures of the poet's\nbrain, Oberon and Titania, and where the sly tricks and pawky gambols\nof Puck and the fairy folk might well be played. I think, indeed,\nthat I could almost venture to assert, that no one truly filled with\nwhat may be termed the romance of poetry, could well pass a few hours'\nvigil in the thick retirement of that lovely and sequestered grove,\nwith the full moon piercing through the openings in the canopy of\nfoliage, and shining directly down the little ravine where that musical\nrill flows, its beams converting the rushing waters into silver, and\nthe dewdrops of every leaf, flower, or blade of grass, on its banks,\ninto diamonds, without looking to come pop upon some tiny fairy palace,\nor to be charmed by some witching sight or sound, that, for the time\nat least, may make him forget that he is a mortal. This opinion I\nventure to pronounce on the mere internal yevidence afforded by the\nspot itself, as well as by the recollections of my own feelings when I\nchanced to wander up the place under similar circumstances, with this\nsimple addition, to be sure, that I had been at a wedding that night,\nand had consequently a small drop of toddy in my head. But be that as\nit may, the vulgar supposition that it is inhabited by supernatural\nbeings is borne out by the corroborative testimony of very ancient\ntradition. From time immemorial it has been called the Castle Stripe,\nand the origin of this name is linked with some old foundations which\nare still to be seen on the summit of the bank above, the legendary\nhistory of which I am now going to tell you.\n\nIt is believed that several centuries have passed away since the Laird\nof Ballindalloch proposed to build himself a castle or peel-tower for\nhis more secure abode in times when the prevalence of private feuds\nrequired strength of position and solidity of structure; and having,\ndoubtless, first and foremost sat down, like a sensible man, to count\nthe probable cost of his contemplated edifice, he next, with yespecial\nprudence, set about considering where he should find the best site to\nyerect it on; and after a careful examination of his domains, he at\nlast fixed on the vurra spot now occupied by those old foundations I\nspake of. This place possessed many advantages in his eyes, for, whilst\nit was itself overlooked by nothing, it not only commanded a pleasant\nprospect over all the haughs and low grounds of his own property,\nbut it also enjoyed a view of the whole of the lands of Tullochcarron,\nlying on the opposite side of the Aven; and between that river and the\nSpey, above their point of junction, and this the good man considered\na thing of very great importance at a time when that property was in\nthe hands of another laird, with whom, if there was not then a quarrel,\nyet nobody could say how soon a quarrel might arise.\n\nThis very weighty matter of consideration being thus settled in his\nown mind, he began his operations with vigour. Numerous bodies of\nmasons and labourers were applied to the work. In a few days the\nfoundations were dug and laid, and several courses of the masonry\nappeared above ground, and the undertaking seemed to be going on in\nthe most prosperous manner, and perfectly to the laird's satisfaction.\n\nBut what was the astonishment of the workmen one morning, when,\non returning by sunrise to their labour, they discovered that the\nwhole of the newly built walls had disappeared, aye, down to the\nvurra level of the ground! The poor fellows, as you may guess, were\nterrified beyond measure. Fain would they have altogether desisted\nfrom a work over which, it was perfectly plain, that if some powerful\nenemy had not the control, some strange and mysterious fatality must\ncertainly hang. But in those days lairds were not men to whom masons,\nor simple delvers of the ground, could dare to say nay. He of whom I\nam now telling you was determined to have his own way, and to proceed\nin spite of what had occurred, and in defiance of what might occur;\nand having sent round and summoned a great many more workmen in\naddition to those already employed, he set them to the work with\nredoubled vigilance, and ere the sun of another day went down, he\nhad raised the walls very nearly to the height which they had reached\nthe previous evening before their most unaccountable disappearance.\n\nBut no sooner had the light of a new morning dawned, than it was\ndiscovered that the whole work had again disappeared down to the level\nof the ground. The people were frightened out of their senses. They\nhardly dared to go near the spot. But the terrors which the very name\nof the laird carried with it, swallowed up all their other terrors,\nas the serpent into which the rod of Moses was converted swallowed\nup all those that sprang from the rods of the magicians of Egypt;\nand as the laird only became so much the more obstinate from all\nthese mysterious thwartings which he met with, the poor people were\nobliged to tremble in secret, and immediately to obey his will. The\nwhole country was scoured, and the number of workmen was again very\nmuch increased, so that what by cuffing and what by coaxing (means\nwhich I find it vurra beneficial to employ by turns to stimulate my\nown scholars to their tasks), nearly double the usual quantum of work\nwas done before night. But, alas! the next morning's dawn proved that\nthe building of this peel-tower of Ballindalloch continued to be like\nunto the endless weaving of the web of Penelope, for each succeeding\nmorning saw the work of the previous day annihilated by means which\nno human being could possibly divine.\n\n\"What can be the meaning of all this?\" said the laird to Ian Grant,\nhis faithful henchman, vexed out of all patience as he was at last\nby this most provoking and perplexing affair. \"Who can be the author\nof all this mischief?\"\n\n\"Troth I cannot say, sir,\" replied Ian. \"The loons at the work think\nthat it is some spite taken up against us by the good people.\" [3]\n\n\"Good people!\" cried the laird in a rage. \"What mean you by good\npeople? More likely fiends, I wot.\"\n\n\"For the love of the Virgin use better terms, Ballindalloch,\" replied\nIan. \"Who knows what ears may be listening to us unseen.\"\n\n\"If I did not know thee to be as brave a fellow as ever handled a\nbroadsword, I would say shame on thee, Ian, for a coward!\" cried the\nlaird. \"Hark, ye! I would not wilfully anger the good people more than\nthou wouldst do. But I cannot help thinking that some bad people,\nsome of my unfriends, some secret enemies of mine, of mortal mould,\nmust have, somehow or other, contrived by devilish arts to do me all\nthese ill turns.\"\n\n\"It will be easy to find that out, sir,\" said Ian, \"we have only to\nplant a good guard all night on the works.\"\n\n\"That was exactly what I was thinking of, Ian,\" said the laird,\n\"and I was a fool not to have thought of it before. Set the masons to\ntheir task again, then, without delay, and see that they be not idle,\nand take care to have a night-watch ready to mount over the work the\nmoment the sun goes to bed. I'll warrant me we shall find out the\nscoundrels, or if we do not, we shall at least have the satisfaction\nof putting a stop to their devilish amusement.\"\n\nNone of Ballindalloch's people, however brave, were very much\nenamoured of any such duty, however honourable it might have been\nconsidered. But his orders were too imperative to be disobeyed,\nand so some dozen or twain of stout handlers of the old broad-bladed\nScottish spear were planted as sentinels to patrol around the walls\nduring the night. These gallant fellows took care to carry with them\nsome cordials to keep their spirits up, and by a liberal use of them,\nthe first two or three dreary hours of darkness passed off with\ntolerable tranquillity and comfort, and as time wore on, and their\ncourage waxed stronger and stronger, they began to be of the laird's\nopinion, that however wonderful previous yevents had appeared to be,\nthere had in reality been nothing supernatural in them; and, moreover,\nwhatever might be the nature of the enemy, they were by no means\ndisposed to venture to molest the brave defenders of the new walls.\n\nFull of these convictions, their contempt of all earthly foes\nincreased, as their dread of unearthly enemies subsided; and as\nthere was an ancient and wide-spreading oak-tree growing within about\nforty or fifty paces of the walls, they thought that they might as\nwell retire beneath the shelter of its shade, as some protection from\nthe descending damps. This they were the more readily induced to do,\nseeing that from thence they could quite easily observe the approach\nof any suspicious people who might appear. Nay, they even judged that\nthe cowardly enemy who might otherwise have been scared by observing\nso stout an armed band about the walls, might now be encouraged to\nshow themselves by their temporary concealment.\n\n\"Come away now, Duncan man,\" said one of these heroes to a comrade,\nafter they had drawn themselves together into a jovial knot, close\nto the huge trunk of the oak. \"Come away, man, with your flask. I'm\nwondering much whether the juice that is in its body be of the same\nmettlesome browst, as that which came with so heart-stirring a smack\nout of the vitals of Tom's leathern bottle.\"\n\n\"Rest its departed spirit, Charley! it was real comfortable and\ncourage-giving stuff,\" said another.\n\n\"By Saint Peter, but that's no worse!\" said Charley, tasting it and\nsmacking his lips, \"Hah! it went to my very heart's core. Such liquor\nas this would make a man face the devil.\"\n\n\"Fie! let us not talk of such a person,\" said Tom. \"I hope it is\nenow, if its potency amounteth even so high, as to make us do our\nduty against men like ourselves.\"\n\n\"Men like ourselves!\" cried Charley. \"I trow such like as ourselves\nare not to be furnished from the banks of either Aven or Spey, aye,\nor from those of any other river or stream that I wot of. Give me\nanother tug of thy most virtuous flask there, Duncan. Hah! I say\nagain that the power of clergy and holy water is nothing to this. It\nwould stir a man up to lay the very devil himself. What sayest thou\nand thy red nose, old Archy Dhu?\"\n\n\"I say that I think thou art speaking somewhat unadvisedly,\" replied\nArchy, stretching out his hand at the same time, and taking the flask\nfrom Charley as he was about to apply it to his lips for the third\ntime in succession.\n\n\"Stay thy hand, man. Methinks it is my turn to drink.\"\n\n\"Silence!\" said one who had command over them. \"Can ye not moderate\nyour voices, and speak more under breath? Your gabbling will spoil\nall.\"\n\n\"Master Donald Bane hath good reason with him, gentlemen,\" said\nArchibald Dhu, in a subdued tone. \"For my part, I shall be silent;\"\nand well might he say so, seeing that at that moment he turned aside\nto hold long and sweet converse with the flask.\n\n\"I tell ye, we must be quiet as mice,\" said Master Donald. \"Even our\nhalf-whispers might be heard by any one stealing towards the walls,\namidst the unbroken stillness of this night.\"\n\nThe night was indeed still as the grave. Not a leaf was stirring. Even\nthe drowsy hum of the beetle was hushed, and no sound reached their\nears but the tinkling music of the tiny rill that ran through the\nlittle runnel near them, in its way towards the ravine in the bank,\nand the soft murmur of the stream of the Aven, coming muffled through\nthe foliage from below; when, on a sudden, a mighty rush of wind was\nheard to arise from the distant top of Ben Rinnes, which terribly\ngrew in strength as it came rapidly sweeping directly towards them. So\nawfully terrific was the howl of this whirlwind, that the very hairs\nof the heads of even the boldest of these hardy spearmen stood stiff\nand erect, as if they would have lifted up their iron skull-caps. Every\nfibre of their bodies quivered, so that the very links of their shirts\nof mail jingled together, and Aves and Paternosters came not only from\nthe mouths of such brave boasters as Charley, but they were uttered\nright glibly by many a bold bearded lip to which, I warrant me,\nthey had been long strangers. On came the furious blast. The sturdy\noak under which they had taken shelter, beat every man of them to\nthe ground by the mere bending of its bole and the writhing of its\nboughs and branches. Wild shrieks were heard in the air amid the\nyelling of the tempest, and a quick discharge of repeated plunges in\nthe Aven below announced to them that some heavy materials had been\nthrown into it. Again, the whirlwind swept instantaneously onwards;\nand as it was dying away among the mountains to the north of the Spey,\nan unearthly laugh, loud as thunder, was heard over their heads.\n\nNo sooner had this appalling peal of laughter ceased, than all\nwas again calm and still as death. The great oak under which the\ndiscomfited men of the watch lay, heaped one on another, immediately\nrecovered its natural position. But fear had fallen so heavily on\nthese bruised and prostrate men-at-arms, that they dared not even\nto lift their bodies to the upright position; but creeping together\naround the root of the tree, they lay quivering and shaking with\ndread, their teeth chattering together in their heads like handfuls\nof chucky stones, till the sun arose to put some little courage\ninto them with his cheering rays. Then it was that they discovered,\nto their horror and dismay, that the whole work done by the masons\nduring the preceding day at the new building had been as completely\nrazed and obliterated as it had ever been upon any of the previous\nnights. You may believe, gentlemen, that it required some courage to\ninform their stern master of the result of their night's watch; and\nwith one consent they resolved that Ian Grant, the laird's henchman,\nshould be first informed; and he was earnestly besought to be their\nvehicle of communication.\n\n\"Psha!\" cried the laird impatiently, when the news reached him. \"I\ncannot believe a word of this, Ian. The careless caitiffs have trumped\nup this story as an apology for their own negligence in keeping a loose\nwatch. I'll have every mother's babe of them hanged. A howling tempest\nand an elrich laugh, saidst thou? Ha! ha! ha! Well indeed might these\nwicked unfriends of mine, who have so outwitted these lazy rascals,\nlaugh till their sides ached, at the continued success of their own\nmischief. I'll warrant it has been some of Tullochcarron's people; and\nif my fellows had been worth the salt that they devour at my expense,\nassuredly we might have had the culprits swinging on the gallows-tree\nby this time. So our men may e'en swing there in their stead.\"\n\n\"If Tullochcarron's people have done these pranks, they must be bolder\nand cleverer men than I take them for,\" said Ian calmly. \"But before\nwe set these poor fellows of ours a-dancing upon nothing, with the\ngallows-tree for their partner, methinks we may as well take a peep\ninto the stream of the Aven, where the wonderful clearness of the\nwater will show a pebble at the depth of twenty feet. Certain it\nis that there came a strange and furious blast over these valleys\nlast night; and there may be no harm in just looking into the Aven,\nto see if any of the stones of the work be lying at the bottom.\"\n\n\"There can be no harm in that,\" said the laird, \"so let us go there\ndirectly.\"\n\nThey went accordingly; and to the great surprise of both master\nand man, they saw distinctly that the bed of the river was covered\nover with the new hammer-dressed stones; and yet, on examining the\nhigh banks above, and the trees and bushes that grew on them, not a\ntrace appeared to indicate that human exertions had been employed to\ntransport them downwards thither from the site of the new building. The\nlaird and his attendant were filled with wonder. Yet still he was\nnot satisfied that his conjectures had been altogether wrong.\n\n\"If it has been Tullochcarron's people,\" said he doubtingly, \"they\nmust have enlisted the devil himself as their ally. But let them have\nwhom they may to aid them, I am resolved I shall unravel this mystery,\ncost what it will. I'll watch this night in person.\"\n\n\"I doubt it will be but a tempting of powers against which mortal\nman can do but little,\" said Ian. \"But come what come may, I'll watch\nwith thee, Ballindalloch.\"\n\n\"Then haste thee, Ian, and set the workmen to their labour again\nwith all their might,\" said the laird, \"and let the masons raise the\nbuilding as high as they possibly can from the ground before night;\nand thou and I shall see whether we shall not keep the stones from\nflying off through the air like a flight of swallows.\"\n\nThe anxious laird remained all day at the work himself; and as you\nknow, gentlemen, that the master's eye maketh the horse fat, so hath\nit also a strange power of giving double progress to all matters of\nlabour that it looketh upon. The result was, that when the masons\nleft off in the evening, the building was found to have risen higher\nthan it had ever done before. When night came, the same watch was\nagain set about the walls; for the laird wished for an opportunity of\npersonally convicting the men of culpable carelessness and neglect of\nduty. To make all sure, he and his henchman took post on the embryo\npeel-tower itself.\n\nThe air was still, and the sky clear and beautiful, as upon the\nprevious night, and, armed with their lances, Ballindalloch and his man\nIan walked their rounds with alert steps, throwing their eyes sharply\naround them in all directions, anxiously bent on detecting anything\nthat might appear like the semblance of treachery. The earlier hours,\nhowever, passed without disturbance; and the confidence of the laird\nand Ian increased, just as that of the men of the guard diminished\nwhen the hour began to approach at which the entertainments of the\nprevious night had commenced. As this hour drew near, their stolen\napplications to their cordial flasks became more frequent; but sup\nafter sup went down, and so far from their courage being thereby\nstirred up, they seemed to be just so much the more fear-stricken\nevery drop they swallowed. They moved about like a parcel of timid\nhares, with their ears pricked up ready to drink in the first note\nof intimation of the expected danger. A bull feeding in the broad\npastures stretching between them and the base of Ben Rinnes bellowed\nat a distance.\n\n\"Holy Mother, there it comes!\" cried Charley. In an instant that hero\nand all the other heroes fled like roe-deer, utterly regardless of the\nvolley of threats and imprecations which the enraged laird discharged\nafter them like a hailstorm as they retreated, their ears being\nrendered deaf to them by the terror which bewildered their brains,\nand in the twinkling of an eye not a man of them was to be seen.\n\n\"Cowards!\" exclaimed the laird, after they were all gone. \"To run away\nat the roaring of a bull! The braying of an ass would have done as\nmuch. Of such stuff, I warrant me, was that whirlwind of last night\ncomposed, of which they made out so terrible a story.\"\n\n\"What could make the fellows so feared?\" said Ian. \"I have seen them\nstand firm in many a hard fought and bloody field. Strange that they\nshould run at the routing of a bull.\"\n\n\"And so the villains have left you and me alone, to meet whatever\nnumber of arms of flesh may be pleased to come against us! Well,\nbe it so, Ian; I flinch not. I am resolved to find out this mystery,\ncome what may of it. Ian, you have stood by me singly ere now, and\nI trust you will stand by me again; for I am determined that nothing\nmortal shall move me hence till morning dawns.\"\n\n\"Whatever you do, Ballindalloch,\" replied his faithful henchman, \"it\nshall never be said that Ian Grant abandoned his master. I will\"----\n\n\"Jesu Maria! what sound is that?\" exclaimed the laird, suddenly\ninterrupting him, and starting into an attitude of awe and dread.\n\nAnd no marvel that he did so; for the wail of the rising whirlwind\nnow came rushing upon them from the distant summit of Ben Rinnes. In\nan instant its roar was as if a tempestuous ocean had been rolling\nits gigantic billows over the mountain top; and on it swept so\nrapidly as to give them no further time for colloquy. A lurid glare\nof light shot across the sky from south to north. Shrieks,--fearful\nshrieks,--shrieks such as the mountain itself might have uttered,\nhad it been an animated being, mingled with the blast. It was already\nupon them, and in one moment both master and man were whirled off\nthrough the air and over the bank, where they were tossed, one over\nthe other, confounded and bruised, into the thickest part of a large\nand wide-spreading holly bush; and whilst they stuck there, jammed\nin among the boughs, and altogether unable to extricate themselves,\nthey heard the huge granite stones, which had been that day employed\nin the work, whizzing through the air over their heads, as if they had\nbeen projected from one of those engines which that warlike people,\nthe ancient Romans, called a balista or catapult; and ever and anon\nthey heard them plunged into the river below, with a repetition\nof deep hollow sounds, resembling the discharge of great guns. The\ntempest swept off towards the north, as it had done on the previous\nnight; and a laugh, that was like the laugh of a voice of thunder,\nseemed to them to re-echo from the distant hills, and made the very\nblood freeze in their veins. But what still more appalled them, this\ntremendous laugh was followed by a yet more tremendous voice, as if\nthe mountain had spoken. It filled the whole of the double valley\nof the Aven and the Spey, and it repeated three times successively\nthis whimsical command, \"Build in the Cow-haugh!--Build in the\nCow-haugh!--Build in the Cow-haugh!\" and again all nature returned\nto its former state of stillness and of silence.\n\n\"Saint Mary help me!\" cried Ian from his position, high up in the\nholly bush, where he hung doubled up over the fork of two boughs,\nwith his head and his heels hanging down together like an old worsted\nstocking. \"Saint Mary help me! where am I? and where is the laird?\"\n\n\"Holy St. Peter!\" cried the laird, from some few feet below him, \"I\nrejoice to hear thy voice, Ian. Verily, I thought that the hurricane\nwhich these hellish--no--I mean these good people raised, had swept\nall mortals but myself from the face of this earth.\"\n\n\"I praise the Virgin that thou art still to the fore, Ballindalloch,\"\nsaid Ian. \"In what sort of plight art thou, I pray thee?\"\n\n\"In very sorry plight, truly,\" said the laird, \"sorely bruised and\ntightly and painfully jammed into the cleft of the tree, with my nose\nand my toes more closely associated together than they have ever\nbeen before, since my first entrance into this weary world. Canst\nthou not aid me, Ian?\"\n\n\"Would that I could aid thee, Ballindalloch,\" said Ian mournfully;\n\"but thou must e'en take the will for the deed. I am hanging here\nover a bough, like a piece of sheep's tripe, without an atom of fushon\n[4] in me, and confined, moreover, by as many cross-branches as would\ncage in a blackbird. I fear there is no hope for us till daylight.\"\n\nAnd in good sooth there they stuck maundering in a maze of speculation\nfor the rest of the night.\n\nWhen the morning sun had again restored sufficient courage to the men\nof the watch, curiosity led them to return to ascertain how things\nstood about the site of the building which they had so precipitately\nabandoned. They were horrorstruck to observe, that in addition to\nthe utter obliteration of the whole of the previous day's work, the\nlaird himself, and his henchman Ian Grant, had disappeared. At first\nthey most naturally supposed that they had both been swept away at\nonce with the walls of the new building on which they stood, and that\nthey could never hope to see them again, more than they could expect\nto see the stones of the walls that had been so miraculously whirled\naway. But piteous groans were heard arising from the bank below them;\nand on searching further, Ballindalloch and his man Ian were discovered\nand released from their painful bastile. The poor men-at-arms who had\nformed the watch were mightily pleased to observe that the laird's\ntemper was most surprisingly cooled by his night's repose in the\nholly bush. I need not tell you that he spoke no more of hanging\nthem. You will naturally yemagine, too, that he no longer persevered\nin pressing the erection of the ill-starred keep-tower on the proud\nspot he had chosen for it, but that he implicitly followed the dread\nand mysterious order he had received to \"Build in the Cow-haugh!\"\n\nHe did, in fact, soon afterwards commence building the present Castle\nof Ballindalloch in that beautiful haugh which stretched between the\nAven and the Spey, below their junction, which then went by the name\nof the Cow-haugh; and the building was allowed to proceed to its\nconclusion without the smallest interruption.\n\nSuch is the legend I promised you, gentlemen, and however absurd it\nmay be, I look upon it as curious; for it no doubt covers some real\npiece of more rational history regarding the cause of the abandonment\nof those old foundations, which has now degenerated into this wild\nbut poetical fable.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSOMNOSALMONIA.\n\n\nClifford (asleep).--Ha! ha! ha! There he comes! What a noble\nfish! Didn't I tell you I would do for him? Ha! there--there now--I\nshall land him beautifully at last.\n\nAuthor.--Why, he's asleep, Grant; give him a good shake, will you.\n\nClifford (half-awaking).--Oh! oh! oh! what are you at? Will\nyou throw me into the water, you scoundrels? Hah! what are you\nat? Aw--a--a! what a magnificent salmon I had caught when you snapt\nmy line. Eh!--hah--aw--a--aw. I believe I have been dozing.\n\nGrant.--Nay, not dozing only, but snoring; and, finally fishing in\nyour sleep.\n\nClifford.--Then am I a fool--aw--a--a--to stay here awake doing\nnothing, when I might go to bed and there so happily continue the\nsport which you so cruelly interrupted,--aw--a--aw, so good night to\nyou,--I'm off.\n\nTaking up his candle, Clifford quickly disappeared, and following\nhis example, we broke up for the night; and having agreed to devote\nthe next day to our friend's favourite sport, we invited our new\nacquaintance, the schoolmaster, to dine with us again.\n\nNext day Grant and I spent five or six hours in thrashing the river\nwithout being gratified even with a single rise, whilst Clifford killed\nno less than three large salmon and one grilse. We expected that\nhe would have crowed mightily over us, and we accordingly exhibited\ngreat humbleness of aspect in his presence. But he was magnanimous\nbeyond our hopes.\n\nClifford.--Don't be downcast, my dear friends, your fate had been\nmine and mine yours, had we only exchanged our fly-boxes in the\nmorning. Your flies have been made by some Cockney for fishing in the\nNew River. These Limerick hooks are the things; they never fail. You\nshall try them next time, and I'll warrant your success.\n\nClifford picked out the best fish for our dinner, and after a liberal\nprovision of those ingredients which are supposed to contribute to\nthe sociality of an evening,\n\nAuthor (to Clifford).--Come along, Mr. Secretary, how stands your book?\n\nClifford.--Mr. Macpherson is down two or three times over. But,\nfor aught I know, he may have told all his tales last night while I\nslept. By the by, I have to apologise to him for having done so.\n\nDominie.--Hout no, sir, I am sure I am well pleased if my tales can in\nany manner of way contribute to your happiness, whether it may be by\nexciting your interest or mirth, or by lulling you to sweet repose. I\nam not the first story-teller whose tales have had a soporific yeffeck.\n\nClifford.--Can you favour us then; you will yourself recollect which\nof your stories comes first in the list.\n\nDominie.--'Pon my word, sir, my memory does not serve me in that\nrespeck. But I have another story altogether, in which the Laird\nof Ballindalloch was also concerned; and, as it has been brought to\nmy mind, nay, I may say, into my vurra mouth at this moment, by the\npleasing flavour of Mr. Clifford's excellent fish, on which we have\nall dined so heartily, I may as well give you that.\n\nClifford.--You are a perfect mine of legendary lore, Mr. Macpherson.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF THE LAST GRANT OF TULLOCHCARRON.\n\n\nIn my legend of yesternight, gentlemen, I think I told you, that one\nof Ballindalloch's yespecial reasons for selecking the site he did\nfor his peel tower was the commanding view which he thence enjoyed\nall over the lands of Tullochcarron, lying above the fork of the Aven\nand the Spey, and which then belonged to another family of Grants,\nwith whom he was liable to be frequently at daggers drawn. It is of\nthe last laird of Tullochcarron, that I am now going to tell you.\n\nIn the earlier part of his life, this laird of Tullochcarron lost a\nyounger brother, who was killed while fighting bravely by his side in a\nfeudal skirmish with a former laird of Ballindalloch. Tullochcarron had\na strong affection for this brother, and would have been inconsolable\nfor his death, had he not left an only son behind him, called Lachlan\nDhu. Tullochcarron was then unmarried, and he therefore instantly\ntransferred all that which had been his fraternal affection to his\norphan nephew. Accordingly, he set himself to nurture the boy with all\nthe care and solicitude he could bestow, and with the full intention\nof making him his heir. But you are well enough aware, gentlemen,\nthat yeddication in those days must have been a mere farce. Indeed,\njudging from the worthy Dame Julian Berner's Boke of St. Alban's,\nthe which, I take it for granted, was the gentleman's vade mecum in\nits day, it was worse than a farce, nothing being taught there but\nhawking and hunting, and the mysteries thereof; as, for example, how\nto physic a sick falcon, and such like follies, with all the foolish\nvanities of coat armour, and the frivolities of fishing. Eh! I beg\nyour pardon, Mr. Clifford! I see you are not just altogether pleased\nwith that observe of mine. But I meant no offence,--as sure as death I\ndid not. Where was I? Well, as the lad, Lachlan Dhu, grew up, certain\nindications of ane evil disposition began to manifest themselves, and\nthese unpromising buds did so bourgeon through time, that after trying\nto prune away the wicked shoots that sprang from them, and finding,\nas is often the case, that they only sprouted forth the thicker and\nthe stronger for the lopping, like the poisonous heads of the hydra,\nthe good Tullochcarron found himself compelled to abandon his kind\nintentions towards the young man, so far as regarded the heirship. But\nhe still continued to make his house his home, and likewise to show\nhim all such kindness as an uncle might be expected to use towards\na nephew.\n\nBeing thus disappointed in his views of a successor, the worthy\nman set himself to the serious consideration of another plan, and\nhaving cast his eyes about him, they fell upon a fair leddy, whom\nhe resolved, with her consent, to make his wife, and accordingly,\nafter a reasonable courtship, they were married. No couple could have\nbeen happier than they were, and his joy was, in due time, rendered\ncomplete by the birth of a son and heir, who was called Duncan. But,\nalas! what is yearthly felicity? Fleeting as the wintry sunbeam on a\nwall. His beloved wife died soon after the birth of her infant boy,\nwhom she left as the only remaining hope of his family.\n\nLachlan Dhu had nearly reached manhood before his uncle's marriage,\nbut Tullochcarron had taken especial care, from the very first,\nnever to allow his nephew to know that he ever had any intention\nof leaving him the succession of his estate. There was therefore no\nostensible cause for disappointment or jealousy in Lachlan. But the\nyouth was sharp enough to have seen the position in which he had so\nlong stood, and to have drawn his own conclusions; and certain it was,\nthat jealousy and disappointment did follow his uncle's marriage and\nthe birth of his cousin Duncan. But young though he might be, he was\nalready so profound a master of the art of dissimulation, that he\nnot only most perfectly concealed them, but he actually contrived to\nproduce so great a seeming change for the better in his own character,\nthat he gradually succeeded in vurra much effacing the recollection\nof his former errors and iniquities from the memory of his kind and\nforgiving uncle.\n\nDuncan Bane, as the young Tullochcarron was called from his fair\ncomplexion, was, in every respect, a contrast to Lachlan Dhu, or Black\nLachlan. Tullochcarron had committed his infant boy to be nursed and\nfostered by a respectable lady, a distant relation of the family, who,\nthough low in circumstances, was high in piety and virtue. To this lady\nthe infant Duncan opportunely came to supply the place of a child she\nhad just then lost, and as the little fellow drew his nourishment from\nher bosom, all the strength of a mother's attachment fell in tender\nsorrow upon him; and he who never knew any other mother, repaid it\nwith corresponding affection. Tullochcarron was too conscious of the\nfailure in his attempt at yeddication, in the instance of his nephew,\nto risk a repetition of it in the still more interesting case of his\nson. He therefore gladly left the tutoring of the boy to the care\nof his excellent nurse, who appears to have been as intellectually\ngifted as any woman of those barbarous times could have been. It is\ntrue that she must, in all probability, have been tinctured with some\nportion of the learning of Dame Julian. For, although nothing remains\nto establish that the young man had studied hawking and hunting,\nthe legend certainly informs us, that he had a complete knowledge\nof, and an ardent love for,--hum--ha--I would say for that art of\nwhich it would ill become me to speak dispraisingly, seeing that\nwe have had this evening so much reason to thank Mr. Clifford for\nhaving so ably and successfully exerceesed it. But--what was much\nbetter--under her godly care the boy's heart was filled with all the\nbest feelings of religion and humanity. He was amiable, generous,\nand kind-hearted, and ever ready on all occasions to sacrifice his\nown little interests to those of others; and he was so utterly devoid\nof guile himself, that he felt it almost impossible to imagine its\nexistence in others. It was not wonderful, therefore, that he grew up\nwith the warmest attachment to his cousin, Lachlan Dhu, who was the\nvery prince of deceivers, and who well knew how to put on the mask\nof kindness. He allowed no opportunity of gaining his young cousin's\naffections to pass unprofitably, and so unremitting was his attention\nto the young Duncan, that he even succeeded in throwing sand into the\neyes of old Tullochcarron himself, who began to thank Heaven for the\nhappy change that had taken place on his nephew, and to trust that\nhe might yet look to him as the future protector of his son's youth\nand inexperience, in the very probable event of his being called from\nthis world before his boy had grown to the years of manhood.\n\nBut the old man was still a hale and hearty carle when his boy's\nseventeenth birthday came round. He had indeed been a marvellously\nstout and healthy man all his life. The only disease, indeed, with\nwhich he had ever been afflicted was an almost insatiable appetite\nfor food, which no endeavours of his own could restrain. It was a\nnever-ending ravenous hunger, for which the poor man was by no means\nmorally responsible, and from the gnawing effects of which he must\nhave died, if it had not been frequently and largely administered\nto. Nor did he ask for dainties, although there certainly was one\nspecies of food which he preferred to all others when he could get\nit in its season, and that was--salmon. Tullochcarron's complaint,\nas you may very naturally conceive, grew with his growth, which was\nimmense, and increased with every additional year that he lived. But,\nold as he was, and enormous as he became in bulk, his great strength\nremained unimpaired, and he was still able to move about with wonderful\nactivity in the superintendence of his concerns.\n\nI have already told you, that although he and Ballindalloch were not\nat absolute war, yet there did exist between them that ancient grudge\nand jealousy, left by the ill-salved, though apparently bandaged up\nwounds of a peace, patched together when both parties had suffered too\nmuch to continue the war. And although the then existing Ballindalloch\nwas not the man in whose reign and under whose attack Tullochcarron's\nmuch-loved brother had fallen, yet those were times in which the\nson was made answerable for his father's sins. The then laird of\nBallindalloch, therefore, succeeded to all that secret animosity\nwhich his father had so industriously laboured to earn. Thus, as one\nmight say, the military precaution, as well as the civil management of\nTullochcarron's little kingdom, required ane active superintendence and\nadministration. But although he now scrupled not to employ his nephew\nin all duties where he thought his services might be useful to him,\nand although he had even begun of late to give occasional occupation\nto his son, yet, as they used to say in those days, he was aye upon\nthe head of his own affairs himself, watched everything with his own\neye, and gave every order of importance from his own mouth.\n\nLachlan Dhu, then, having but little else in which to employ himself,\nspent most of his time in the chase, and the venison which he slew\nwas always sure to procure him a blessing from his hungry uncle. As\nfor Duncan Bane, his whole attention was directed to fishing, and the\nsalmon which he caught were always sure to be more highly prized than\nthe best buck that his cousin ever brought from the forest. In strict\nattention to the fack, as well as in justice to the character of the\nyouth himself, I must tell you, that the desire of procuring savoury\ndishes for his father, to whom his devoted attachment was excessive,\nwas one great reason, as well as in some measure an apology,--that\nis, I mean, a-a to say, Mr. Clifford, if fishing ever required any\napology at all, which I must confess your excellent salmon of this\nday hath led me vurra much to doot; I say it was a good reason for\nhis following out that quieter sort of sport, instead of that of the\nchase, which some of your wild Nimrods would look upon as by much\nthe more active and manly. But I must likewise inform you, that there\nwas also a secondary cause that contributed to make him prefer this\noccupation to all others. This cause, you will doubtless consider of\ninferior strength to the other; but still it is a cause which is in\nitself supposed by many to be very powerful in some of its effecks;\nthe cause I mean was--love.\n\nAnna Gordon was the eldest of three orphans who were left to the\ncare of their aunt, who was the vurra lady whom I have already\nintroduced to you as the nurse and female preceptor of the youth\nDuncan Bane. Anna was but a year younger than the young laird of\nTullochcarron. They had grown up together, and had loved one another\nlike companions, until their attachment insensibly assumed a warmer\ncharacter. The penury to which the Gordons and their aunt had been\nreduced by circumstances, had hitherto induced Duncan to keep the\nmutual passion that subsisted between him and Anna a secret from his\nfather, who never ceased to talk of some splendid alliance for his son\nas one of his most favourite schemes. But as this love of the young\nman for the lady waxed stronger, his fondness for fishing was most\nstrangely and marvellously augmented in a similar proportion. Were I\nto attempt to guess at the cause of this whimsical combination of two\npredilections apparently so inconsistent with one another, I should\nsay, that he began daily more and more to take to fishing, because it\nfurnished him with an apology for more frequently visiting his nurse's\ncottage, that was situated on a beautifully wooded knoll rising on the\nnorth bank of the river Aven. It was, moreover, an amusement which\nhe could pursue without losing the society of her he loved. For as\nhe loitered along the river's bank with his angle-rod in his hand,\nAnna Gordon was ever at his side; and I am doubting much that they\nwasted many a good hour in idle talk rather than in fishing. But I am\nno more than the simple historian of their tale, therefore it is no\nbusiness of mine to defend either him or her from the charge which you\nwill of necessity bring against both of them for such a mis-spending\nof their precious time. However, I'm thinking, gentlemen, that they\nmust have had some peculiar pleasure in one another's conversation,\nor they never would have stolen secretly away thus by them two selves,\nas they were continually wont to do, even escaping from Anna's little\nsister and brother. The boy, poor little fellow, had been born deaf\nand dumb, and could have understood no other language but that of the\neyes; and let me tell you, gentlemen, that learned as I am in tongues,\nboth ancient and modern, that is one of which I must confess myself to\nhave no knowledge, though they do say that there is much eloquence in\nit when it is rightly comprehended. It was not always an easy matter\nto jink these two children, for Duncan Bane had been so kind to both\nof them, especially to the poor dumb boy, that wherever he went,\nthey ran after him like two penny doggies; and as he had too much\ngood feeling in his composition to allow him to treat them harshly,\nhe was often obliged to steal their sister Anna away from them when\nhe wished to have a private saunter with her.\n\nThe lovers had one day escaped from them and all the world in this\nmanner, for Duncan was anxiously desirous to be alone with Anna,\nthat he might learn from her why it was that her fair brow wore an\nunwonted cloud upon it, and why her large blue eyes seemed to have\nbeen dimmed by recent tears. He was impatient till they reached a\ngrove by the river's side, which was their ordinary place of retreat\nwhen they wished to be free from all vulgar or prying eyes.\n\n\"Anna,\" said the youth, the moment they had got within its shade,\n\"something unpleasant has befallen thee; though thy face cannot be\nrobbed of its loveliness, yet it wants to-day that smile which is\nwont to be the sunshine of my heart.\"\n\n\"I must try to call it up, then,\" said she, with an effort to be\nplayful that could not be mistaken. \"I would not have thy heart chill\nif I can help it.\"\n\n\"Nay, but I entreat thee to tell me what has vexed thee, my love!\" said\nhe tenderly. \"If I cannot relieve thy distress, let me at least share\nit with thee!\"\n\n\"I would fain tell thee, Duncan,\" replied she, \"for I would fain shut\nup no secrets from thee in that heart which is so entirely thine;\nbut\"----\n\n\"But what, my dearest?\" cried Duncan impatiently; \"do not keep me\nlonger in suspense. There ought, indeed, to be no secrets with either\nof us that are not shared between us.\"\n\n\"There never shall be any on my part,\" said Anna, throwing down her\neyes. \"And yet--and yet I have much difficulty in uttering what I\nwould now tell thee.\"\n\n\"Keep me on the rack no longer, my love, I beseech thee!\" said Duncan.\n\n\"I will take courage to tell thee, then,\" said she, \"but thou must\nfirst give me a solemn promise.\"\n\n\"What! of secrecy?\" said Duncan. \"Methinks thou mayest safely enough\ntrust to me in that respect.\"\n\n\"The promise I would exact of thee goes somewhat beyond that of mere\nsecrecy,\" said she gravely. \"Thou must promise me that thou wilt not\nact upon what I have to tell thee, but in such manner as prudence\nmay permit me to sanction.\"\n\n\"And dost thou think, my Anna,\" replied Duncan, \"that I could ever do,\nor desire to do, anything that thou couldst wish me not to do?\"\n\n\"But promise me, solemnly promise me!\" said Anna, persevering with\nunwonted eagerness in her demand; \"do promise me, I entreat thee!\"\n\n\"Well, well, I do promise thee,--thus solemnly promise thee,\" replied\nDuncan, kissing the hand which he held. \"And now, come! relieve my\nanxiety, what is this gloomy secret? This is the first time I have\nseen traces of tears in thine eyes since the death of the poor thrush\nI gave thee.\"\n\n\"The present matter is somewhat more serious,\" said Anna, with a\ngravity and dignity of manner which he had never seen her assume\nbefore. \"Your cousin, Lachlan Dhu, dared this morning to address me in\nodious terms, which he called love. I answered him with a scorn and\na reproof which I had hardly believed my young, weak, and untaught\ntongue could have used to one of his manhood. But the Blessed Virgin\nlent me language; and he stood so abashed before me, that I trust I\nhave reason to hope that he will not again dare to repeat his offence.\"\n\n\"My cousin Lachlan!\" exclaimed Duncan, overwhelmed with\nastonishment. \"My cousin Lachlan, didst thou say? Did my ears hear\nthee aright? Impossible!\"\n\n\"I grieve to say it is too true,\" said Anna Gordon.\n\n\"O villain, villain!\" cried Duncan. \"Most deep and consummate\nvillain! Can so much apparent goodness be but the mask of deceit and\nvillainy? But--I must straightway question him! I will drag him from\nthe disguise which he wears, and--and then!\"\n\n\"Remember that solemn promise which you have this moment made to\nme,\" said Anna, calmly taking his hand. \"You see how wise it was in\nme to secure it. To be the innocent cause of awakening feud between\nkinsmen of blood so near, would indeed be a heavy affliction to me;\nand were any of that blood to be spilled--were thy blood to flow--but\nthou must keep thy solemn engagement to me; and thou must now pledge\nme thy word, that never till I give thee leave to do so wilt thou,\neven by a look, discover to anyone what I have now told thee.\"\n\n\"Anna,\" said Duncan, after some little hesitation, \"I will promise\nyou what you desire; but my promise is given on the faith of a\ncounter-pledge, which I now expect to have from thee. Promise me,\non thy part, that no such cause of offence shall be again offered to\nthee that thou dost not instantly tell me of it.\"\n\n\"My present frankness should be my best pledge that I will do as thou\nwouldst have me,\" said Anna. \"But the promise thou hast given me must\nthen be held as consequently renewed.\"\n\n\"I am content,\" said Duncan. \"I am content to trust that you will\nnot tie me down too rigidly.\"\n\nGuileless as Duncan Bane naturally was, he felt it no easy task\nto commence and to carry on a train of dissimulation with one with\nwhom he had been on terms of open and unreserved intercourse of mind\nfrom his childhood, as I may say, save on the one subject of his love\nalone. Duncan dreaded that the very next meeting he should have with\nhis cousin would throw him off his guard. He, therefore, proceeded\nforthwith to school himself as to the face and manner he should wear,\nand the words he should utter? and so successfully did he do so in\nhis own judgment, that, after the first interview with his cousin was\nover, he congratulated himself that the deep dissatisfaction which\nhe secretly felt had been entirely shrouded from him who had excited\nit. And certainly, whether it was so or not, the crafty Lachlan Dhu\ngave him no reason to believe that it was discovered.\n\nIt was on the vurra night after this, however, that the Laird of\nBallindalloch was seated in the cap-house of the great round tower\nof the castle he had so lately built, engaged in some confidential\ntalk with his faithful henchman, Ian Grant, when his favourite old\nsleuth-hound, that lay beside his chair, raised up his long heavy\nears and growled; and soon afterwards a step was heard ascending the\nnarrow screw stair leading to the small apartment where they were.\n\n\"See who is there, Ian,\" said the laird, in answer to a gentle tap\nat the door.\n\nIan obeyed, and on opening it one of the domestics appeared to announce\nthat a stranger, who refused to tell his name, had been brought, at\nhis own request, to the castle guard-room, having expressed a wish\nto be admitted to a private conference with the laird.\n\n\"A stranger demands to have an interview with me after the\nwatch is set, and yet refuses to tell who or what he is!\" cried\nBallindalloch. \"By Saint Peter, but this smells of treachery,\nmethinks! Yet let him appear, we fear him not; let him appear, I say,\"\nrepeated he, waving off the attendant. \"Ian,\" continued he after the\nman was gone, \"look that your dirk be on your thigh.\"\n\n\"My dirk is here, sir, and sharp,\" readily replied the henchman, as he\nmoved towards the door, and planted himself beside it, to be prepared\nto strike, if any sudden emergency should require him to do so.\n\nAgain steps were heard ascending the stair, the door opened, and the\ndoorway was filled by the bulky figure of a man, whose dark features\nwere almost entirely hid by a blue Kelso bonnet of more than ordinary\nbreadth, and the ample web of a large hill plaid, of the red Grant\ntartan, put on as Highlanders know how to do when they would fain\nconceal themselves, completely enveloped the whole of his figure,\nas well as the lower part of his face, leaving little more visible\nthan the tip of his nose and his dark moustachios. For some moments\nhe stood silent before Ballindalloch.\n\n\"Speak!\" said the laird at length. \"Thy name and thine errand at this\nuntimeous hour!\"\n\n\"Ballindalloch,\" replied the stranger, looking around him, and glancing\nat Ian, \"thou shalt have both incontinently, but it must be in thine\nown particular ear alone.\"\n\n\"Leave us then, Ian,\" said Ballindalloch, waving him away, whilst\nat the same time he stretched forth his hand to lift his claymore\nwithin easier reach of the place where he sat. \"Leave us, I say,\nIan! I would be private with this stranger.\"\n\n\"Uve! uve!\" said Ian under his breath; then he moved, hesitated,\nshrugged his shoulders, looked at the stranger as if he would have\npenetrated him, plaid and all, to the very soul; then he shifted his\nposition--yet still he did not quit the chamber, but stood and threw\nan imploring look of remonstrance towards the laird.\n\n\"Begone, Ian!\" said Ballindalloch in a voice of impatience; and Ian\nat last vanished at the word.\n\n\"Sir stranger!\" said Ballindalloch, \"I hope I may now ask thee to\nrid me of all this mystery.\"\n\n\"I am most ready to do so, Ballindalloch,\" said the other, laying\naside his bonnet and plaid, and showing himself, to all appearance,\nentirely unarmed.\n\n\"Lachlan Dhu Grant of Tullochcarron?\" exclaimed the laird with\nastonishment; \"what stirring errand has moved thee hither at such\nan hour?\"\n\n\"I come to thee but on peaceful private conference,\" replied Lachlan\nDhu, with a respectful obeisance: \"and I use this secrecy because\nit is for the interest of both of us, that what I have to treat of\nshould reach no other ears but our own.\"\n\n\"Proceed,\" said Ballindalloch, \"thou mayest speak safely here, for\nin this place we are beyond all earshot.\"\n\n\"I need not tell thee, Ballindalloch,\" continued Lachlan Dhu, \"I\nneed not tell thee, I say, that which is sufficiently notour to all,\nthat mine uncle, old Tullochcarron's patrimony, would have been mine\nas a fair succession, had he not married on purpose to disappoint me.\"\n\n\"I know this much,\" said Ballindalloch, not altogether dissatisfied\nto see something like discontent in what he naturally held to be\nthe enemy's camp. \"Perhaps thou hast had but scrimp justice in this\nmatter.\"\n\n\"Justice!\" exclaimed Lachlan Dhu, catching eagerly at his\nwords. \"Justice! I have been deeply wronged. Bred up and cockered\nby the old man for a time as his successor, as if it had been with\nthe very intent of throwing me the more cruelly off, and rendering\nthe blasting of my hopes the more bitter, from the very fairness of\nthose blossoms which his pretended warmth of affection had fostered!\"\n\n\"'Twas not well done in the old man,\" said Ballindalloch; \"but now,\nmethinks, 'tis past all cure.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Lachlan Dhu sternly, \"I hope there is yet ample room\nfor remede.\"\n\n\"As how, I pr'ythee?\" said Ballindalloch.\n\n\"Mark me, and thou shalt quickly learn,\" said Lachlan Dhu. \"But first\nof all I must tell thee, that I now come to offer myself to thee as\nthy vassal on this simple condition, that thou wilt give me thine\naid and countenance against all questioners to help me to keep what\nshall be mine own after I shall have fairly won it.\"\n\n\"And how dost thou propose to win it?\" demanded Ballindalloch,\nwith a grave and serious air that seemed to argue a most attentive\nconsideration of a proposal in itself so inviting to him.\n\n\"By secretly ridding myself of mine uncle's sickly stripling boy,\nwhenever favouring fortune may yield me fitting opportunity,\"\nreplied Lachlan Dhu, approaching his head nearer to Ballindalloch,\nand sinking his voice to a low sepulchral tone, and with a coolness\nthat might have befitted a practised murderer.\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed Ballindalloch, with an air of surprise. \"What hath\nthe youth done to deserve so much of thy hatred?\"\n\n\"Twice hath he crossed my path,\" continued Lachlan Dhu, his features\nblackening, and his dark eyeballs rolling as he spoke. \"He hath twice\ncrossed my path; first when he came into this world, and now a second\ntime by thwarting me in my love.\"\n\n\"And what have I to do with all this?\" demanded Ballindalloch.\n\n\"Much,\" replied Lachlan Dhu earnestly. \"I am now thy sworn vassal. The\nfeudal superiority of Tullochcarron will henceforth insure to thee\nfriendship and strength, where thou hast long had to deal with open\nor secret foes, and\"----\n\n\"Thou speakest as if thou wert already Laird of Tullochcarron,\"\nsaid Ballindalloch, interrupting him.\n\n\"That young foulmart once disposed of, I soon shall be,\" said\nLachlan Dhu, with fiend-like expression. \"Mine uncle's time cannot\nnow be long, even were nature left to take its course; or,--it may\nbe shortened. Sudden death to a man of his gross form and purfled\nhabit could never seem strange; and then\"----\n\n\"True,\" said Ballindalloch calmly; \"but how can I aid thee in thy\nscheme?\"\n\n\"I lack no present aid while I have this arm,\" replied Lachlan Dhu;\n\"it is the support and defence of thy faithful vassal, Lachlan Dhu\nGrant, Laird of Tullochcarron, that I require of thee, if unhappily\nsome unlucky circumstance should awaken idle suspicions against him.\"\n\n\"I trust I shall always know how to defend my vassals,\" said\nBallindalloch proudly.\n\n\"Then am I safe,\" said Lachlan Dhu; \"but in the meanwhile secrecy is\nessential to our purpose.\"\n\n\"I hope I have prudence enough to know how to conduct myself in all\ncases of delicacy,\" replied Ballindalloch.\n\n\"'Tis well,\" said Lachlan Dhu, again folding his plaid around\nhim, and putting on his bonnet. \"Now I must begone; for time\npresses. Farewell! I shall trust to thee, and thou mayest trust to me.\"\n\n\"I shall not forget what is due to thee, when thou art my vassal,\"\nsaid the laird, \"nor shall I ever forget what ought at all times to\nbe expected from Ballindalloch. Here, Ian Dhu, see this stranger safe\nbeyond the walls and outposts.\"\n\nThe night I speak of seemed to be quite pregnant with strange\nvisitations; for, at a still later hour, after old Tullochcarron\nhad himself seen that the guard at the barbican of his small place\nof strength was on the alert, and had secured the iron doors of the\nentrance of the peel-tower, and had finally retired to his apartment\nto go to rest, he was surprised to see a packet lying on his table,\nof which no one of his attendants could give him any account. It was\ntied with a morsel of ribbon, the ends of which were secured with wax,\nbut without any impression. It was simply addressed:--\n\n\"To Tullochcarron.\"\n\nAnd on cutting it open, he found that it contained the following\nletter, with a broad seal at the end of it.\n\n\"Tullochcarron,--I write this private communication, to tell thee that\nthou hast a traitor in thy house, that thou dost nourish a viper in\nthy bosom that would sting thee. The life of thine only son is certain\nto be taken, if thou dost not secure it by the instant seizure of\nthy nephew, Lachlan Dhu. Thine own murder will speedily follow. The\ncold-blooded villain came to me secretly under the cloud of this\nnight, and did unfold his devilish plans, offering to me the feudal\nsuperiority of thy lands of Tullochcarron, provided I should protect\nhim as my vassal against all after question. I seemed to listen, and\nyet I evited direct promise; and I now hasten to certiorate thee of\nthese facts through ane trusty messenger, who engages, by certain means\nbest known to himself, to have these placed upon thine own private\ntable before thou sleepest. This traitorie is as yet alone known to\nthee, to me, to the foul faitour who planned, and to the devil who\nprompted it. And that thou mayest have no doubt left in thee of the\ntruth of what I have here written, I do hereto affix my sign-manual,\nas well as the seal, the which is attached to the last instrument of\npacification that passed between our houses.--Ballindalloch.\"\n\nYou may conceive, gentlemen, that this letter, read alone, at midnight\nin his chamber, dreadfully alarmed old Tullochcarron. He started from\nthe large oaken chair in which he had seated himself to peruse it,\nand snatching his lamp, he rushed to his son's apartment, where he\nheld up the light, and gazed with fear and trembling on his son's\ncouch, almost expecting to see his boy foully murdered, and weltering\nin his blood. Stretched on his bed, he did indeed find him; but his\neyes were closed in the sweet slumbers that attend the pillow of pure\nand spotless youth. He gazed on him in silent anxiety for some time,\ntill he was really certain that he breathed; and then the old man's\nlip quivered, and his eyes were dimmed by the big drops that rapidly\ndistilled over his eyelids. Stooping gently down, he kissed Duncan's\ncheek, and then quitting the room upon tiptoe, he called up an old\nand tried domestic.\n\n\"Hamish,\" said he, \"I had a strange and troubled dream, as I dozed\nin mine arm-chair.\"\n\n\"Thou didst sup somewhat of the heaviest, Tullochcarron,\" replied\nHamish. \"After so many pounds' weight of salmon, 'tis but little\nwonder if the foul hag on her nightmare should have been riding over\nand over thee.\"\n\n\"Psha!\" said Tullochcarron in a vexed tone and manner that showed\nhe was too seriously affected to be trifled with. \"My dream touched\nthe safety of thy young master. Hark ye! I bid thee watch his couch,\nand let no one approach it with impunity.\"\n\n\"My young master!\" said Hamish with energy. \"These grey hairs shall\nbe trodden under foot ere the latch of his door shall be touched.\"\n\n\"I know thy fidelity,\" said Tullochcarron. \"Be sure thou givest me\nthe alarm if aught extraordinary should occur.\"\n\nHaving taken this hasty precaution, the old Laird of Tullochcarron\nagain seated himself in his arm-chair to read over for the second\ntime the alarming communication he had received. Ballindalloch's\nname and seal were the first things his eyes rested on after opening\nit. Doubts and suspicions instantly flashed across his mind.\n\n\"What a silly fool am I after all,\" said he, \"to let any information\nfrom such a quarter so agitate me! What truth is to be expected from a\nhouse so full of hereditary enmity against mine of Tullochcarron! And\nis not Lachlan Dhu the son of that very brother of mine who worked\nso much sore evil to the house of Ballindalloch? And is he not at\nthis moment the best, the stoutest, and the sharpest arrow I have in\nmy quiver? And are not these reasons enough to prompt such a secret\nenemy to urge me to whet my knife against him? Dull old idiot that I\nwas! but now I see it all! I see it all! What a trap was I about to run\nmy head into! But stay, let me think what is best to be done. Prudent\nprecautions with regard to my son can do no harm. I shall put him\nwell on his guard; and that secured, the best thing I can do is to\nbury the contents of this paper in mine own bosom.\"\n\nWith such determinations as these, Tullochcarron retired to rest;\nbut his repose was disturbed and put to flight by visions which were\nnot altogether to be laid to the account of the heavy meal he had\ntaken ere he retired to rest. He was early visited by his son Duncan.\n\n\"Father,\" said the young man, \"how was it that old Hamish took post in\nmy chamber last night? I found him sitting by my bedside at daybreak\nthis morning, and all the explanation I could extract from him was\nthat he had the laird's orders for being there.\"\n\n\"He had my orders my dear boy,\" said Tullochcarron, pressing his son\nto his bosom, and kissing his forehead. \"A strange dream had come\nover me, that alarmed my foolish old heart about thy safety.\"\n\n\"A dream about me!\" said the young man smiling. \"What harm couldst\nthou dread for me, father?\"\n\n\"I dreamed that thy life was threatened, boy,\" said his father;\n\"and therefore it was that I made Hamish watch thee.\"\n\n\"My life in danger, father!\" exclaimed Duncan, \"and from whose hand?\"\n\n\"From the hand of thy cousin Lachlan Dhu,\" replied his father. \"Hast\nthou any cause to dread that my dream might have aught of reality\nin it?\"\n\n\"My cousin Lachlan Dhu!\" exclaimed Duncan, with unfeigned\nsurprise. \"Nay,\" continued he, after some little hesitation, during\nwhich he remembered the promise he had given to Anna Gordon; \"why\nshould I think that Lachlan should wish to injure me?\"\n\n\"Why should we think it, indeed?\" exclaimed the old man, with\nconsiderable emotion. \"Both I and mine should look for anything but\nhostility from Lachlan Dhu, if there be any faith or gratitude left\nin man. Let us then think no more about it.\"\n\n\"Trust me, I shall think no more of it,\" said Duncan.\n\n\"Aye!\" said the old man again; \"but yet I'd have thee to be cautious. I\nwould entreat thee to guard thyself as if there were danger. Thou\nhast a dirk and a hand to use it, boy! Thou hast a claymore and an\narm that can wield it; and though thou art as yet but a stripling,\nstill thou art the son of old Tullochcarron! But let faithful Hamish\nbe thy constant henchman, and then my heart will be at ease.\"\n\n\"I will defend mine own head as a true Tullochcarron should do,\nif dirk or steel can do it,\" said the youth energetically, and by\nno means relishing the idea of his motions being watched, and his\nperson eternally haunted by an attendant. \"But I have nothing to fear,\nand Hamish might be better employed than in following me in all my\nidle wanderings.\"\n\nDuncan thought with himself that he had perhaps better grounds for\nentertaining some suspicion of evil intentions against him on the\npart of his kinsman, than any which a dream could have afforded to\nhis father; and yet we must not wonder, gentlemen, that, in such\nsuperstitious times, old Tullochcarron's alleged vision had also\nits own effect upon the young man, when taken in combination with\nthat strange new light that had recently opened on his cousin's\ncharacter. The gallant youth was above all fear, however; but he\nhad prudence enough to resolve to expose himself to no unnecessary\ndanger. As to old Hamish, Duncan thought it better to gratify his\nfather by allowing that faithful servant to be his companion at all\ntimes, save and except only when he went to meet her, of his attachment\nto whom he still thought it wise to keep Tullochcarron ignorant. Then,\nindeed, the god of love inspired him with so much ingenuity in escaping\nfrom his attendant, that he baffled every attempt at discovery.\n\nIt was upon one of these occasions, when he had an especial wish to\nhave an hour or two of private talk with Anna Gordon, that he, in the\nfirst place, contrived to escape from old Hamish, and afterwards to\nsteal her from her dumb brother and little sister. Away tripped the\npair together laughing, and rejoicing in their own cleverness. Duncan\nhad his angle-rod in his hand, but he wandered with Anna through\nthe groves, by the margin of the Aven, without ever thinking of\ncasting a line into its waters. The subject of their conversation\nwas one of peculiar interest to both of them, for Duncan had sought\nthis interview for the purpose of informing her that, from certain\ncircumstances which had recently occurred, he was led to believe that\ntheir secret attachment might now be safely divulged to the old laird\nhis father, in the hope that he might be brought to consent to the\nspeedy solemnisation of their marriage. The time they spent together\nwas by no means short, though to them it appeared as trifling. At\nlength they found out that it was time to part, and a more than usually\nlingering parting took place between them on the top of that vurra\nhigh and precipitous crag, where now rests the northern extremity of\nthe noble bridge that spans the river Aven above Ballindalloch. When\nthey did at last sever from each other, Anna took her way homeward\nby a footpath leading up the river through the thick oak copsewood\nthat covered the ground behind it, and clustered to the very brink\nof the precipice where she left Duncan.\n\nThe young man stood entranced with his own happy thoughts for a\nmoment after Anna had disappeared, and then bethinking him that\nhe must hasten to make the best use of the time that now remained,\nif he would not return empty-handed to his father, he stood on the\nverge of the cliff, eyeing the stream below, and thoroughly occupied\nin preparing his tackle with all manner of expedition, previous to\ndescending by a circuitous way to the water's edge to commence his\nsport. He was alone, as you may think, gentlemen; but there was an\nevil eye that watched him with the tiger's lurid and unvarying gaze,\naye, with such a gaze as the tiger's fiery orbs assume when he has\nslowly and silently tracked his unconscious prey through all the\nmazes of the jungle, till he at last beholds it within his reach. As\nthe head of the traitor Lachlan Dhu appeared from the thicket within\nthree paces of the spot where young Tullochcarron stood, a fiendish\nsmile of eager triumph gave a hellish expression to its features. It\nwas but one desperate spring. One piercing shriek was uttered by\nthe unhappy Duncan Bane, and in one instant his lifeless corse was\nfloating, shattered and bleeding, on the crystal stream of the Aven.\n\nThat scream was heard by Anna Gordon, and from the moment it entered\ninto her ears, it never left her mind. As it reached her, she happened\nto be passing round a turn of the river some little way above, whence\nthe fatal crag was still visible.\n\n\"Merciful saints!\" she cried, as she turned quickly round, \"that was\nmy Duncan's voice!\"\n\nShe caught one instantaneous glimpse of the figure of Lachlan Dhu,\nas he fled from the summit of the crag. A dreadful suspicion shot\nacross her mind. Winged by her agonising terrors, she flew back to\nthe spot where she had parted with Duncan. There she met the poor\ndumb boy, her brother, pulling his little sister along by the arm. No\nsooner did he behold Anna, than with a wild animation of countenance,\nand with gesture so expressive, that no one but a creature deprived\nof the power of language could have employed, he imitated the action\nof one person pushing another over the face of the cliff, and then he\nran down the path that followed the course of the stream. Anna rushed\nfranticly after him; and when she had reached the margin of the Aven,\nher eyes rested on the lifeless corse of her beloved, which had been\ncarried by the eddying current into a little quiet nook, where it\nlay half-stranded on a grassy bank.\n\nIt happened that old Hamish, who as usual had been anxiously seeking\nhis young master, came a few moments afterwards accidentally to the\nsame spot; and what a spectacle did he behold! Seated on the bank by\nthe water's edge was the wretched Anna Gordon, with her lover's mangled\nand bleeding head upon her knee. Her eyes were fixed upon its livid\nand gory features, as if they had been gazing on vacancy. Not a tear\nflowed, not a groan nor a sigh was uttered. A monumental group could\nnot have been more motionless or silent. Hamish was distracted. He\ntried to make her speak; for altogether ignorant of the powerful\ncause of interest which operated upon her, he viewed her but as an\nidle spectator, an indifferent person, from whom he anxiously desired\nto extract something that might enable him to guess as to how this\ndreadful calamity had occurred. His questions were rapid, urgent,\nand incessant; but still she minded him not, until he bent forward\nas if to attempt to lift the body from her knee. Then it was, that\nturning round with all the frenzied dignity of fixed insanity, she\nfastened the severe gaze of her unsettled eyes upon him, and spoke\nin a tone that froze his very heart.\n\n\"Begone, old man!\" said she, \"begone. What! wouldst thou rob me of my\nlove on our bridal day? He is mine! he is mine! But hush,\" said she,\nsuddenly lowering her voice and changing her expression, \"hush! he\nsleeps! He slumbers sweetly now. But he will awake anon with smiles,\nand then our bridal revels will begin. Go, go, old man! go, bid the\nguests! Bid all!--bid all, I tell thee!--bid all, but--but--the\nmurderer!\" A shrill shriek, graduating into a violent hysterical\nlaugh, followed these wild wandering words; and a convulsion shook\nher delicate frame till she fainted away, as if life itself had fled\nfrom her.\n\nI must leave this heart-rending scene, gentlemen, to tell you what\nsoon afterwards took place in the old peel-tower of Tullochcarron.\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed the laird, as he was in the act of sitting down to\none of those many meals which the craving of his naturally enormous\nappetite rendered so essentially necessary for him. \"What!\" said he,\n\"still no salmon? Hath Duncan not yet returned, then? Why, methinks\nthe boy must have tyned his luck altogether. But I trow that the fish\nhave lost the way into our waters, they are so rare to be seen. Ha! who\ncomes there with haste so impatient? Is it thou, Lachlan Dhu?\"\n\n\"Alas, uncle!\" cried the murderer, rushing in without his bonnet,\nand with a frantic air, \"alas, uncle! alas! alas! Duncan! Duncan!\"\n\n\"What--what of Duncan?\" exclaimed the anxious and alarmed father,\nstarting from the table.\n\n\"Duncan,\" cried the traitor, \"my poor cousin Duncan is no more?\"\n\n\"What! Duncan? Villain! accursed villain! you lie,\" cried the old\nman half-distracted, and grappling his nephew by the throat with his\npowerful gripe. \"You lie, most accursed villain!\"\n\n\"Alas! alas! I wish I did!\" said Lachlan Dhu, with feigned sorrow. \"But\nI grieve to say that what I tell is, alas, too true. I was walking\naccidentally by the banks of the Aven, about a bowshot above the high\ncraig, when, on looking towards it, I beheld him standing carelessly\non the very brink of the cliff; and whether it was that his foot\nhad tripped upon some of those roots that scramble for a sustenance\nover the surface of the rock, or whether some sudden gust of wind\nhad caught him, I know not; but I saw him fall headlong thence; and\nafter being dashed horribly against the projecting points below,\nI could perceive his inanimate body borne off by the stream. Wild\nwith despair, and scarcely knowing what I was doing, I ran directly\nhome hither to tell thee the doleful news; and\"----\n\n\"Villain!\" shouted the old man in a voice like thunder. \"Villain! thou\nart his murderer. Seize him, and drag him hence to the dungeon. He hath\nreft me of my boy! my only hope on earth! the solace of my old age! O\nfool! fool! Why did I not take the well-meant warning? Oh! I am now\nindeed bereft! But his murderer must die ere the sun goes down. Where\nis Hamish? He at least should have been at my poor Duncan's side!\"\n\nAt that moment Hamish himself entered. He whose hypocritical acting I\nhave just described, had taken so long to prepare it for exhibition\nthat this old and faithful attendant had had full time to procure\nhelp to carry his young master's remains, and had now come on before\nthe body, with the well-meant intention of breaking the afflicting\nintelligence as easily as he could to the bereaved father. He had been\nrelieved of the task, as I have already told you; and the sad news\nhad spread so, that all the vassals and dependants within reach had\ncrowded to meet the body of their beloved Duncan Bane. The woeful\nwail of the pipes was heard at a distance. The old laird became\ndreadfully agitated. The sound drew nearer. Tullochcarron bit his\nnether lip, clenched his hands, and wound himself up to go through\nwith the trying scene as he felt that Tullochcarron should do. He put\non his bonnet with energy, wrapped his plaid tight around him, and\ndescended with a resolute step into the court-yard. The clang of the\npipes became louder; and yet a louder crash of their rude music burst\nforth, as they passed inwards from beneath the arched gateway. The\nold man strode two or three steps forcibly forwards, with his eyes\nfixed upon the spot where the rush of human figures came squeezing\nin. At length his sight fell on the bloody corse of his murdered son,\nhis only earthly hope; and he became rooted to the ground he stood on.\n\nAnd now a light airy figure appeared tripping fantastically beside the\nbier with her hair fancifully wreathed up with worthless weeds. She\ncame dancing towards the old laird with gay smiles upon her face,\nand threw herself upon her knee before him.\n\n\"Thy blessing, father! thy blessing!\" said she, \"we come to crave\nthy blessing, father! and now,\" continued she, starting up, \"let\nthe feast be prepared!--and the dance!--for Duncan, thine own dear\nDuncan, has made me his bride, and I am the happiest maiden in all\nScotland! See, see! look here, how gaily my head is garlanded! Indeed,\nindeed, as all the neighbours were wont to say, we were made for each\nother. And now I am Duncan's bride! Aye, gentlefolks!\" added she,\ncurtseying gracefully around, and then hiding her blushing face in\nher hands for a moment, \"and I shall soon be my Duncan's lady! So,\nas the fair maid sings in the old ballad,--\n\n\n   'Oh! I shall henceforth be, my love,\n      As happy as a queen,\n    For such a youth as thee, my love,\n      Was never, never seen--never! no, never!'\n\n\nFather! father! thou art my father now as well as Duncan's--hath not\nDuncan told thee all, father? Methinks it was but to-day that we agreed\nto break the secret of our love to thee; and Duncan, thine own Duncan\nBane, was to tell thee all! and thou wert to give us thy blessing;\nand we were to be wedded--aye, wedded as man and wife, never again to\nsunder--but my brain so burns with joy, and my foolish heart beats so,\nthat--but no matter--ha!--I forget--I must go bid the guests!--I must\naway--I must go bid the bridal guests, they will take it all the kinder\nthat I bid them myself. Hush, then!\" added she, sinking her voice, and\napproaching the bier upon tiptoe, and gently stooping to kiss the cold\nlips of the corse. \"Hush, then, Duncan, my love, rest thee in sweet\nslumber till I return. All good be with ye, good gentlefolks. Mark me,\nI bid ye all to our bridal; but I have other guests to bid--I must\naway!--I have many guests to bid--away, away!\" and so she hurried\nforth from the gateway, singing as she went,--\n\n\n   \"And when that we shall wedded be,\n      All by the holy priest,\n    Full many a knight and lady bright\n      Shall grace our bridal feast.\"\n\n\nThe true interpretation of the cause of Anna's frenzy came palpably\nto the mind of the old laird of Tullochcarron. Whatever he might have\nthought of the attachment of the lovers under other circumstances,\nhe now felt that the discovery of it had only come like a gleam of\nsunshine to enhance the brightness of those earthly prospects which\nwere henceforth darkened for ever. Yet still with iron nerve he strung\nhimself firmly up to bear it all. He gave one piteous glance of despair\ntowards the bier where lay the dead body of his son, his only child,\nand then he suffered himself to be led passively up into the hall\nof the peel-tower, whither the corpse was immediately carried and\nlaid out. Then it was that human courage could no longer support\nhim,--it yielded, and he gave way to all a father's grief. For\na time he indulged fully in this; and then, drying up his tears,\nhe summoned his vassals, ordered in the prisoner Lachlan Dhu, and\ninstantly proceeded to hold a court upon him.\n\nThe murderer would have fain denied his guilt, but little evidence\nwas necessary to convict in those days. In this case there was enough\nto convince all present. An assize was set upon him--Ballindalloch's\nletter was produced and read: at once his bold and resolute air of\ninnocence was shaken. The prisoner's own statement as to the point\nwhere he stood when he had witnessed the alleged accident, was proved\nto be false by old Hamish, who chanced to see him whilst running\nalong a path which led, not from that point, but directly from the\nbrow of the cliff whence Duncan Bane had met his death. The dumb boy\ndescribed and pointed out, with most intelligent action, how and by\nwhom the murder was perpetrated; and his little sister distinctly told,\nthat she and her brother had seen Lachlan Dhu push Duncan Bane over\nthe crag. Finally, the sheet was removed from the body of Duncan,\nand then, they say, the wounds began to well forth afresh; and the\nagitation of the murderer was so great, that he called for a priest,\nconfessed all, was shortly shriven; and as the sun of that day which\nhad witnessed his crime was preparing to disappear behind the western\nmountains, its slanting rays were throwing a horrible splendour over\nhis powerful but now exanimate frame, as it swung to and fro in the\nevening breeze from the fatal tree on the gallow hill.\n\nThe afflicted Anna Gordon wandered wildly about with maniac energy\nduring all that day, no one knew where. At last, her friends, who\nwent in search of her, found her on the mountain, and led her gently\nhomewards. It happened that the path they took passed by the gallow\nhill. At some distance off she descried the figure of him who had so\nrecently paid the penalty of his crime.\n\n\"Yonder is a guest! I will bid yonder guest!\" cried poor Anna,\nwith a frantic laugh, as she broke from her friends, and hurried\ntowards the spot where it hung, ere anyone could arrest her. She\nstood for some moments with her eyes steadily fixed upon the\nghastly visage, and then bursting out in a sudden fit of frenzy,\n\"I heard my Duncan's cry!\" she shrieked aloud, in a voice that\npierced the ears and the hearts of all who heard her. \"'Twas his\nlast joyous cry to call me to our bridal! quick! quick!--let us\naway!--hark!--hark!--again!--again!--again!\"\n\nShe rushed rapidly forwards a few steps, as if she had been flying to\nmeet her lover. She tottered, and fell in a swoon, was borne home by\nher friends in a state of stupor, and placed in bed. But it would seem\nthat some internal and vital failure had taken place, for the poor\nthing ceased to breathe; and the gentle spirit of Anna Gordon fled\nto unite itself with that of him she loved. Nor were their earthly\nremains sundered, for the father of Duncan Bane saw them consigned\ntogether to the same grave, and he wept over them both.\n\nThe old laird of Tullochcarron was but little seen beyond the\ncourt-yard of his peel-tower for many weeks after his son's murder;\nthen, indeed, he did come abroad, as if to superintend his affairs as\nhe was wont to do, but it was more because he thought that it was right\nfor him so to do, than from any relish he had in the employment. It\nwas this conviction of what was expected of him, that likewise made him\nforce a false smile of cheerfulness over his good-humoured countenance,\nwhich, alas! was with him but as the sunshine that gilded the sepulchre\nof inextinguishable mourning within. One of the first visits that he\npaid was to the castle of his ancient feudal enemy, Ballindalloch. He\nwas kindly received, for his severe recent affliction was sincerely\npitied by his generous neighbour.\n\n\"Ballindalloch,\" said he, \"I am come to thank thee for the friendly\ncaution which thou gavest to a foolish old man, who, if he had taken\nit as it was meant, would have had his roof-tree still fresh and\nfirm. But let that pass,\" continued he, with a sigh, and with the full\ntear rising over his eyelid. \"The obligation I owe to thee is not the\nless, that I, blinded man, refused to give more heed to thy caution.\"\n\n\"Talk not of this, sir,\" said Ballindalloch. \"I must e'en confess\nto thee, Tullochcarron, that the advice came from so questionable\na quarter, that had I been in thy case I might have spurned it\nmyself. But say, sir, wilt thou not eat and drink with me?\"\n\n\"Willingly,\" replied Tullochcarron.\n\n\"Wilt thou name aught that might, perchance, be most pleasing to thy\ntaste?\" said Ballindalloch.\n\n\"I know I need not ask for salmon,\" said Tullochcarron, \"for such\nfood is hardly now to be had.\"\n\n\"Though the fish have been somewhat rare with us of late,\" said\nBallindalloch, \"I think I can promise thee that thou shalt have as\nmuch of thy favourite dish as shall satisfy thee.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" said Tullochcarron with a faltering voice, and with a tear\nrolling down his cheek, \"salmon have, indeed, been rare with me\nsince--since--but,\" added he, making a strong effort to overcome\nthe feelings excited by the recollection of his son, and perhaps\nwith the hope of hiding his agitation under a good-humoured jest,\n\"I hear that the salmon are so bewitched, that they hardly ever come\nfarther inland now than the Bog of Gight. In so great a scarcity,\nthen, I much doubt whether the stock of fresh fish within the Castle\nof Ballindalloch will stand against my well-known voracity.\"\n\n\"Be assured that there is as much in the house, of mine own catching,\ntoo, as will extinguish thine appetite, and leave something to spare,\"\nsaid Ballindalloch.\n\n\"Thou knowest not what a cormorant I am,\" said Tullochcarron.\n\n\"I have heard much of thy powers,\" said Ballindalloch.\n\n\"And I am as sharp set at this moment as ever I was in my life,\"\nsaid Tullochcarron.\n\n\"All that may be; yet I fear thee not,\" said Ballindalloch laughing.\n\n\"Art thou bold enough to lay a wager on the issue?\" demanded\nTullochcarron.\n\n\"I am so bold,\" said Ballindalloch.\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Tullochcarron, \"I will wager thee the succession\nand heirship of my lands against thy grey gelding, that I shall not\nleave thee a morsel to spare.\"\n\n\"Thou dost give me brave odds, indeed,\" said Ballindalloch; \"thou\nhadst best bethink thee again ere we strike thumbs on it.\"\n\n\"Nay, I require no more thought,\" said Tullochcarron; \"and, moreover,\nI grow hungrier every moment. Besides,\" said the old man with a sigh,\nthat showed that all this jocularity was only assumed to cover a\nbroken heart; \"I am putting in peril that in which I can have no\ninterest, whilst, if I win thy gallant grey, I shall be sure of being\nwell mounted for the rest of my life. Art thou afraid of losing thy\nsteed? or wilt thou say done to the wager?\"\n\n\"I do say done, then, since thou wilt have it so,\" said Ballindalloch,\nand he accordingly gave the necessary orders for having the matter\nput to the proof.\n\nAfter a little time, a serving man entered with a covered trencher, in\nwhich lay, smoking hot, one half of a small salmon. When Tullochcarron\nlifted the cover, he eyed it with something like contempt, and\nimpelled as he was by his irresistible disease, he fell upon it, and\ndevoured it with an alacrity that astonished every beholder. A whole\nsalmon, but of moderate size, was then brought in, and was instantly\nattacked by Tullochcarron with as much avidity as if he had not eaten\na morsel. Wonderfully and fearfully did he go on to clear his way\nthrough it; but as he approached the conclusion of it, his jaws began\nto go rather more languidly than before. Ballindalloch observed this.\n\n\"Ho there! bring more salmon!\" cried he aloud.\n\n\"No,\" said Tullochcarron, shoving the trencher from him, and wiping\nhis knife and fork in his napkin, and sticking them into his dirk\nsheath. \"No, no; I have enough. Ballindalloch, my lands shall be\nyours the moment the breath is out of my body.\"\n\n\"Nay, then,\" said Ballindalloch, \"I must in truth and honesty confess\nthat I called for more salmon but as a bravado; for thou hast indeed\nfinished all the salmon that was in the house, and it is my grey\ngelding that is thine, not thy lands that are mine.\"\n\n\"It matters not, Ballindalloch,\" replied the other. \"The lands of\nTullochcarron are thine notwithstanding. See, there are the writings\nwhich I had made out the week after my poor Duncan was so foully\nmurdered. Thou wilt find that thy name was then inserted therein. I\nbut seized on this of the wager as a whimsical means of breaking\nthe matter to thee; and now thou mayest make of Tullochcarron what\nit may please thee. I shall not stand long in the way, poor decayed\nsproutless stock as I am! and I have now known enough of thee to be\nconvinced that thou wilt not see me kicked over before my time; but\nthat thou wilt take care of me during the brief space that I may yet\ncumber this earth, and see me laid decently beside Duncan when I die.\"\n\nSuch then, gentlemen, was the way in which the lands of Tullochcarron\ncame to be united to those of Ballindalloch,--ane union, the which\nI am told, did vurra much impruv the value of both, and which still\nsubsists to the present day.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nANTIQUARIAN DISCUSSION.\n\n\nClifford.--Why, this is the best story I have heard for many a day,\nfor it has both salmon and salmon fishing in it.\n\nAuthor.--The secret is out now about the fairies and the peel-tower,\nand, for my own part, I shall never in future doubt the pr\u00e9voyance\nand judgment of these good people. Aware, as they must have been,\nthat fate had decreed the lands of Tullochcarron to be merged in\nthose of Ballindalloch, and seeing that this coming event would\nrender the commanding site of Ballindalloch's proposed peel-tower\nutterly valueless, as he would no longer have any enemy's territory\nto overlook, their regard for his interest induced them to drive him\nout of his fancy, and to compel him to descend into the delightful\nrepose and shelter of the beautiful haugh below.\n\nDominie.--'Pon my word, sir, there is much reason in that observe of\nyours. That is, always premeesing that the story I told had been a\ntale of reasonable and probable fack.\n\nAuthor.--But as you yourself remarked at the conclusion of it,\nMr. Macpherson, the wild faery tale connected with the ancient\nfoundations of the peel-tower may have some matter of truth wrapped up\nin it; and why may we not suppose then, that Ballindalloch, having\ncommenced some small exploratory building there, had afterwards\ndiscontinued it when the prospect of his succession to the lands of\nTullochcarron opened to him.\n\nDominie.--Troth, I'm thinking you have guessed it sir,--that wull\njust be it.\n\nGrant.--The conjecture is at least as good as those of most\nantiquaries.\n\nClifford.--It would certainly seem to have some foundation in the\nold site.\n\nAuthor.--If that was meant as a pun, Mr. Secretary, I think you should\nbe immediately condemned to tell us a long story, in expiation of so\ngrave an offence.\n\nClifford.--The first time, certainly, that I ever heard a pun called a\ngrave offence; but, to bury all further controversy, I will tell you a\nlegend which I learned when I was on a visit to some of my relations\nin Ross-shire; and since you think that my offence is so very heavy,\nI shall impose on myself a long penance, of which I pray the gods\nthat you, my good auditors, may not suffer any share.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF CHIRSTY ROSS.\n\n\nAbout the middle of last century, there resided in the burgh of Tain,\non the eastern coast of Ross-shire, a poor shopkeeper of the name of\nRoss. The contents of that strange and multifarious emporium, which\nhe called his shop, might have been well advertised by a handbill,\nlike that which I once met with in Ireland, where, in the long\nlist of miscellaneous articles enumerated, I remember to have seen\n\"tar, butter, hog's-lard, brimstone, and other sweetmeats--brushes,\nscythe-stones, mouse-traps, and other musical instruments.\" You may\neasily imagine, that the profits arising from the sale of such trumpery\nwares as these, were barely sufficient to provide the necessaries\nof life for his numerous family, and to bestow on his children the\ncommon education which Scotland, very much to her credit, so readily\nand cheaply affords. Although Mr. Ross's enjoyments were not numerous,\nyet, by endeavouring to have as few wants as possible, he managed to\nlive contentedly and happily enough, and he cheerfully struggled on\ndrudging at his daily occupation, thanking God for the mercies which\nwere bestowed on him, and looking forward with hope to the prospect\nof better days yet in store.\n\nA circumstance occurred one afternoon, which led him to imagine that\nthis prospect was nearer realisation than he could have believed it to\nbe. A stranger, of a spare form and extremely atrabilious complexion,\nwas seen to ride into the town at a gentle pace, and to go directly up\nto the principal house of entertainment for travellers, as if the way\nto it had been familiar to him. He had not been long housed there, when\na waiter came across the street to Mr. Ross, with compliments \"from\nthe gentleman at the inn,\" who requested a few minutes' conversation\nwith him. The eager shopkeeper, anticipating some important sale of\nhis goods, waited not to doff his apron and sleeves, but hurried over\nthe way directly, and, what was his astonishment and delight, when,\nafter a few words of inquiry and explanation had passed between them,\nhe found himself weeping tears of joy in the arms of an affectionate\nelder brother.\n\nThis man had left his father's house when very young, with little\nelse but hope for his portion, and after being so lost sight of\nby his relations, that they had long believed him to be dead,\nhe now most unexpectedly returned to them from India with an ample\nfortune. Wonderful were the visions of wealth which now arose in the\nmind of the poor shopkeeper, and, on his warm invitation, his brother,\nand his brother's saddle-bags, were quickly transferred from the inn\nto his small and inconvenient house, and the Indian was speedily\nsubjected to the danger of being smothered in the embraces of his\nsister-in-law and her numerous progeny.\n\nNarrow as was his apartment, and small as was his bed, the nabob\nfelt himself in elysium in his brother's house. He had never before\nexperienced the genial effects of the warmth of kindred blood. He\nwas idolised by every one of the family, and imminent was the risk\nhe ran of being killed with kindness. Nor was he the great object\nof attention to his immediate relations alone. He soon became the\noracle of a large circle of kind friends and neighbours, who were seen\ncrowding Mr. Ross's small back parlour, which many of them had never\nbefore condescended to enter. And not only was the Indian feasted by\nsmall and great, but his humble brother and his sister-in-law were also\ninvited to parties by people who had hardly before been aware of the\nfact that such an individual as Mr. Ross, the grocer and hardwareman,\nexisted in the place. But now Mr. Ross was not only discovered,\nas it were, but he was discovered to be a very sensible man, having\nmuch of his brother, the nabob's sound intellect, though wanting the\nadvantages of cultivation. As to the nabob, he was a rara avis in\nterris,--an absolute phoenix, a creature a specimen of which is not\nto be met with in every age of the world. What the nabob uttered was\nconsidered as law; and even when he was absent, \"the nabob said this,\"\nand \"the nabob said that,\" and \"that's the way the nabob likes it,\"\nwere expressions continually employed by the good people of the town\nand neighbourhood to put an end to a debate; and they never failed\nto be quite conclusive upon every question. All this had a certain\ncharm for the old Indian. It was extremely pleasant thus despotically\nto rule over men's opinions, aye, and over women's too, even in such\na place as Tain. But the copper of the gilded crown and sceptre of\nhis dominion soon began to appear through its thin coating. His own\norigin had indeed been humble, but as his wealth had grown by degrees,\nso had he been gradually elevated above his original sphere, till\nhe had at last risen into familiar intercourse with people of rank\nand consequence, from whose society his address, and still more, his\nideas had received a certain degree of polish. This did not prevent\nhim from greatly enjoying the plain, honest, warm, but very vulgar\nmanners of his brother and his townsmen, whilst they were as yet new\nto him. They pleased him at first, precisely on the same principle of\nnovelty, combined with old association, which made him relish for a\ncertain time sheep's-head broth and haggis. But having unfortunately\nexpressed himself rather strongly in his admiration of these dishes,\nthe good folks thought themselves bound to give them to him upon all\noccasions, so that they soon began to lose their charm; and just so it\nwas that the uninterrupted converse with the good, yet homely people\naround him, to which he was daily subjected, very soon became dull,\ntiresome, ennuyant, and, finally, disgusting, until it eventually grew\nto be so very intolerable that he altogether abandoned the thought\nhe had entertained of purchasing an estate in that neighbourhood\nwhich was then for sale, and he quickly came to the determination of\nbringing this visit to his native town to a speedy conclusion, and of\nreturning to London to take up his abode there among people who like\nhimself had known what it was to live on curries and mulligatawny,\nand who could talk with him of tiffins and tiger hunting.\n\nHow shall I describe that wet blanket of disappointment that fell upon\nthe shoulders of Mr. Ross, the grocer and hardwareman, and his family,\nwhen the nabob communicated to them this change in his plans. All the\npoor shopkeeper's splendid visions departed from him with the same\nsuddenness with which the figures from a magic lantern disappear from\na wall the moment its light is extinguished. He had already set it\ndown in his own mind as a thing absolutely certain, that his beloved\nbrother would live and die in his house; and he and his wife had been\ncalculating, that as every child they had would be as a child to its\nbachelor uncle, every child of them would be better provided for than\nanother. Ten thousand cobwebby castles had been erected in the air\nby this worthy couple, who had already made lairds of all the boys,\nand lairds' ladies at least of all the girls. \"Out of sight out of\nmind\" was a proverb that came with chilling truth to their hearts;\nand although the nabob had already shown much affection to them,\nand had behaved generously enough in giving liberal aid towards the\nimprovement of his brother's condition and that of his family, yet\nthey could not help considering his threatened separation from them as\nthe removal of the sunshine of fortune from the hemisphere of their\nfate. Never was the anticipated departure of any one more deeply or\nsincerely deplored. The nabob himself had no such feelings. He looked\nforward to his escape from his relatives and friends as to a period\nof happy relief. Yet to this there was one exception.\n\nChirsty Ross, as his niece Christina was provincially called, was\nthen a very beautiful and extremely engaging little girl of some\nfive or six years of age. From the first day that the old Indian\ntook up his residence in her father's house, she had innocently and\nunconsciously commenced her approaches against the citadel of his\nheart. Each succeeding hour saw her gain outpost after outpost, and\ndefence after defence, until she fairly entwined herself so firmly\naround his affections, that he could not contemplate the approaching\nloss of her smiles, of her kisses, and of her prattle, with anything\nlike philosophy. He had been naturally enough led to shower a double\nportion of his favours upon her. She was already in the habit of\ncalling him \"her own uncle,\" as if he had belonged exclusively and\nentirely to herself, and to this she had been a good deal encouraged\nby the nabob. It is not wonderful, therefore, that when his departure\nwas communicated to her, she was thrown into an inconsolable paroxysm\nof grief, and clung to his knees, giving loud vent to her plaints,\nand sobbing as if her little heart would have burst.\n\n\"Take me with you! take me with you, my own dear uncle! oh, take your\nown Chirsty with you!\" cried she.\n\n\"I shall take you with me, my little dear!\" exclaimed the nabob,\nsnatching her up, and kissing her. \"I shall take you with me, provided\nyour father and mother will but part with you.\"\n\nA negotiation was speedily entered into. The parents were too sensible\nof the great advantages which such a proposal opened for their child\nto think for one moment of throwing any obstacle in the way of its\nfulfilment. They, moreover, hoped that this arrangement might have\nthe desirable effect of keeping up a connecting tie between them and\ntheir rich relative. However much they might have been disappointed\nin this last respect, they certainly never had any reason to accuse\nthe nabob of any forgetfulness of those promises which he made to\nthem at parting.\n\nHe was no sooner established in his house in town than he set about\nproviding proper instructors for Chirsty, and a very few weeks\nproved to him that his care was by no means thrown away. The child's\nperception was quick, and her desire to learn was strong, so that\nthings which were difficult to others were, comparatively speaking,\neasy to her. So rapid was her progress, that her uncle became every\nday more and more interested in it; and as she advanced, he was from\ntime to time led to engage firstrate masters, in order to perfect her\nin all manner of solid acquirements and elegant accomplishments. With\nall this her person became every day more graceful as she grew in\nstature; and everything she said and did was seasoned with so much\nsweetness of manner, that she gained the hearts of all who had the\ngood fortune to meet with her.\n\nNot a little proud of what he had so good a right to call his own\nwork, the nabob, on her fifteenth birthday, put the master-keys of his\nhouse with great but affectionate ceremonial into her hands, and with\nthem he gave her the entire control and management of his household\naffairs. But she did not long continue to enjoy the distinguished\nsituation in which he had thus placed her. Too close an application\nto the numerous branches of education she occupied herself with soon\nbrought upon her that delicacy of health which is too often the produce\nof the similar over-confinement of young growing girls in our own\ndays. A very alarming cough came on, her strength visibly declined\ndaily, and her spirits began to sink. She was compelled to give up\nall her favourite pursuits. Books and music lost their charms for\nher, and her hours were spent in list-less idleness, not unfrequently\nbroken in upon by nervous fits of crying, which she could by no means\naccount for. Then it was that in her moody dreamings her mind would\nrevert to the innocent pleasures of her childhood, to the simple,\nthe rustic, yet highly relished happiness she had enjoyed whilst\nsurrounded by her brothers and sisters, when they wandered about the\nfurzy hillocks in a joyous knot, inhaling the perfume of the rich\nyellow blossoms,--when they dug little caves in the sandy banks,\nor built their mimic houses, or planted their perishable gardens,\nwith careless hearts, noisy tongues, and laughing eyes. The thought\nthat she might never again behold them or her dear parents renewed\nher tears, and she pined more and more.\n\nHer affectionate uncle became alarmed at this rapid and melancholy\nchange. So far as gold could purchase the aid of the best medical skill\nhe commanded its attendance. But even the most learned of the London\nphysicians could discover no medicine to remove her malady. In their\nown minds they despaired of her, but as usually happens in such cases,\nto cover the deficiency of their art, they recommended her native air\nas the dernier ressort. Chirsty eagerly caught at this last remaining\nhope, so congenial to the current of her feelings at the time, and her\nuncle was thus obliged to yield to necessity; and as certain matters\nin which he had engaged rendered it quite impossible for him to take\ncharge of her himself, he was obliged to resign her to the care of\nher maid.\n\nThe doctors were right for once. Every breeze that blew on her from\nher native land as she proceeded on her journey seemed to be fraught\nwith health; her spirits rose, and long before she reached the place\nof her birth, she was so far recovered as to remove all fears of\nany serious termination of her complaint. How did her mind go on as\nshe travelled, sketching to itself ideal pictures of the charms of\nhome! But alas! how changed did every person and everything seem to\nher when she at last reached it. How pitiful did the provincial town\nappear to her London eyes! The streets seemed to have shrunk in, and\nthe very houses and gardens to have dwindled; and when she reached\nher paternal mansion, she blushed to think how very grievously the\nfondness of her ancient recollections had deceived her.\n\nThe full tide of unrestrained affection which burst forth the moment\nshe was within its walls was so gratifying to her heart, that for\nsome time every other feeling or thought was absorbed by it; but many\nweeks did not pass over her head until the conversation and manners\nof her parents and family, which had startled her even at the first\ninterview, began to obtrude themselves on her notice in spite of all\nshe could do to shut her eyes against them, until they finally became\nintolerably disagreeable to her. She soon discovered,--and a certain\ndegree of sorrow and self-reproach accompanied the discovery,--that\nthe refined education which she had received had rendered it quite\nimpossible that she could long endure the mortifications to which she\nwas daily and hourly exposed by her vulgar though affectionate and\nwell-meaning relatives. Painful as the thought was for many reasons,\nshe became convinced of the necessity of an early separation; and,\naccordingly, she made her uncle's wish for her speedy return to him an\napology for fixing an early day for her departure. Yet do not suppose\nfrom this that the ties of affection were not strong within her. The\nparting scene was not gone through without many tears and lingering\nembraces, that sufficiently proved the triumph of nature in her mind\nover the arbitrary dictates of fashion. And after she was gone, the\nlarge richly bound folio bible, out of which her father ever afterwards\nread on Sundays,--the gold-mounted spectacles which enabled him so well\nto decipher its characters, and of which he was at all times so justly\nvain,--the cashmere shawl that kept her good mother so warm, and the\ncaps, the bonnets, the gowns, the globes, and the books of prints,\nwith which her grown-up sisters and brothers were so much delighted,\nand the dolls and humming-tops of which the junior members of the\nfamily, down to the very youngest, were so proud as having been the\ngifts of \"the grand leddy from Lunnon,\" for sister they dared hardly\nto call her, were not the only marks of her affection that she left\nbehind her. Besides these keepsakes there were other presents of a\nmore solid nature bestowed in secret, which, whilst they contributed\nto enable her father to hold his head higher as he walked up the\ncauseway of the main street of Tain, compelled Chirsty herself to\nexercise a very strict economy in providing for those wants which\nher own style of life rendered essential to her, large as was the\nsum which she had received from the bounty of her uncle.\n\nPassing through Edinburgh on her way to London, she was visited\nand kindly invited by a lady of fashion who had known her in\nthe metropolis, and she soon found herself deeply engaged in\ngaiety. Perhaps she did not enter into it the less readily that she had\nso recently returned from what might have been well enough called her\nlife of mortification at Tain. Having once got into the vortex, she\nfound it difficult to extricate herself from it, and this difficulty\nwas not lessened by the admiration which her beauty and accomplishments\nso universally excited both in public and in private. She became\nthe chief object of interest, and she was so caressed and courted\nby every one, that it was not very surprising if the adoration that\nwas paid to her did in some degree affect so young a head. However\nthis might be, three things were very certain,--in the first place,\nthat she had been extremely regular in writing to her uncle during\nher stay at Tain; secondly, that before leaving that place she had\nheard from her uncle, who had warmly expressed his anxiety for her\nreturn to him; and thirdly, that whereas she had intended to stay\nin Edinburgh for two or three days only, she was led on from day to\nday by this ball and the other party to remain, till nearly a whole\nwinter had melted away like its own snows, during all which time she\nhad likewise procrastinated, and, consequently, had entirely omitted\nthe duty of writing to her uncle.\n\nThe day of thought and of self-disapproval came at length, and bitter\nwere her reflections. She resolved at least to do all in her power to\nrepair her fault. She sat down immediately and wrote a long letter to\nher uncle, in which she scrupled not to blame herself to the fullest\nextent for her want of thought and apparent negligence towards so\nkind a friend and benefactor, and she declared her repentance and\nher intention of returning to him immediately.\n\nHaving accordingly reached London very soon after her letter, she was\ndriven to her uncle's well-known door. Her impatience to behold him\nwas such, that she could hardly rest in the chaise till the postilion\ndismounted to knock for her admittance. How intense were her emotions\nduring that brief space! How eagerly did her eyes run over every\nwindow in the ample front of the house! How rapidly did the images\nof her uncle, and of Alexander Tod, his old and faithful servant,\ndance through her imagination whilst she gazed intently on the yet\nunopened door, prepared to catch the first smile of surprise and of\nwelcome which she knew would illuminate the honest countenance of that\ntried domestic, the moment he should discover who it was that summoned\nhim. As she looked she was surprised to perceive that the door itself\nhad strangely changed the modest and unpretending hue which it had\nworn when she last saw it for a queer uncouth flaring colour, somewhat\nbetween a pink and an orange. Before she had time to wonder at this\nmetamorphosis the door did open, and if its opening did produce any\nsurprise it was her own; for, instead of discovering the plain but\nrespectable figure of Alexander Tod, whom she had been long taught to\nconsider more as an old friend than as a menial, she beheld a saucy\nfopling, bepowdered, underbred footman, in a gaudy vulgar looking\nlivery. The man stared when she asked for her uncle, and seemed but\nhalf inclined to consent to the hall being encumbered with her baggage,\nand, after having shown her with unconcealed petulance into a little\nback parlour, she had the mortification, through the door which he\nhad carelessly left ajar behind him, to hear herself thus announced,--\n\n\"A young person in the back parlour who wishes to speak to you, sar.\"\n\nAnd, chagrined as she was by this provoking delay, she could not help\nlaughing, as she threw herself into a sofa to wait for her uncle's\nappearance. He came at last, and his joy at again beholding her was\ngreat and unfeigned.\n\n\"Welcome again to my house, my dear Chirsty,\" said he, with tears of\njoy, after his first warm and silent embraces were over; \"Oh! why did\nyou cease to write to me? But I need say no more, for what is done\ncannot be undone; yet, if you had but written to me, things might\nhave been otherwise.\"\n\n\"I ought indeed to have written to you, my dear uncle,\" replied\nChirsty; \"but much as I have deserved your anger, things cannot be\nbut well with me, whilst I am thus affectionately and kindly received\nby you.\"\n\nHer uncle replied not; but, with his eyes thrown on the ground, and\nwith an air of solemnity which she had never seen him wear before,\nhe led her upstairs to the large drawing-room, where she found seated\na middle-aged and rather good-looking woman, with an expression of\ncountenance by no means very prepossessing, and whose person was tawdry\nand very much overdressed. What was her astonishment, and what was\nthe shock she felt, when her uncle led her up to this lady, saying,--\n\n\"Mrs. Ross, this is my niece, of whom you have heard me speak so much;\nand Chirsty, my dear, you will henceforth know and treat this lady\nas my wife and your aunt.\"\n\nHowever little sensible people may think of those newborn and baseless\ndreams which have been recently blown up into something falsely\nresembling a science by the folly and vanity of man, and which I for\none yet hope, for the honour of human intellect, to see burst and\ncollapse ere I die, it must be admitted, that all are more or less\nLavaterists; and that even the youngest of us will involuntarily\nexercise some such scrutiny on the features of a countenance, when\nwe happen to be placed in such circumstances as Chirsty Ross now\nfound herself thrown into. She, poor girl, failed not to bring all\nthe little knowledge of this sort which she possessed into immediate\nrequisition. The result of her investigations were most unfavourable\nto the subject of them, nor were these disagreeable impressions at all\ndiminished by the profusion of protestations of kindness and affection\nwhich the lady lavished upon her with a vulgar volubility, whilst at\nthe same time she seemed to eye the young intruder in a manner that\naugured but little for her future happiness. But although Chirsty\nperceived all this, she inwardly determined to doubt the correctness\nof her own observation,--at all events, sorrowfully as she retired\nto rest, or rather to moisten her pillow with her tears, she failed\nnot to arm herself with the virtuous resolution, that as this woman,\nbe she what she might, was the wife of her uncle, who had acted as a\nfather to her, she would use her best endeavours to gain her affection,\nseeing that she was now bound to regard her as a parent. But yet she\ndid not close her eyes, without having almost unconsciously exclaimed,\n\n\"What could have induced my uncle, with such tastes as he has, to\nmarry such a person as this? Ah! if I had not fooled away my time in\nEdinburgh! or if I had only but written!\"\n\nNext morning she met her uncle alone in the library, and a single\nsentence of his explained the whole.\n\n\"What could have induced you to forget to write to me, Chirsty?\" said\nthe good man, kissing her tenderly, whilst his eyes betrayed a\nsensation which he vainly tried to hide. \"We were so happy here alone\ntogether! But I have been a fool, Chirsty! Blinded by momentary pique,\nI saw not the slough of despond into which I was plunging until too\nlate! But she is not a bad woman, though not quite what I was at first\nled to believe her to be; and so, all we can now say is, that she is\nyour aunt and my wife, and we are both bound to make the best of it.\"\n\nChirsty assured her uncle that nothing should be wanting on her part\ntowards her aunt; and she kept her word, for, neglecting all other\nthings, she devoted herself entirely to the task of pleasing her. For\nsome little while her pious endeavours seemed to have succeeded;\nbut it happened that Chirsty, unambitious as she was to shine, so\nfar eclipsed her aunt in every attraction that makes woman charming,\nthat without intending it, or rather whilst intending the very\nreverse, she monopolised all the attention of those with whom they\nassociated either at home or abroad. Compared to her Mrs. Ross was\ntreated like a piece of furniture,--any table or cabinet in the room\nhad more attention paid to it. She could not shut her eyes to her\nown inferiority, and envy, hatred, and malice took full possession\nof her. Chirsty's efforts to please, though they had ceased to be\nsuccessful, were still unremitting; but her uninterrupted gentleness\nwas met by perpetual peevishness and ill humour, always excepting such\ntimes as her uncle chanced to be present, when the lady's words and\nmanner were ever bland, kind, and false. With such devilish tempers it\noften happens that the more they torture the more they hate, and so it\nwas that the dislike of this woman towards her niece rapidly grew to\nso great a height, that she resolved to get her removed from the house.\n\nFondly believing that she had a stronger hold over her husband's\naffections than she really possessed, she first of all attempted to\nundermine her in her uncle's good opinion by sly insinuations against\nher truth, her temper, and what she called the girl's pretended\nlove for him, which she declared was in reality no greater than her\nattention to her own self-interest required. But finding that this\nline of attack only excited his anger, she with great art gradually\nwithdrew from it, and by slow degrees she began to confess that she\nnow believed she had been altogether mistaken in her estimation of\nChirsty, and every succeeding day heard her bestow more and more\npraise on her temper and disposition. This was a language that was\nmuch more congenial to the nabob, but he was not altogether the dupe\nof it. He however listened with seeming attention to his wife when\nshe prosed on about the zeal she felt for her niece's interest, as\nwell as when, after a long prologue, she finally proposed the grand\nscheme of sending Chirsty out to India to the care of a particular\nfriend of the nabob's at Calcutta, that she might there make some\nwealthy match, so as to secure her a magnificent independence for\nlife. Plainly as Mr. Ross saw through the motives that dictated all\nthis apparent solicitude, he took care to appear to think it quite\ngenuine. Nor did he refuse to entertain the project; for as he began\nshrewdly to suspect that his niece could now have but little happiness\nunder the same roof with his wife, he resolved at least to put it in\nChirsty's power to accept or reject this proposal. He accordingly\nsought for a private interview with her, and then it was that her\ntears, and her half confessions with difficulty extracted, satisfied\nhim of the correctness of his suspicions, and the readiness with which\nshe acceded to the plan which he laid before her at once determined\nhim as to the propriety of going immediately into it. He therefore\nlost not a moment in securing everything that might contribute to her\ncomfort and happiness during the voyage, and he presented her with a\nletter of credit for a sum of money amply sufficient to put her above\nall anxiety as to that matter on reaching the shores of the Ganges.\n\nThese substantial marks of her uncle's affection towards her,\nsupported as they were by a thousand little nameless kindnesses, did\nnot tend to allay the grief which she felt at parting with him. The\nreflection that she went because she felt convinced that her uncle's\nfuture domestic comfort required her absence, was all that she had\nto give her courage to bear it, and she was so much absorbed in this\nconviction, that she hardly gave much thought to the consideration\nof what her own future fate might be.\n\nThe gallant ship had gone merrily on its voyage for several days\nbefore Chirsty began to mix at all with her fellow-passengers. But\nwhen she first came upon deck, it was like the appearance of the\nmorning sun over the eastern horizon of some country where he is\nworshipped. All eyes were instantly bent upon her; and ere the people\nhad been familiarised to her beauty, the elegance of her manners,\nand the charms of her conversation, soon made her the great centre of\nattraction to all who walked the quarter-deck. Above all others, she\nseemed to have made a deep and powerful impression on the commander,\nwhom I shall call Captain Mordaunt, a very elegant and agreeable\nman, of superior intellect and information. He soon showed himself\nindefatigable in his attentions to her. His command of the ship\ngave him a thousand opportunities of manifesting a marked degree of\npoliteness towards her, by doing her many little courteous services\nwhich no one else had the power to perform. He easily invented means\nof keeping all other aspirants to her favour at a sufficient distance\nfrom her. Her heart was as yet her own; and as Mordaunt never lost\nany opportunity of engaging her in conversation, and as his talk\nwas always well worth listening to, it was no wonder that so many\nunequivocal proofs of an attachment on the part of so handsome a man,\nin the prime of life, and of address so superior, should have soon\nprepared the way for her favourable reception of his declared passion;\nand this having once been made, and mutually acknowledged, it seemed\nto grow in warmth as the days fled merrily away, and as the progress\nof the prosperous bark carried them nearer and nearer to that sun\nwhich gives life and heat to all animated nature. Often did Mordaunt\ngladden the artless mind of Chirsty Ross as they sat apart together\non the poop of the vessel, towards the conclusion of their voyage,\nin the full enjoyment of the fanning sea-breeze, by the enchanting\npictures which he painted of the happiness of their future wedded life.\n\n\"I have already realised a tolerable fortune,\" said he, one evening\ncarelessly, \"so that by the time I return to Calcutta from my trip to\nChina, whither you know the vessel is bound, I may safely claim your\nhand, in order that we may sail home together as man and wife. You can\nhave no dread of spending our honeymoon on the wide waters, my love,\nsince they have yielded us so happy a courtship, especially when you\nthink that we shall be on our way to some sweet rural residence in\nEngland, where we shall be insured the enjoyment of tranquillity and\nhappiness for the rest of our days. And there, with what I have saved,\nadded to the liberal allowance which your rich uncle will give you\nduring his life, and with the certainty which you have of succeeding to\nhis immense fortune at his death, we shall be able to live in a style\naltogether worthy of that exquisite beauty, and that angelic soul,\nwith which Heaven has blessed you, and of those fascinating manners\nand brilliant accomplishments, which are calculated to make you the\nqueen of any society you may be pleased to grace with your presence.\"\n\n\"Stay, stay, Mordaunt!\" replied Chirsty, smiling playfully. \"You are\nrunning too fast before the wind. I need not tell you what you have\nso often told me, that I am prepared to be thine on the wide ocean, in\nthe populous city, or in the lonely desert, in sickness or in health,\nin wealth or in poverty! And well is it, indeed, that you have so\noften vowed all this much to me, for I must needs disabuse your mind\nof some part of its visions of riches, so far at least as that share\nmay have reached which your fancy has ascribed to me. I have neither\nclaims nor expectations from my uncle, who has already done more for\nme than any niece in my circumstances had a right to expect.\"\n\n\"Haul taut that weather main-brace!\" cried the captain, suddenly\nstarting from her side; and although there appeared to be little change\nin the wind or the weather to warrant such activity, he became from\nthat moment too much occupied in the care of the ship for any further\nconversation with Chirsty that evening.\n\nIn the morning the lovers met as usual, and then, as well as during the\nfew remaining days of the voyage, Mordaunt was as full of affection and\nendearment to her as ever. Their last private interview took place ere\nshe left the ship to go into the small craft that was to take her up\nthe river, and then all their mutual vows were solemnly repeated. An\nunderstanding took place between them, that their engagement should\nbe kept private, unless circumstances should arise which might render\na disclosure necessary. Poor Chirsty gave way to all the poignancy of\nthat grief which she felt at being thus obliged to part, even for a\nfew months, from him to whom, in the then orphan state of her soul, she\nhad given up the whole strength of her undivided affections. But hard\nas she found the effort to be, she was obliged to dry up her tears,\nand even to throw a faint and fleeting smile over her countenance as\nshe left the ship, that she might not betray her own secret before\nindifferent persons; and it was only that warm and cherishing hope\nthat lay nearest to her heart that kept the pulses of her life\nplaying, and that enabled her to go through the trying scene of\nparting coolly with her lover, after he had deposited her under the\nroof of her uncle's friend, where they bid each other such a polite\nadieu as might have befitted two well-bred people who were separating\nwith mutual esteem for one another, and who were, at the same time,\nvery little solicitous as to whether there did or did not exist any\nfuture chance of their ever meeting again.\n\nMr. Gardner, as I shall call the gentleman to whose protection the\nnabob had consigned Chirsty, well deserved the confidence which had\nbeen placed in him. He spoke warmly of the many obligations under\nwhich he lay to Mr. Ross, and he declared himself to be delighted in\nhaving the opportunity which had thus been afforded him of proving his\ngratitude for those obligations. His lady entered deeply into all her\nhusband's feelings, and both of them zealously occupied themselves\nin doing all in their power to promote the young lady's comfort and\nhappiness. Numerous and brilliant were the parties which they made for\nthe purpose of introducing their lovely proteg\u00e9 with sufficient eclat\nto the society of Calcutta. But not even the novelty and grandeur of\nEastern magnificence, though produced for her with all its splendour,\nhad any effect in removing that pensive air which their young friend\nwore when she landed, and which she continued to wear notwithstanding\nall the smiling new faces to which she was every moment introduced. One\nvery natural result, however, was soon produced by these numerous\npublic appearances which the kindness of her friends obliged her\nto make. She was immediately encircled by crowds of admirers; and\nbefore she had been many months in the country she had been put to the\nunpleasant necessity of declining proposals of marriage from numerous\nmilitary men and civilians of rank so high as to make those with whom\nshe lived wonder at the indifference she displayed. The more she was\ncourted the more retiring she appeared to become.\n\nAmong the few who were admitted to a somewhat more familiar intercourse\nwith Chirsty, was a Scottish gentleman of good family, whom I shall\ncall Charles Gr\u00e6me. Though young, he had risen to a high civil\nsituation, and he had already realised a very handsome fortune. He\nwas a gentleman of enlarged mind and extremely liberal education;\nand as he was of manners much more retiring than most of those with\nwhom she had become acquainted, she the more readily yielded to that\nintimacy which his greater friendship with her host and hostess\ngave him very frequent opportunities of forming with her. Like\nherself he was full of accomplishments; yet such was his modesty,\nthat she had known him for a considerable time before accident led\nher to discover them. His mind was richly stored with the treasures\nof European literature; yet it was only on particular occasions that\nhe allowed himself to give forth the sweets he had hoarded up, or to\nindulge in those critical remarks to which every one was prepared to\nlisten with delight. As he became better known to her, and more at\nhis ease with her, she discovered that his tastes, his acquirements,\nhis sentiments, nay, his very soul, were all so much in harmony with\nher own, that she soon began to prefer his society to that of any\nother gentleman who approached her. Had her heart been unengaged,\nshe might perhaps have had some degree of palpitation in its pulses,\nas she sensibly felt their friendship becoming every day more and more\nfamiliar; but, as the partridge believes that when its head is in the\nbush the whole of its body is secure, so she, knowing her own safety,\nowing to that secret cause which bound her to another, never dreamed\nthat the accomplished Scotchman could be in any danger of feeling\nfor her any sentiment one degree warmer than that of esteem. Thus\nit was, that with perfect unconsciousness on her part of the havoc\nshe was working in his heart, she read with him, criticised with him,\nplayed with him, sang with him, or sketched with him, as the fancy of\nthe moment might dictate, her heart being all the while filled with\ngratitude to him for so good-naturedly enabling her to pass, with at\nleast some degree of rational enjoyment, some of those tedious hours\nthat must yet elapse ere the return of him to whom she had pledged\nher virgin affections.\n\nAs for Charles Gr\u00e6me, he soon began to find that he existed only when\nhis soul was animated by her bright eyes and her seraphic voice. When\nabsent from their influence he felt like a walking mass of frozen\nclay. Her society became more necessary to him than food or air. He\nalmost lived at the house of the Gardners, who, on their part, gave him\nevery encouragement, being secretly pleased at what they believed to\nbe the mutual attachment that was so rapidly growing, as they thought,\nbetween two individuals whom they had reason to love so much, and whom\nthey knew to be so worthy of each other, and so well calculated to\nmake each other happy for life. Day after day the infatuated young man\ndrank deeper and deeper draughts of the sweet intoxication of love. At\nlast the hour of wretchedness came. Seizing what he fondly believed\nto be a favourable moment, and with a bosom full of bounding hopes,\nhe laid open the state of his heart to the idol of his soul. The\nscales fell, as if by magic, from her mental vision.\n\n\"What have I done, Mr. Gr\u00e6me,\" she cried, whilst her cheeks were\nsuffused with blushes, and her whole frame trembled. \"I have been\nblind! I have been thoughtless, most culpably thoughtless. Forgive\nme! oh, forgive me! but I cannot, I dare not, love you! I am already\nthe pledged bride of another.\"\n\nIt would be vain for me to attempt to describe the kind of temporary\ndeath that fell upon her unfortunate lover as she uttered these\nterrible words, which, like the simoom of the desert, left no atom of\nhope behind them. Sinking into a chair, he uttered no sound, and he\nsat for some time quite unconscious even of those attentions which her\ncompassion for him at the moment led her unscrupulously to administer\nto him. The friendship and the high respect which she entertained for\nhim, as well as a regard for her own justification in his eyes, forbade\nher to allow him to leave her without a full explanation. It was given\nto him under the seal of secrecy, and the interview terminated with\nan agony of feeling and floods of tears upon his part, in which her\ncompassion for that affliction which she had so innocently occasioned\nhim compelled her, in spite of herself, to participate.\n\nThe young Scotchman tried for some time after this, to frequent\nthe house where she lived as he had done previously. But her smiles\nfell upon him like sunshine upon a spectre. Reason and prudence at\nlast came to his aid; and seeing that his heart could never hope\nfor ease whilst he remained within reach of her attractions, he,\nto the great astonishment and disappointment of his friends, made\nuse of the powerful interest which he possessed to procure another\nsituation in a distant station, and he tore himself away from Calcutta.\n\nAnd now came the time of misery to poor Chirsty herself, the season\nof hope deferred, of nervous impatience, and of sad forebodings. The\nperiod for which her fond heart panted in secret arrived--it passed\naway. Days, nay, weeks and months beyond it elapsed; and yet no tidings\ncame of the gallant vessel that bore her betrothed husband. Delicately\nalive to the apprehension of betraying her secret by inquiry, she did\nnot dare to ask questions. Fears, agonising fears, began to possess\nher, that some fatal calamity had befallen the ship, till, happening\naccidentally one day to cast her eyes over an old shipping list,\nshe read, and her sight grew dim as she read, of its arrival from\nChina, and its subsequent departure for England! How indestructible\nis hope! Even then she imagined it possible that all this might have\nbeen the result of accident, or might have arisen from the orders\nof superiors. But still her anxiety preyed terribly upon her mind,\nwhilst she now looked forward to the new period of the ship's return\nfrom England. In vain did she try to occupy herself in her former\npursuits. In vain did her friends endeavour to interest her with the\namusements they provided for her. All were equally fruitless in their\nefforts; and the only explanation which the Gardners could find for\nher mysterious abstraction, was in the belief that the remembrance\nof Charles Gr\u00e6me was not altogether indifferent to her; and thence\nthey cherished the hope that the matter between that young man and\nher might yet one day end as they wished it to do.\n\nMonths rolled on as if the days of which they were composed had been\nyears, till Chirsty was one evening, with some difficulty, induced\nby her friends to go to a great public entertainment. She entered\nthe room, leaning on Mrs. Gardner's arm; and they were on their way\nto find a seat at the upper end of it, when her eyes suddenly beheld\nhim for whose return she had been so long vainly sighing. Her heart\nbeat as if it would have burst from its seat in her bosom. She clung\nunconsciously with a firmer hold to the arm of her friend, and her\nlimbs tottered under her with nervous joy as she moved forward. He\nwas advancing slowly with a lady; and as he drew near, she held out\nher hand to him with a smile of happy and welcome recognition. He\nstarted at sight of her; and then, after scanning every feature\nof her countenance with calm indifference, he bowed coldly, turned\naside, and moved away. Chirsty uttered a faint cry, swooned away,\nand was carried home by her friends in a state of insensibility,\nleaving the whole room in confusion.\n\nSufficient natural and ordinary reasons were very easily found by a\ncompany in such a climate as that of India for such an accident. But\nMrs. Gardner had seen enough to convince her that some deeper and\nmore powerful cause had operated upon Chirsty, than the mere heat of\nweather or the crowded state of a room; and after she had successfully\nused the necessary means for recovering her from her fainting fit,\nshe insisted on being allowed to share confidentially in the secret\nof her afflictions. Chirsty felt some slight relief in telling her\nall; and strange it was that she still clung most unaccountably\nto hope. He might not have recognised her at first. He would yet\nappear. But Mrs. Gardner's common sense told her there was no hope;\nand she judged that it would be far better that Chirsty should receive\nconviction, however cruel that conviction might be, rather than\nremain in an anxiety which was so agonising and destructive. A very\nlittle time enabled Mrs. Gardner to collect all the particulars of\nhis treachery. To sum up all in one word, he had arrived at Calcutta\nfrom England with a rich wife, with whom he had already sailed on\nhis last voyage home.\n\nThis overwhelming intelligence was too much for the shattered frame of\npoor Chirsty Ross. She was attacked by a most alarming fever, which\nfinally produced delirium; and even after the physicians had been\nable to master the bodily disease, the mental derangement continued\nso long, unabated, that her friends the Gardners considered it proper\nto write home to inform her uncle of her unhappy state.\n\nIt pleased God, however, to restore her at length to her right mind;\nand then it was that she was seized with an unconquerable desire of\nreturning to England. The most that the Gardners could prevail upon\nher to agree to, was to delay her voyage to a period so far distant\nas might insure that fresh letters should reach her uncle, to inform\nhim of her perfect mental recovery, and to teach him to look for her\narrival by a certain ship they named; and after impatiently waiting\ntill the time destined for her departure arrived, she bade her kind\nfriends the Gardners an affectionate farewell, and sailed with a fair\nwind for Britain.\n\nWho was it that arrived a week afterwards at the house of Mr. and\nMrs. Gardner in the middle of the night, having come by Dawk from a\nfar distant province? It was the shadow of Charles Gr\u00e6me!\n\n\"Thank God! thank God!\" cried he energetically, after being told of\nher recovery, and at the same time bursting into a flood of tears,\nwhich weakness and fatigue left him no power to restrain. \"Thank God\nfor her restoration! But oh! that I had reached Calcutta but eight\ndays sooner!\"\n\nHe took his determination, applied for leave, to which the state of\nhis health might of itself well enough have entitled him, and went\nfor England by the very first fleet that sailed.\n\nChirsty Ross had a prosperous, but not a happy voyage. Her bodily\nhealth improved every day that she was at sea; but her thoughts having\nfull time to brood over her miseries, her spirits became more and more\nsunk. She rallied a little when she beheld the English shore; and when\nshe arrived in the river, her heart began to beat with affectionate\njoy at the prospect of again embracing her dear uncle. Even the image\nof her aunt had had its asperities softened down by length of time\nand absence; and she almost felt something resembling pleasure at the\nprospect of seeing her again. As the vessel arrived in the evening at\nher moorings, a boat came alongside, and a voice was heard to demand\nif there was a Miss Ross on board? Readily did Chirsty answer to the\ninquiry; and being told that it was her uncle's servant come to take\nher home, she lost not a moment in desiring her black maid to hand\nup a small box, containing a few things to be put into the boat;\nand leaving the girl to follow next day with her heavy baggage, she\nquickly descended the ladder. She was immediately accosted by a stout,\nvulgar-looking man out of livery, who announced himself to her as\nMr. Ross's servant, and informed her that a carriage waited for her\nnear the landing-place. She did accordingly find a post-chaise there;\nbut when the door of it was opened, and the steps were let down,\nshe started back on perceiving that there was a man seated at the\nfarther side of it.\n\n\"Only a friend of Mr. Ross, ma'am, whom he has sent to attend you\nhome,\" said the fellow who held the handle of the carriage-door.\n\nSurprised as she was at the vulgarity of the dress and appearance of\nthe gentleman who was inside, and still more at his want of politeness\nin not coming out of the carriage to hand her into it, her heart\nwas too full of home at the moment to admit of her inquiring very\nparticularly into circumstances, and accordingly, without more ado, she\nentered the vehicle. But whilst she was yet only in the act of seating\nherself, the fellow who had passed himself as her uncle's servant,\nsprang in after her, pulled up the steps, shut the door, the side\nblinds were drawn up, and the post-chaise was instantly flying at the\nrate of twelve or fourteen miles an hour. She screamed aloud, but the\nruffian hands of both the villains were immediately on her mouth and\nsilence was inculcated with the most horrible and blasphemous menaces.\n\n\"We must have none of your Indian fury here, mistress,\" said one of\nthe fellows. \"Behave peaceably and quietly, and you shall be treated\ngently enough, but if you offer to rave and riot, the whip, the gag,\nand the strait-waistcoat shall be your portion.\"\n\n\"Merciful Providence!\" said Chirsty Ross, \"why am I thus treated,\nand whither would you carry me?\"\n\n\"As to your treatment, young lady,\" said the man, \"methinks you have\nno right to complain of that as yet; and as to the why, I should\nbe as mad as yourself were I to hold any talk with you about that;\nand, then, as to the whither, you have been already told that you\nare going to your uncle's residence.\"\n\n\"Mad!\" exclaimed Chirsty, with a shudder that ran through her whole\nframe. \"But, ah! I see how it is. Mr. Gardner's letters have been\nreceived by my uncle, and not those which I wrote to him sometime\nafterwards. And yet how did he know to expect me in England, and by\nthis particular ship, too, if my letters have not yet reached him? It\nis very puzzling--very perplexing--very distressing; but since I am\ngoing to him, I may thank God that all will soon be put to rights.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said both the men at once, whilst they laughed rudely to\none another, \"all will soon be put to rights, I'll warrant me.\"\n\nChirsty sat silently dreaming over this strange and most vexatious\noccurrence, yet hoping that her misery would be but of short duration,\ntill the chaise suddenly stopped, when one of the men let down the\nwindow, and called to the postilion to ring the great bell at a gate,\nwhich he had no sooner done than the peal was answered by the fierce\nbarking of a watch-dog.\n\n\"What place is this?\" cried Chirsty, with new-born alarm. \"This is\nnot the house of my Uncle Ross.\"\n\n\"You will see that all in good time, ma'am,\" replied one of the\nmen. \"Postboy, ring again. What are they all about, I wonder?\"\n\nAt this second summons the huge nail-studded leaves of the ponderous\noak and iron-bound gate were slowly rolled back, and the chaise was\nadmitted into a large paved court, where the lights that were borne\nby one or two men of similar appearance to those who accompanied her,\nshowed the plain front of a pretty considerable brick building, the\nnarrow windows of which were strongly barred with iron. The door,\ntoo, was of the most massive strength, and the whole character of\nthe edifice would of itself have conveyed to her the heart-sinking\nconviction that she was within the precincts of a mad-house,\neven if those strange sounds of uncouth laughter, wild rage, and\nwailing despair that came from various parts of the interior, had\nbeen altogether unheard by her. Rapidly did her thoughts traverse\nher mind. The first natural impulse that possessed her was a desire\nto scream out for help. But Chirsty was not destitute of resolution\nand self-command; and as she immediately reflected that nothing\nbut the calmest behaviour could afford her any chance of convincing\nthe people of such an establishment that she in reality was sane,\nshe at once resolved to restrain herself from everything that might\nlook like excitement.\n\n\"Where is Sarah?\" cried one of the men as he assisted Chirsty out of\nthe vehicle. \"Aye, aye, here she comes. Here is your charge, Sall.\"\n\n\"A tall, handsome young woman,\" said Sarah, surveying Chirsty from\nhead to foot, whilst she herself exhibited a person in every respect\nthe reverse of that which she was admiring, being almost a dwarf,\nthough with a body thickly and strongly built. Her head was large,\nwith harsh prominent features, and her legs were bowed, and her\narms long and uncouth looking. Round her waist, if waist that might\nbe called where waist there was none, there was fastened a leathern\nbelt, to which was appended a large bunch of great keys. In the eyes\nof Chirsty she was altogether a most formidable looking object.\n\n\"A tall handsome young woman,\" said she. \"In what sort of temper is\nshe, I wonder?\"\n\n\"She was a little bit riotous at first,\" said one of the men, \"but\nshe has been quiet enough ever since.\"\n\n\"Come this way, young lady,\" said Sarah to Chirsty, in a rough tone\nand sharp voice, and at the same time she stretched out her long arm,\nand grasped her wrist with her bony fingers, whilst with the other\nhand she held up an iron lamp, the light of which she threw before her.\n\n\"Treat me not harshly,\" said Chirsty gently. \"I am ready to obey you. I\nam quite aware that, from the strange mistake that has occurred,\nit would be vain for me to attempt to convince you at present of my\nsanity. I must patiently submit, therefore, to whatever restraint\nyou may impose on me, until my uncle comes to see me, and convince\nhimself. But do not, I pray you, exercise any unnecessary severity.\"\n\n\"No, no, poor thing,\" replied Sarah. \"No, no; no severity, that is\nnot quite necessary, I promise you. As to your uncle--ha! ha! ha!--no\ndoubt you may chance to see un ere you leave this. Come this way.\"\n\nWhilst this dialogue was passing, Chirsty was led by her strange\nconductress through some long passages, in which were several\nrectangular turnings, past many strongly secured doors, from within\nwhich issued strange discordant sounds of human misery, mingled\nwith the clanking of chains; and up one or two flights of stairs,\nwhich induced her to believe that the apartment to which she was\nabout to be introduced was in the upper story, and in a wing of the\nbuilding. The door was like those she had seen in her way thither,\nof immense strength, and it was secured by a powerful lock, a couple\nof heavy bolts, and a huge chain and padlock. It was the last door\nof the narrow passage, which terminated about a yard beyond it in a\ndead wall. The little woman pushed Chirsty past it into the cul-de-sac\nwhich the passage thus formed, and then quitting her arm, she planted\nthe fixed gaze of her formidable eye upon her, and placing the lamp on\nthe ground, she selected the necessary keys, and using both hands she\nexerted her strength to undo the lock and padlock, and then drawing\nthe bolts and removing the chain, she opened the den within. Beckoning\nto her charge with an air of command not to be misunderstood, she\npushed Chirsty into the place, and then standing in the aperture of\nthe half-closed door for a minute or more, with her right hand on the\nkey, she threw in the light of the lamp so as fully to show the whole\ninterior. It was indeed a wretched place. A low narrow bedstead,\nwith bedclothes of the coarsest and meanest description, was the\nwhole of its furniture, and that occupied more than a fourth part of\nthe space contained within its four brick and stone walls. The floor\nwas of flags,--it had no fireplace, and one small narrow iron-grated\nwindow was all the visible perforation that could admit light or air.\n\n\"May I not be allowed to have the few things which came in my\ntravelling-box?\" said Chirsty mildly, after having seated herself on\nthe side of the bed.\n\n\"We shall consider of that, young lady,\" said Sarah sternly. \"But in\nthe meanwhile, to satisfy my mind that you may be safely left for a\nlittle time, you must suffer me to put those lily-white hands of yours\ninto this glove,\" and setting the lamp on the floor, she drew from her\nample pocket a leathern bag, into which Chirsty patiently submitted\nto have both her hands thrust together, after which they were secured\nby a strap in such a manner as to leave them entirely useless.\n\n\"Let me see now that you have got nothing dangerous about you,\"\nsaid Sarah; and after searching her all over, and removing from her a\npocket-book containing such small instruments as women generally use,\ntogether with one or two other articles, and not forgetting her purse,\nwhich she secreted carefully in her own bosom, she added, \"I shall be\nback with you in the twinkling of an eye, for you must have food ere\nyou go to rest; meanwhile, the quieter you are the better it will be\nfor you,\" and with these words she lifted the lamp and retired with\nit, locking and bolting the door with the utmost care.\n\nIt is needless for me to speculate as to what were Chirsty's\nthoughts, left as she was in the dark, as she listened to the\nretreating steps of her keeper until a stillness reigned around\nher that was only interrupted at times by the distant baying of\nthe watch-dog in the court-yard, or by some of those melancholy\ndemonstrations of madness that came every now and then upon her ear,\nof different degrees of intensity, as they chanced to be modified\nby circumstances. Notwithstanding all the resolution which she had\nsummoned to her support, she shuddered to think of the vexatious\nconfinement to which she might be exposed ere her fond uncle might be\nable to gather courage enough to come to visit her in the melancholy\nstate of mind in which he probably believed her to be. Whilst she was\nruminating on such matters, she heard the returning footsteps of Sarah.\n\n\"Here is some food for you,\" said her keeper, after opening the\ndoor and entering cautiously, \"and, see, I have brought your\nnight-clothes. I promised to use no needless severity; and if you\ncontinue to behave, you shall have no reason to complain of me. Let\nme help you to eat your supper, for this night you must be contented\nwith simple bread and milk.\" And the first meal that poor Chirsty\neat after returning to her native Britain, was doled out to her by\nspoonfuls from a porringer by the long fingers of her dwarfish keeper,\nwho after making down her bed, assisted her into it, and then left\nher for the night.\n\nAnd a strange night it was to her. Fatigue brought sleep upon her it\nis true, but there was no refreshment in it, for it was full of wild\nvisions, and she started from time to time, and awaked to have her\nmind brought back to the full conviction of her distressing situation\nby the maniac laughter or howlings that broke at intervals upon\nthe stillness around her. The only support she had in circumstances\nso trying was derived from religious meditations and aspirations,\ntogether with the hope which never forsook her, that her affectionate\nuncle might next day visit and relieve her.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nFRESH LIGHT UPON THE SUBJECT.\n\n\nGrant.--Stop for one moment, Clifford, till we ring for fresh candles,\nor we shall be in darkness before you have uttered five sentences more.\n\nDominie.--Stay, sir, I'll run to the kitchen for them myself. Preserve\nme! the less time we keep Mr. Clifford's poor lassie in such misery\nthe better.\n\nMr. Macpherson soon returned with the new lights, set them down on\nthe table, and drawing in his chair, put his elbows upon his knees,\nplaced his cheeks firmly in the palms of his hands, and sat with\nhis eyes eagerly fixed upon Clifford's countenance, with the most\nludicrous expression of earnestness. Clifford resumed as follows.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF CHIRSTY ROSS--Continued.\n\n\nThe morning's dawn brought back the returning footstep of Sarah. She\nbrought with her Chirsty's travelling-box with most of the things\nit contained.\n\n\"See,\" said she, as she set down the box, \"I have kept my word. So\nlong as you behave, you shall find me disposed to treat you well. I\nknow that you have been quiet all night, and, therefore, we shall try\nyou for to-day with your hands unmuffled. But mind!\" added the old\nwoman with a fearful expression of eye, \"if you should change for the\nworse, there are worse punishments for you than this leathern glove.\"\n\n\"I thank you,\" said Chirsty meekly; \"I think you will have no occasion\nto resort to any such. I hope my uncle will be here to-day, and that\na few moments of conversation with him will satisfy him that you may\nbe released from any further trouble with me.\"\n\n\"Your uncle!\" cried Sarah, with an uncouth laugh. \"But we shall\nsee. Meanwhile, here comes water for you, and, by and by, you shall\nhave breakfast.\"\n\nA little black-looking sharp-eyed girl now entered with a pitcher,\nbasins, and towels. Sarah stood by to watch how her charge conducted\nherself, and, when the toilet was completed, the bed was made up,\nand the things removed, and soon afterwards breakfast was brought her,\ntogether with a common fir chair and a small table, and when she had\nfinished her meal, she was again left to her own solitary meditations.\n\nNo sooner was all quiet, than Chirsty arose for the purpose of looking\nout of the window, that she might try at least to gain some knowledge\nof her position. She discovered that the walls of the building were\nextremely thick, that the window was powerfully barred with iron,\nand that a wooden shade projected over it from above, so as entirely\nto shut out any direct view outwards. By placing the chair near the\nwindow, however, and standing upon it, she commanded a limited view\ndownwards between the sole and the lower edge of the wooden projection,\nand from this she was enabled to satisfy herself that her chamber was\non one side of a narrow square court, for she saw the lower part of the\nbuildings that inclosed the three other sides of it. Guessing from the\nwindows that came within her view below, the court was surrounded with\ncells similar to her own. The startling fact now arose in her mind,\nthat she had thus in one minute made herself as much acquainted with\nall the objects on which she could bring her eyes to bear from this\nher place of confinement, as she could do were she to occupy it for\nhalf a century. There was something chilling in the reflection, and\nher soul naturally began to pant in a tenfold degree for liberty. But\nthat day passed away, and the next, and the next, and no kind uncle\ncame to relieve her.\n\n\"Is there no message from my uncle?\" said she at last, as Sarah came\nto her one morning.\n\n\"None!\" said the old woman, somewhat more gruffly than usual.\n\n\"I would fain write a letter to him,\" said Chirsty.\n\n\"I see no use in that,\" said Sarah quitting the cell hastily, as if\nto avoid further question.\n\nShe did not see the old woman again for several days. Nancy, the little\ngirl already mentioned, attended on her at the usual hours. In vain she\ntried to prevail on her to procure her writing materials. Her answer\nwas, that she had no means of doing so. She asked for books or work,\nbut the girl's answer was the same. At length old Sarah appeared again.\n\n\"Any intelligence from my uncle, good Sarah?\" said Chirsty.\n\n\"None!\" replied her keeper, in the same tone she had used before.\n\n\"Then, I beseech you, give me the means of communicating with him by\nletter,\" said she earnestly.\n\n\"Tush, I tell you it would be of no use,\" replied Sarah.\n\n\"Nay, give me but pen, ink, and paper, and let me try,\" said\nChirsty. \"I am sure he would never allow me to be one moment here,\nif he could only see and converse with me. Oh! if I could but see\nhim for five minutes, this harassing captivity would be at an end.\"\n\n\"Well, then!\" said Sarah, after a silence of some moments, during\nwhich she appeared to be weighing circumstances in her mind. \"Well,\nthen, you shall see un. But see how you behave! Follow me, then,\nand I shall bring you to your uncle.\"\n\n\"Oh, thank you, thank you! a thousand and a thousand times!\" cried\nChirsty, almost embracing the old woman in the height of her\njoy. \"Depend upon it, I shall satisfy you as to my behaviour.\"\n\nSarah now opened the door of the cell, and Chirsty followed her. Even\nthe small additional motion of her limbs which she now enjoyed,\nwas luxury to her after the narrow bounds to which she had been\nconfined. The old woman led her along the passage for a considerable\nway, down one flight of steps, along another passage, to the very end\nof it, and there she stopped opposite a door, secured by little more\nthan the ordinary fastenings used to any private chamber. Sarah opened\nit and desired Chirsty to enter. The light of heaven was permitted\nto pass fully in at the window, and she rushed forward to meet her\nuncle's embrace. But ere she had gone two steps into the room, her\neyes caught a spectacle that effectually arrested her.\n\n\"Merciful Providence, my poor uncle!\" she faintly cried; and, tottering\ntowards a pallet-bed that was near to her, she sank down on the side\nof it, and gazed with grief and with horror on the miserable object\nbefore her.\n\nSeated in a wooden elbow chair, she did indeed behold her uncle; but he\nwas there as a mere piece of animated clay. His hair, which always used\nto be so nicely trimmed and powdered, now hung in long white untamed\nlocks over a countenance so yellow and emaciated as to be absolutely\nfearful to look upon. Part of it fell over the eyes, which were seen\nwithin it like two bits of yellow glass, motionless and void of all\nspeculation. The under jaw hung forward, and the tongue lolled out,\nas if all muscular power was lost. An old Indian dressing-gown, which\nChirsty remembered to have been his pride, as having been presented\nto him by a great rajah, and as being made of the most valuable stuff\nthat Cashmere could produce, but now begrimed by every species of\nfilth, covered his person. A broad band of girth was passed around\nhis breast under his arms, and attached to the back of his chair, to\nprevent his weakness or his involuntary motions from precipitating him\non the floor. His feet were both occupied in drumming upon the ground,\nand his hands were extended before him, with the fingers continually\ncrawling like reptiles on his knees, whilst he was ceaselessly emitting\na low muttering whine, that never moulded itself into words. The very\nfirst glance she had of him convinced Chirsty that her poor uncle\nwas in the last stage of confirmed and hopeless idiocy.\n\n\"What would a letter have done, think ye, to such a clod as that\n'ere?\" demanded the unfeeling wretch Sarah, \"or what will you make\nof un, now you have seen un?\"\n\n\"My poor unhappy uncle!\" said Chirsty, starting from her seat and\ngoing fondly towards him, and weeping over him; \"how sadly indeed\nhast thou been changed! When, alas! did this awful affliction fall\nupon him? But why has he been removed from his own comfortable home\nto such a place as this?\"\n\n\"Such a place as this, quotha!\" cried Sarah. \"Why, what sort of a\nplace would ye have un in? There is not a more comfortabler room in the\nwhole house. And see, if I didn't bring down that 'ere old wardrobe,\nthat we might have summat to hold un's things in; though I must say,\"\nadded she in an undertone, \"that he hasn't much left now that's worth\nthe caring for.\"\n\n\"But why has he been removed to such an establishment as this?\" said\nChirsty. \"Surely, surely, his malady, helpless and unoffending as it\nhas rendered him, could have given no disturbance in his own house,\nwhy then has he been torn from it? and how could his wife have agreed\nto treatment so cruel and so unnecessary?\"\n\n\"His wife!\" exclaimed Sarah with a laugh. \"It was his wife who sent\nun here; and surely his wife has the most natral right to judge what's\nbest for un.\"\n\n\"Horrible!\" exclaimed Chirsty, \"his wife! There must be some horrible\nvillainy under all this.\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed Sarah. \"What is there horrible in a gay woman\nlike her ridding her house of such a filthy slavering mummy as\nthis? He would be a pretty ornament, truly, to grace some of the\nrich Mrs. Ross's splendid routes, as I now and then see the papers\ncall them. Besides, she pays well for his board here, and it is our\ninterest not to let un die.\"\n\n\"Rich!\" exclaimed Chirsty indignantly. \"Her riches are my uncle's\nriches; and if one spark of Christian feeling yet remained in her\nbosom, she ought to have employed them in relieving, so far as\nthey could relieve, this most heavy affliction of a just and wise\nProvidence.\"\n\n\"It's not for me to stand argufying with you here, Miss,\" said\nSarah, in a tone of displeasure that led Chirsty to fear a coming\nstorm. \"Come, you see you have gotten all the good out of un you can;\nso you may as well leave un, and go quietly back to your cell.\"\n\n\"For the love of your Redeemer, and as you hope for mercy!\" cried\nChirsty, throwing herself on her knees before her keeper, \"force me\nnot to quit my uncle! To him I owe more than the duty of a child to\na parent. Yield but to me the charitable boon of allowing me to watch\nby him, and to attend to him day and night, and you will render me so\nhappy that I shall cheerfully and voluntarily submit to my present\ncruel confinement, without once inquiring by whose order it comes,\nor ever seeking to establish how unnecessarily it has been inflicted\nupon me. Oh! grant me but this, and may blessings be showered down\nupon you.\"\n\n\"I must think about it,\" gruffly replied Sarah. \"In the meantime,\nyou must back to your cell for this day at least. So bid un good-by\nfor this bout. We shall see how you behave, and we shall talk more\nof the matter to-morrow.\"\n\nChirsty rose from her knees; and seeing that it was only through\nsubmissive obedience that she could hope to obtain what she so ardently\nwished, she went to her uncle, and taking up his unconscious hand,\nshe kissed it, watered it with her tears, and then slowly left the\napartment, and returned to her cell, where she was locked up as before.\n\nShe was no sooner left to herself, than so many circumstances and\nreflections occurred to her mind, that it had enough of occupation. She\nnow remembered that after having had regular letters from her uncle\nfor a considerable time, they had all at once ceased. But as the\nirregularity of Indian correspondence was even more common in those\ndays than it is now, she had regretted this as arising from unfortunate\naccident, without being very much surprised at it. But much as she had\nhad reason to believe that her aunt was a heartless selfish woman,\nshe never could have imagined that she could have been guilty of\nconduct so unfeeling towards the unhappy man from whose affection\nshe now derived all that wealth which it appeared she was spending\nso gaily. As to herself, a moment's thought was enough to convince\nher that she owed her present confinement more to the malice than\nto the care of her aunt. She remembered that the only communication\nfrom India that contained the intimation that she was about to return\nto Britain, as well as the name of the ship in which she was to sail,\nalso conveyed the full assurance of the perfect restoration of her mind\nfrom its temporary malady. The person who knew to what ship to send for\nher on her arrival, therefore, must necessarily have known that she\nrequired no such treatment as that to which she had been so wickedly\nsubjected. Villainy of the darkest dye, therefore, had been at work\nagainst her; and where or how it might end she trembled to think. But\nthe thought of her poor uncle's melancholy situation banished every\nother consideration from her mind; and all her thoughts and wishes\nwere now concentrated in the desire she felt to stay by him, and to\nwatch over him to the last--the very idea of such a self-devotion being\nbalm to her lacerated heart, as affording her the luxury of indulging\nthat deep gratitude with which his unvarying kindness towards her\nhad always filled her, and which she never hoped to have had any\nopportunity of repaying. She failed not, therefore, to employ all\nher meekness and all her eloquence to persuade Sarah to grant her\nrequest; and as the gentle drop by frequent repetition will at last\nwear through the hardest flint, so by repeated appeals to the best of\nthe few feelings which that callous-hearted creature possessed, she at\nlast succeeded in obtaining a limited permission to visit her uncle,\nwhich was extended by degrees so far, that she ultimately came to be\nallowed to go to his chamber in the morning, and to remain with him\ntill he was laid to rest at night, when she was removed for the purpose\nof being locked up in her own cell. In this employment Chirsty forgot\nher confinement altogether, and weeks, months, nay even years rolled\naway with no other occupation but that and her devotions. There were\ntimes when she even flattered herself that the unremitting attention\nwhich she paid to him was not without some material advantage to his\ngeneral state. She even thought she saw some amendment in a seeming\napproach to a certain degree of consciousness. Words, though altogether\nincoherent and unconnected, would now and then break from him, as\nif he was following out and giving utterance to some musing dream;\nand on such occasions she would hang over him with anxious fondness\nand intense interest, with the hope of catching their meaning. Then\nshe could distinctly perceive that at such times his glassy eyes,\nwhich were usually directed upon vacancy, would fix themselves upon\nher, assume a strange and unwonted animation, as if the dormant spirit\nhad arisen for a moment and come to the windows of its earthly house,\nto look out upon her,--but alas! when she turned slowly away to try\nits powers, there was no corresponding motion of the head to maintain\nthe proper direction and level of the eyes towards their object,\nand she would weep at the cruel failure of her hopes that followed.\n\nIt did happen, however, that one day whilst she was sitting by her\nuncle, earnestly engaged in trying such experiments as these, with\nthe sunshine strong upon her face, his lack-lustre eyes being fixed\nin her direction, they seemed slowly to gather a spark of the fire\nof intelligence, which went on gradually increasing like the light\nof dawn, till suddenly they received such an animating illumination\nas this earth does when the blessed orb of day bursts from behind\na cloud; and as all nature then rejoices under the warm influence\nof his rays, so was the fond heart of his niece gladdened when,\nas she moved her face slowly from its position, and to this side\nand to that, the eyes of the nabob followed all her motions with a\ngrowing expression, that speedily began to spread itself with a faint\nglow over his hitherto frozen features. The lolling tongue retreated\nwithin the orifice of the mouth, the under jaw was drawn up, and the\nteeth were pressed together as if with the increasing earnestness\nof the gaze. His niece, with more than that degree of intensity of\nabsorption of attention with which an alchemist might be supposed to\nhave watched for the projection of the golden harvest of his hopes,\nseized a hand of her uncle in each of hers, and sat poring into his\neyes, and over every feature of his face in breathless expectation.\n\n\"Chirsty Ross,\" said he at length, slowly and distinctly, and in a\nmanner that left no doubt that the words were not accidental.\n\n\"My dear, dear uncle, you know me then at last!\" cried the happy girl,\nwarmly embracing him, and sobbing upon his bosom. \"Thank God! thank\nGod that you know me!\"\n\n\"Chirsty,\" said the nabob again, \"why did you not write to me\nsooner? Why was you silent for a whole winter? I have been rash,\nperhaps. But what is done cannot be undone, and we must e'en make\nthe best of it now. Yet, if you had only but written to me, Chirsty,\nmy love, things might have been different.\"\n\n\"Oh, this is too heart-rending!\" cried his niece, yielding to an\nungovernable paroxysm of grief.\n\n\"How could you forget to write to me, Chirsty?\" continued her\nuncle. \"The woman, to be sure, is not so bad a woman after all; but\nyou and I were so happy here alone together. But I have been a fool,\nChirsty; yet she is your aunt, and my wife, so we must e'en submit,\nand make the best of it.\"\n\n\"Gracious Providence, support me in this trying hour!\" cried Chirsty\nfervently.\n\n\"What!\" cried the nabob, in a voice louder than she could have supposed\nhis exhausted state could have admitted of. \"What! is the ship to sail\nfor Calcutta so soon? May the God of all goodness be with you then,\nChirsty, my love! Keep up your spirits, my sweet girl, you will come\nhome to me soon with a husband and pagodas in plenty. But forget not\nto write often to me. Your failing in that has already worked evil\nenough to us both.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear, dear uncle!\" cried Chirsty, quite overpowered by her\nfeelings, and sobbing audibly.\n\n\"Nay, cry not so bitterly, my dear child,\" said the nabob. \"Trust\nme, we shall, meet again. And if we should not meet again here--if\nit should please God to remove me from this world ere you return,\nour sound Christian hope assures us, that we shall meet in another\nand a better. But, hold!\" cried he with a more than natural energy,\nthat seemed to be produced by some sudden and great organic change\nin his system. \"The anchor is up--quick, aboard, aboard! God for\never bless and guard you, my love! my Chirsty!--farewell! Ha! the\ngallant ship, see how her sails swell with the breeze!--she goes\nmerrily. But--but--how comes this sudden darkness over me? She is\ngone!--all is gone!--gone!--go--o--oh!\" and his words terminated in\na long deep groan.\n\nChirsty hastily dried up her tears, and anxiously scanned her uncle's\nface. His spirit had once more retreated from his glassy eyes--his\nface had again become deadly pale--his hands were cold, and their\npulses had ceased. She shrieked aloud until help came, but it was\ntoo late--her uncle was dead.\n\nChirsty was no sooner made certain that all was over with her poor\nuncle than her nervous feelings, which had been screwed up to the\nracking pitch by this trying scene, gave way, and she fell in a swoon,\nthat terminated in a repetition of that feverish attack which she had\nhad in India, upon which delirium supervened; and when, after a period\nof nearly three weeks, she was again sensible of the return of reason,\nshe found herself lying in bed with her hands muffled, as they had been\nthe first night she had slept in the asylum. She awaked from a long,\ntranquil, and refreshing sleep; and little Nancy, who was seated by\nher bedside, immediately ran off for Sarah, who came directly.\n\n\"Aye,\" said that hideous creature, after surveying her countenance\nattentively, \"she seems quiet enough now. The fit has gone off for\nthis bout.\"\n\n\"I have been very ill,\" said Chirsty faintly, \"but now, thank God,\nI am better.\"\n\n\"You have given me trouble enough i'facks,\" said Sarah. \"But here is\nsomething that the doctor ordered you to drink; take this, and try\nto sleep again.\"\n\nChirsty readily swallowed what was given to her, fell asleep, and was\nsoon well enough to quit her bed, and to be restored to that degree\nof freedom of person within her cell that she had enjoyed before the\ndiscovery that her uncle was under the same roof with herself. She\nwas even allowed to go down once a day, for an hour, attended by\nSarah, to breathe the open air, and to walk backwards and forwards\nin the narrow well of a court that was formed by that wing of the\nbuilding which contained her cell. But this indulgence did little\nto relieve the insufferable tedium that seized upon her, now that\nthe only object capable of interesting her had been removed. Her\nmind now recurred with augmented force to all the horrors of her\niniquitous confinement. She resolved to try whether she could not\nmove the compassion of her female Cerberus.\n\n\"Now that my uncle is gone,\" said she one day calmly to Sarah, \"my\nconfinement becomes so much more cruel and unnecessary, that I am sure\nyou must feel for me. You have now known enough of me during the long\nperiod I have been under your care to be sufficiently aware that there\nnever were any grounds for placing me in an asylum of this kind. If,\nthen, I am shut up here for no other cause than that I may not give\noffence to Mrs. Ross by crossing her path, I am quite willing to give\nany security that may be asked of me that I will go down directly to\nlive with my friends in Ross-shire, and that she shall never see or\nbe troubled with me more.\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed the wretch who listened to her; \"what! and lose\nthe good board which that worthy woman, your aunt, pays for you? No,\nno! Enough that we have already lost that which she paid for that\nmummy of a husband of hers. Yet, after all, he lived longer than one\nmight have thought un like to have done. But you--an we but take care\nof you--you may long be a sure annual rent to us!\"\n\n\"Can nothing move you?\" said Chirsty, with a despairing look.\n\n\"No,\" said the wretch, with an iron grin. \"I am not to be flattered\nfrom my trust. But what said you? No grounds for placing you here,\nquotha! Was it not but the other day that, strong as I am, it took\nall my power to hold ye down. Ha! ha! ha! The surest sign of madness\nis the belief that you are not mad.\"\n\n\"Then must my hope be in the Lord alone,\" said Chirsty, in a desponding\ntone. \"But oh! if you would have me live, let me have books or work,\nor writing or drawing materials, or this painfully irksome confinement\nmust soon kill me.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Sarah, shaking her head, \"no, no. Writing or drawing\nmaterials might be used to send tales out beyond these walls,\nand books might be used as paper--aye, and work might answer the\nsame end. Therefore content yourself, content yourself, child. I'll\ndo all for you that such a feeling heart as mine can do for a poor\nfellow-creetur robbed of reason, as you have been. But I must fulfil\nthe duty I am paid for.\"\n\nIt happened that the very next day after this, as Chirsty sat with her\neyes cast down on the floor of her cell, some small glittering body\nattracted her notice, and on stooping to pick it up, to her great joy\nshe discovered that it was a needle, which had probably dropped from\nthe sleeve of little Nancy, who usually waited on her. She secured the\ntreasure about her person, as of infinite value, and the possession of\nit gave rise to a train of reflection that ended in the formation of\na scheme for ultimately producing her liberation, which henceforward\nengrossed all her attention. Provided as she had thus so fortunately\nbeen with a needle, she was yet destitute of thread. But her necessity\ninstantly made her think of using her long black hair, with which she\nresolved immediately to undertake the laborious task of embroidering\nthe outline of her melancholy story on a cambric handkerchief, with\nthe hope that some means might occur to her of thereby communicating\nthe place of her confinement to her friends in Scotland. Eagerly did\nshe sit down to begin the task, but she wept when she discovered, what\nshe had not hitherto been aware of, that the first two or three hairs\nwhich she pulled were of a white as pure as that of the handkerchief\nwhich was to be the field of her work. Her miseries, however, had not\nas yet done all the work of age upon her raven tresses; for enough\nstill remained of a silken and glossy jet to have embroidered a whole\nvolume. Such were her feelings at the time, however, that, dreading\nthe change that might yet take place she knew not how quickly, she\nrent forth such a quantity of the precious material as might, at least,\nsecure the completion of her purpose, and having carefully secreted it,\nshe went to work with an eagerness that seemed to promise to lend her\na new existence; and, indeed, the occupation and the hope it yielded\nher kept her up under all her afflictions for the months and months\nthat elapsed ere she stealthily brought her work to a conclusion.\n\nAnd after it was finished her heart sank within her, for occupation was\nat an end, and now her dread arose that the work would be fruitless;\nfor where was the hope, in her circumstances, that she might ever\nfind a messenger fit to be entrusted with such a charge. Whilst\nemployed in the work her mind was tranquillised. But now it was\nthrown into a state of continued nervous excitement, which could\nnot but have a tendency to wear it out. It did happen that, in her\nway down by the various passages and stairs that led to the little\ncourt whither she was daily summoned for exercise, she sometimes,\nthough very rarely, met with strangers passing upwards to visit some\nunfortunate friend or relative. With none of these dared she to have\ncommunicated verbally; and if she had so dared, a word from her stern\nkeeper to strangers in such a place would have turned the most sober\nexpression of perfect sanity into the semblance of the mere utterance\nof hopeless madness. But if she could in any way manage to put her\nembroidered history into feeling and charitable hands, she trusted\nthat the curiosity at least of the individual might save it from being\neither exposed or destroyed, and if so, hope might be interwoven with\nits living threads. Each time that her cell was opened, therefore,\nto allow her to descend to the little court her heart beat high. But,\nalas! day after day, and week after week, passed away, and no one\ncame at the fortunate minute.\n\nAt length, as she was one day descending one of the flights of stairs,\nwith Sarah close behind her, she met with an old gentleman having a\nparticular lameness in one leg, who was limping up with a crutch. He\nstood aside to allow her to pass, and the pity, not unmingled with\nadmiration, that seemed to animate his face as he earnestly looked\nupon her, made her almost accuse herself of folly for not having\nboldly risked the venture of putting the handkerchief into his\nhands. But a little thought told her that, if she had done so, all\nher labour and all her hopes would have been utterly wrecked, for she\nremembered that the keen eyes of Sarah had been close at her elbow,\nand detection would have been certain. Several other individuals passed\nher at different times, but the countenance of none of them gave her\nsufficient confidence to trust them, even if an opportunity had been\nafforded her, and every day her nervous excitement and irritability\ngrew more and more distressing.\n\nIt happened one day, however, that as she was moving along a passage,\nshe heard and recognised the particular stump of the lame gentleman\nwhom she had formerly met. She could not be mistaken, and it was then\nentering on the lowest step of a flight, down which she was about to\nturn. She was then a pace or two ahead of Sarah, and contriving to\nlengthen her stride as she approached the turn at the stairs, she\npassed a keeper who was hurrying on to open the various locks of a\ncell which the stranger he was conducting was about to visit. Thus it\nwas that, by fortunate accident, she was brought alone and unseen into\ncontact with the gentleman for a few brief but precious moments. Nerved\nup by the importance of the act, she expanded her handkerchief before\nhim, to show what it contained, put it into his hand, and with an\nimploring look that spoke volumes, she signed to him to conceal it,\nand as she passed him by she quickly whispered him,--\n\n\"Hide it now?--read it at home--and, oh! for mercy's sake, act\nupon it.\"\n\nTaken thus by surprise, the stranger held it for a moment in his\nhand, and turned to look after her who gave it him. Sarah appeared\nwhilst he was still standing thus. Chirsty stood on the lowest step,\nand looked up to him in breathless and motionless dread.\n\n\"What stand ye there for?\" cried Sarah roughly to her, as she was\ndescending.\n\nThe stranger seemed to recover his self-possession. He quietly\nreturned the salutation which Sarah gave him, and wiping his face\nwith the handkerchief, as if it had been his own pulled forth for\nthat purpose, he thrust it deep into his bosom, and began again to\nclimb the steps. Chirsty, overpowered by her feelings, leaned for a\nmoment against the wall.\n\n\"What's the matter with ye?\" cried Sarah impatiently.\n\n\"Nothing, nothing, good Sarah!\" said Chirsty, \"only a sudden qualm\nof sickness, but it has gone off now;\" and so saying, she pursued\nher way with tottering steps.\n\nIf Chirsty was subjected to anxious excitement before she had thus\ndisposed of her broidered history, how much greater were her nervous\nagitations, her eternal tossings between hope and fear, from the moment\nshe had thus committed it to the stranger? Had he betrayed her? nay,\nif he had, she must have heard of it from Sarah, or gathered it from\nthe harsher treatment with which she must have been visited. He must\nhave been so far her friend. But, admitting all this, whether he\nwould have charity enough to act upon his knowledge of the facts it\ncontained, or whether he would treat it as the mere pseudo-rational\nstatement of a maniac, were matters of doubt that agonised her by\nnight as well as by day. She slept not,--she ate not, and her brain\ngrew lighter and lighter every day. She became sensible of this. A\nmost unconquerable dread came upon her, that even admitting that the\nstranger was doing all he could to inform her friends of her unhappy\nsituation, her senses would be undermined before they could come to\nher relief, and, as time wore on, and hope grew fainter and duller,\nshe began to yield herself up to despair, which gradually threw its\ndamp and suffocating clouds over her soul.\n\nWhilst she was in this gloomy state, she happened one day to think\nof the needle, which she had now so much reason to fear had been\nbut uselessly employed; and the horrible idea crossed her mind,\nthat even such a small instrument as it might readily enough produce\ndeath, and that thus there was yet another and a more certain way in\nwhich it might be made to effect her deliverance from her present\nimprisonment. She immediately drew it forth from the skirt of her\ngown, where she had concealed it. She looked at it for some moments\nwith a steady but agitated gaze; and then, earnestly imploring Heaven\nfor aid in the fearful struggle she was undergoing, she started up,\nwith a resolution acquired from above, and threw it from the window of\nher cell, that such wicked thoughts of self-destruction might never\nagain be produced by it; and then, on her knees, she poured out her\nhumble and submissive aspirations of thanks.\n\nAnd now despondency gave way to resolution, and she at length\ndetermined to take the first opportunity of making a desperate attempt\nto effect her escape. But to produce even a hope of success, she saw\nthat it would be necessary to use much preliminary artifice.\n\nIt was the more easy for her to employ this effectually, that hope\nhad hitherto made her behaviour so mild and so submissive, that all\nsuspicion on the part of her Argus-eyed keeper had been for a long\ntime put to rest. Recollecting what Sarah had said to her as to the\nimportant source of revenue which hung on the preservation of her\nlife, she began by complaining of that for which she had, indeed,\nno inconsiderable grounds of truth, that her health was suffering\ndeeply from want of pure air and exercise. This was touching Sarah in\nthe very point where she was most assailable. She of herself proposed\nto extend Chirsty's walk to a garden belonging to the place, to the\nexistence of which she had more than once heard her refer. Next day,\naccordingly, she was taken from her cell, and conducted by Sarah\nand Nancy down through the same passages, and by the same flights of\nstairs with which she was already so familiar; but instead of being\nled into the small court which had hitherto been the utmost extent\nto which freedom had been permitted her, she was ushered into a large\nand high-walled orchard or garden, quite umbrageous with fruit-trees,\nand thickly intermixed with shrubs. Who can fancy, with any approach\nto the reality, the delight which Chirsty felt whilst wandering\namong the blossoming shades of this, to her absolutely, celestial\nspot, after the years of confinement which she had undergone? She\nleaped--she skipped--she threw her arms about, and laughed as if she\nhad really been the poor unsettled maniac who might have required the\nrestraint she had been so long kept under. She poured out her thanks\nto Sarah with strange volubility; and as she was guilty of no excess\nthat could alarm her keeper, she was not only readily permitted to\nremain there for a considerable time under her watchful eye, but she\nwas returned to her cell with a promise that she should be permitted\nto revisit the garden daily.\n\nThe effect of this leniency and indulgence was a renovated state\nof health, perfectly wonderful in itself, and highly gratifying to\nSarah. But although the spirits of the patient rose from the blessed\ninfluence of a more frequent intercourse with the sun and the sky,\nher anxious mind was still deeply possessed with the sad conviction\nthat every day made the hope of help from her friends in Scotland less\nand less probable. Her determination to attempt an escape, therefore,\nstrengthened with the improvement and increase of her physical\nenergies. She never made the round of the garden without scanning\nevery part of its inclosure with scrupulous care. In the course of\nthis daily examination, she one day discovered that a half-witted lad,\nemployed in nailing up the fruit trees, had carelessly left his light\nhand-ladder leaning against the wall in a corner, where it was in a\ncertain degree hid by a buttress, and as she saw it in the same spot\nthe next day, she became satisfied that it was for the present unwanted\nand forgotten. The very thought of this as a means for getting over the\nwall, brought her ingenuity into play; and as she at once saw that any\nattempt at escape in broad daylight must necessarily be unsuccessful,\nshe began to work upon her keeper to procure a change of the mid-day\nhour of airing to that of evening. As the garden was used at all times\nof the day as a place of exercise for the less violent patients,\nshe occasionally encountered them during her walks. She therefore\npretended to be seized with an unconquerable alarm at their uncouth\nappearance, and she declared that it was impossible for her longer\nto avail herself of the privilege which she enjoyed.\n\n\"I feel all your kindness to me, unfortunate creature that I am,\"\nsaid she, in a tone of despondency, to Sarah one day, when she came as\nusual to take her out. \"But I cannot bear to have my path crossed by\nthose melancholy objects; and, since it is Heaven's will that I am so\ncondemned to misery in this world, the sooner I am relieved by death,\nand dismissed to a happier the better.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Sarah, who was fully alive to the important improvement\nof Chirsty's health from the change of system already pursued with\nher. \"We must not let ye die,--we can't afford that,--so walk out\nyou shall. And, since you are frightened by the sight of them 'ere\ncreeturs, we shall walk in the cool of the evening, when they are\nall locked up.\"\n\n\"Thank you, thank you, Sarah,\" said Chirsty, overjoyed at the success\nof this first part of her scheme.\n\nAnxiously did Chirsty look every evening as she returned to the\ngarden to ascertain whether the ladder was still in its place, for\nshe was obliged to allow one or two nights to pass that she might use\ncertain management with Sarah to ensure something like a probability\nof success. Under pretence of giving greater exercise to her limbs,\nshe began to jump and dance with Nancy. Some time afterwards she\nproposed to play a game of hide and seek with her. These sports were\nrenewed for several evenings, so that Sarah was not only lulled into\nperfect security, but, hard as she was by nature, she was even so\nmuch amused by the merriment of the little girl, who was her niece,\nthat Chirsty easily contrived that each successive evening should\nprolong their sports, until she one night succeeded in remaining in\nthe garden till twilight had almost become darkness. Then it was that\nshe wound up all her energies to make her attempt.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said she carelessly, \"I am almost tired now, Nancy;\nbut come, I will give you one chance more;\" and off she went by way\nof hiding again among the bushes.\n\nBut no sooner was she out of sight, than, forcing her way through\nthe thicket, she darted down a long alley with the speed of a hare,\nmounted the ladder to the top of the wall, drew it up after her, and\nletting it down on the other side, she was beyond the hated precincts\nof the asylum before Sarah or the little Nancy had begun to suspect\nthat she was gone. Already did her hopes bound over all intermediate\nobstacles, and transport her in imagination to her father's humble\ndwelling at Tain. Finding herself in a lane, with the garden wall\non one hand, and another equally high on the opposite side, she\nsprang forward without knowing whither she went. Loud screams and\nshouts came from within the garden. On she ran wildly until she was\nterror-struck for a moment, and arrested by hearing cries of alarm,\nand beholding the flaring of lights in the very direction in which\nshe was running. The loud baying of the great dog also reached her\nears from the same quarter. Winged by fear, she was thus forced to\ndouble back, and bethinking her of the ladder, she rapidly retraced her\nsteps to the spot where she had left it. Taking it hastily down from\nthe garden wall, she dragged it across the lane with the intention\nof applying it to that on the other side. Whilst her trembling hands\nwere in the act of doing this, the harsh iron screams of Sarah came\nall of a sudden loudly up the lane from the opposite direction to\nthat in which Chirsty had first attempted to fly. A postern-door\nof the garden had given the old woman egress at about fifty yards\nbelow. Dreadful was now the nervous agitation of poor Chirsty. Her\nutmost strength was necessary to rear the ladder, light as it was,\nagainst the wall. She did succeed, however. Her enraged and baffled\nkeeper was toiling up to her, with her wide mouth uttering shrieks\nand imprecations that might have well been called infernal. Chirsty\nclimbed the ladder with a palsy in all her joints. She was already on\nthe top of the wall,--one moment more would have enabled her to pull\nthe ladder up beyond the reach of the infuriated dwarf, and she had\nsucceeded in raising it a considerable way from the ground, when the\nuncouth monster reached the spot, and clutching at the lower end of it\nwith her long hands, she with one powerful jerk, not only dragged it\ndown, but she so destroyed the equilibrium of the unfortunate fugitive,\nthat she fell from the top of the wall into the lane, where the hideous\ncountenance and demoniac eyes of Sarah frowned and glared over her,\nand the horrible laugh of triumph, and the blasphemous denunciations\nof vengeance and punishment which the monster uttered, rang in her\nears ere she was borne off senseless to the asylum.\n\nYou are doubtless desirous to know something of the history of poor\nCharles Gr\u00e6me, who, as you may remember, left India for the purpose of\nfollowing Chirsty Ross to England? I shall shortly tell you, that on\nreaching Britain, he made ineffectual inquiries for her at her uncle's\nresidence. Mrs. Ross denied having ever seen or heard of her. He did\nfind out her Indian maid; but from the little that she told him, he\ncould make out no clue to lead to the discovery of her mistress. And\nafter many ineffectual attempts, repeatedly made for months, he at\nlength yielded to the advice of his friends, and returned to India,\nwhere he vainly endeavoured to eradicate the sorrow of his heart by\nfresh and intense occupation.\n\nAfter the lapse of a good many years, accident led a gentleman to\nvisit a noble friend of his, who was proprietor of a fine estate and\nresidence in Ross-shire. The roads thereabouts were then so bad for\nwheeled carriages, that, tired of the slowness of his progress and\nof the jolting of his vehicle, he left it at an inn to come after\nhim at its own rate by a somewhat circuitous route, and mounting his\nservant's horse, he set off unattended. Following the directions\nhe received from the people of the house, he took what was called\nthe shortest way, hoping that he might yet save his distance so far\nas to reach his friend's house to a late dinner. Many was the long\nScottish mile of ground which he travelled over, however; and still\nas he interrogated the peasants whom he met with, he found that the\nway before him seemed rather to be lengthening than diminishing. His\nhorse began to manifest great symptoms of fatigue, and as the night\nwas settling down very fast, he was glad to meet with a man who pointed\nout to him a track leading by the sea-shore, which, as he assured him,\nwould save him several miles of distance. At the same time he told him,\nthat he would require to push on smartly, so as to reach a certain\nford at the mouth of a river, before the flowing tide should render\nit quite impracticable. Stimulated by this information, and being,\nmoreover, impatient to get to his journey's end, he put spurs to his\nhorse and galloped on as fast as the tired animal could go.\n\nHe had not proceeded very far, when a vivid flash of forked lightning\nblazed amid the obscurity that brooded over the sea, and a tremendous\npeal of thunder rent the air. The waves, which were gradually rising\nupon tho beach, seemed every moment to swell more proudly, and to toss\ntheir snowy crests higher, and suddenly a deluge of rain began to be\npoured from the gathered clouds. The somewhat delicate traveller wished\nhimself again within his old box of a carriage in defiance of its\njolting; but now, both in mercy to himself and to the animal he rode,\nhe was compelled to force the poor creature on to an accelerated pace,\nthat they might the sooner reach some place of shelter. As if fully\naware of the necessity of exertion, his horse bore him with tolerable\nrapidity for two or three miles amidst the lightning and rain and the\nthunder that at times deafened the sound of the advancing waves, till,\nas the darkness was just about to become complete, he dimly descried\nthe huge mass of an ancient building rising before him from a low\npeninsula; and, on further investigation, he discovered that he had\nreached the river of which the peasant had spoken. A very cursory\nexamination only was necessary to assure him that the stream was\nalready so swollen by the rain and the tide as to take away all hope\nof his being able to ford. The river was a raging torrent, and the\nroar of its conflict with the swelling tide, was a terrific addition\nto the horrors of the storm. The gentleman had no alternative left,\ntherefore, but to look for hospitality in the adjoining building.\n\nHaving dismounted then, he led his horse in at a gateway, and,\nhaving discovered a dilapidated outhouse, with a half entire roof, he\ncontrived to fasten the animal by the bridle to a rusty iron hook that\nprojected out of the wall. He then made his way across a court-yard\nso covered with tall docks and nettles as very much to discourage any\nhope which he might have previously entertained of finding inhabitants\nwithin the edifice; but, as he groped his way towards the great door\nof the huge pile, he was cheered by beholding a light that glimmered\nthrough the unglazed and broken casements of what appeared to be a\nlarge apartment about two stories up, whence he distinctly heard the\nsinging of a woman's voice. Somewhat encouraged by this circumstance,\nand guided by the faint gleam, he tried the ponderous old oaken door,\nbut he found that it was firmly secured within. He was about to\napply his hand to a large rusty iron knocker that hung upon it, when\nhis attention was arrested by a wild laugh which echoed through the\napartments above, died away, and was again more than once repeated\nwith strange, sudden, and incomprehensible changes. Some of those\nsuperstitious feelings of which his infancy had largely partaken for\na moment seized upon him, and he doubted whether the building was not\ntenanted by beings with whom those of this world could not dare to\nhave intercourse. But a little thought, and a little more attention\nto the voice, soon reassured him against anything supernatural, and\nhe then began to question himself whether he might not be about to\nrouse some body of lawless banditti or smugglers who might have taken\npossession of that which was evidently a ruined castle, as a place\nfor their retreat or rendezvous. Was it prudent to proceed? But he\nwas a man who never feared danger in youth; and, now that youth was\nlong past with him, certain bitter disappointments he had met with in\nearly life, and the consequent sorrow which his heart had ever since\nendured, rendered him now much too careless about mere existence ever\nto allow any anxiety regarding that to influence his conduct, even\nif the deluge of rain which was then falling had not been enough to\nstimulate the faintest heart to the bold determination of making good\nan entrance at all hazards. Raising the knocker, therefore, he made\na furious appeal to those within. But whether it was that the roar\nof the thunder, the rumbling of the river, the booming of the waves,\nand the continued plash of the rain, combined to drown his efforts,\nor to render the inmates deaf to his summons, he found it necessary\nto repeat his loud larum several times ere his ear caught the sound\nof a step descending the stair from above.\n\nThe stair was included in one of those curious thin round towers\nwhich are so frequently seen rising from the side of the doorway of\nthese old Scottish castles, and a small window about half a story\nup seemed to have been placed there to enable the appearance of all\napplicants for entrance to be well reconnoitred before admission should\nbe granted to them, whilst a small round arrow or musket hole on a\nlevel with their heads, enabled them to be easily and successfully\nassailed from below, if they were likely to be at all troublesome. A\nflaring light streamed suddenly out from the small window above, and\nthrew a partial and fitful gleam over a part of the dripping weeds\nof the wet court-yard. It proceeded from a lighted torch of bog-fir,\nand the stranger's attention was instantly arrested by the apparition\nthat brandished it aloft with a bare extended arm. It was a woman,\nwhose countenance, though wasted, and tarnished, and rendered wiry,\nas it were, by exposure to weather, yet exhibited features of the\nnoblest character, so that even a momentary glance at them and\nthe dark eyes that flashed from them with a wild expression, as the\ntorch which she held forth threw back its flickering light upon them,\nconvinced the stranger that they must have been once beautiful.\n\n\"Who comes at this unseasonable hour to these my castle\ngates?\" demanded the woman, in a haughty tone.\n\n\"A single traveller overtaken by night and by this pelting rain,\"\nreplied the stranger, \"from which, with your kind permission, he\nwould fain find a temporary shelter.\"\n\n\"Aha!\" exclaimed the woman again, with a curious expression of extreme\nand cunning caution, \"dost think that these gates of mine ever turn\nupon their hinges to admit any guests but those who come in their\ngilt coaches,--aye, and with their running footmen and out-riders too?\"\n\n\"I doubt not what you say,\" replied the stranger; \"but I am at this\nmoment acting the part of my own out-rider; I left my carriage to go\nby another road, whilst I came on this way on horseback. Pray, good\nmadam, send down one of your people, and his inspection of my horse,\nwhich I have used the freedom to tie up in your stable, will no doubt\nsatisfy you.\"\n\n\"My people! ha! ha! ha!\" exclaimed she laughing wildly, \"you look to\nbe a gentleman, though, Heaven knows, looks are never to be trusted\nin this deceitful world. But I will see you nearer,\" and having\ndisappeared from the window, he heard her step descending the lower\nflight of the stair. After a few moments of a pause, the heavy bolts\nwere withdrawn, and the door was slowly opened to about one-third of\nits extent. Although prepared to behold something rather extraordinary,\nthe gentleman was absolutely startled by the appearance of the woman\nwho now stood before him. He had already seen her countenance, but\nnow he could perceive that her hair was exceedingly long and untamed,\nand whilst the greater part of it was white or grizzled, as if from\npremature failure, it still contained what, if properly dressed, might\nhave been called tresses of the most beautiful glossy black, and the\nstrange effect of this unnatural intermixture of the livery of youth\nand of age, was heightened by the wild combination of such fantastical\nwreaths of heather and sea-weed, mingled with, sea-birds' feathers,\nas insanity is usually so fond of adopting by way of finery. Her arms\nwere bare to the shoulders, and her bust was but imperfectly covered by\na coarse canvas shirt. A red flannel petticoat that descended to her\nknees, and which was confined at the waist by a broad leathern belt,\nwas the only other piece of drapery that she wore. She stood before\nthe stranger exhibiting the wrecks of a form of the most exquisite\nmould, and her whole appearance betraying the fact, that whatever\nthe soul that animated it might have once been, its reason was now\nobscured by the darkness arising from confirmed derangement.\n\n\"Enter my castle, sweet sir!\" said the maniac in a gentle and\nsubdued voice, and at the same time courtseying with a grace which\nmight have better befitted the attire of a court than that which\nshe wore. \"Enter my castle, and I will speedily usher you up to the\ngrand banqueting-room. But stay,\" added she, with a sudden and wild\nchange of manner, after he had obeyed her invitation, \"I must make\nmy gates secure against the wretches, they might find me out even\nhere. Bolt! bolt! bolt! there my brave bolts,\" she continued, changing\nher speech into a chant, as if addressing them in incantation,--\n\n\n           \"Keep your wards,\n            Be faithful guards,--\n          And you, master-key,\n          Great warden shall be;\n    To defend me from force and from traitorie.\"\n\n\n\"Come along, sir,\" continued she, again changing to a wild mood;\n\"this way--I have a pride and a pleasure in personally attending\non so distinguished a guest, as your whole appearance and manners\ndeclare you to be.\"\n\nThe gentleman followed his conductress up the half-ruined screw stair,\nwhich here and there exhibited fearful chasms, from the entire absence\nof two or three successive steps, over which she skipped without\nthe least hesitation, whilst he was obliged to thrust his nails into\nthe crevices of the wall to hoist himself over the difficulty. But\nafter he had ascended two flights, he came to a landing-place where\nthere was a doorway entering into that large hall, from which he had\nfirst heard the voice of the maniac. Into this she led the way, and\nas he was about to follow her, you may imagine his astonishment when\nI tell you he discovered that the whole flooring was gone except the\nbare oaken beams, and the apartments below being in the same state,\nhis eyes stretched uninterruptedly downwards till vision was lost in\nthe impenetrable darkness of the dungeons below. But his conductress\nhesitated not a moment, and went onwards from beam to beam, with\nas much indifference as she would have walked across a paved court,\nuntil she gained the great hearth, which, with a small portion of the\nplanking in its vicinity, was still entire, and where a fire of wood\nwas burning under the huge projecting chimney.\n\n\"Come, sir,\" said the maniac, smiling courteously, \"never mind your\nwet boots; don't stand upon ceremony, I pray you, your long ride and\nthe state of the weather are sufficient apologies. Here is a seat by\nthe fire for you.\"\n\nShe then busied herself in placing an old rotten-looking chair, which\nappeared to have once had a back, and which seemed to have belonged\nto the castle in its better days, whilst she seated herself on an\nopposite stool, and began to arrange her head-gear, to run her taper\nfingers, with, nails on them like eagle's talons, through her long\nhair, and to twist it round into certain curls that had now probably\nbecome natural from the art and care which had once been bestowed\nupon them. Meanwhile, the stranger, after bracing up his nerves and\nsteadying his head, and balancing his person, with some difficulty\nand hazard accomplished the perilous passage.\n\n\"You must be hungry, sir, after your ride,\" said the maniac, in the\nsame mild tone. \"I was about to sup when you came in. Perhaps you\nwill have no objections to join me.\" And then suddenly changing in\nher tone, and bursting into an uncouth laugh, as she looked into a\npot that hung simmering over the fire--\"Ha!--ha!--ha!--hah!--see!--the\nwater has boiled well. The lightning has helped to do that for me. I\nam the favoured one! The very elements are my cooks! Hah! did you see\nwhere it came again? flash--zigzag--zigzag. Now 'tis time to mix the\npudding,\" and, thrusting her hand into a large square hole in the wall,\nshe dragged out, first a bag of oatmeal, and then a small wooden vessel\nfull of salt, and with an earnestness which for the time absorbed her\nattention from everything else, she proceeded to put the ingredients\ninto the pot, and to stir them about with a large wooden spoon.\n\n\"Now for my silver dish!\" said she again, as she pulled forth a pewter\nbasin from the same recess in the wall. \"Well is it for me that my\ngates are watched and warded, else would robbers soon carry off this\nrare treasure of my castle. See here now--ha! ha! ha! let us begin the\nfeast.\" And as she said so, she filled the pewter basin from the pot,\nby means of the wooden spoon, and set it between them on an old box\nturned upside down, and drawing forth a couple of pewter spoons from\nher curious cupboard, she handed one to the stranger.\n\n\"Hah!\" said she sternly, as she broke into a more violent state of\nexcitement than she had hitherto exhibited, \"do you see that mark?\" And\nas she said this, she drew with her forefinger a line of division\nacross the surface of the mess that stood between them--\"That's your\nhalf and this is mine: so take care what you do, for I'll have no\nfoul play--men can cheat!--but I'm hungry, and I must have my food;\nso see to it that you eat no more than what is your own.\"\n\nThe mind of the traveller was too much filled with this strange and\ndistressing scene to admit of his appetite leading him to infringe on\nthe rule thus prescribed to him, even if the food itself had been much\nmore inviting than it really was; on the contrary, he had hardly eat\na third part of his way up to the boundary line, when he found that\nhis hostess had scrupulously given it a straight edge upon her side.\n\n\"Come!\" said she, in an angry tone of voice, quite different from\nany she had hitherto used; \"eat up your share! do you think I want\nit? Come, there is no poison in it. Come! come!\"\n\n\"I do, I do,\" said the gentleman, pretending to eat; and every now\nand then contriving to throw unobserved a large spoonful down between\nthe beams; until, partly by eating, and partly by this occasional\nmanoeuvre, he at last succeeded in emptying the dish.\n\n\"Now, sir!\" said the maniac, resuming all the quiet and decorous\ndemeanour of a well-bred woman, \"a little gentle exercise after supper\nconduces to good repose. I shall be happy to give you my hand for\na minuet.\"\n\nPushing back the seats they had occupied, she seized the stranger's\nhand, and took her position beside him on the hearth. He offered no\nopposition to her proposal; and she immediately began to sing with\ngreat brilliancy and effect that minuet so well known to our grandsires\nand grandmothers under the name of the Minuet de la Cour. Following\nthe example of his entertainer, the gentleman was obliged to make his\npreliminary bows corresponding to her preliminary courtesies; and had\nany eye looked upon the couple as they were thus employed, it might\nhave been naturally enough supposed that he danced with some handsome\nlady of quality disguised in a fancy dress, so perfectly did the grace\nof her attitudes assimilate themselves to the various movements of the\nminuet. But the gentleman had not altogether calculated the nature of\nhis present undertaking. The spot of terra firma on which the dance\ncommenced was by no means large enough for the extent of one-tenth\npart of the figure of the minuet; and a less bold man than he would\nhave felt anything but tranquillity of mind, when his insane partner,\ngiving him her hand, glided with him over the beams, amidst the half\nlight that proceeded from the decaying embers, like some spirit from\nthe other world. But if this was alarming, what were his feelings,\nwhen, after the slow part of the minuet was over, she began to carol\nthe sprightly gavot which follows it, with a clear voice, that made\nthe lofty vaulted roof ring again, whilst she darted off and called\nto him to follow. So, indeed, he found himself compelled to do; but\nwhilst he, at the risk of his life, contented himself with keeping\nup something like a semblance of the figure, he was astonished and\nappalled to see his partner go through the whole dance with all that\nactivity which might have been exhibited on a common floor by the\nablest professional dancer. Though he felt not for himself, his hair\nactually stood on end as he looked with trembling on her, whom he\nexpected every moment to see disappear from his eyes into that abyss\nof darkness that lay below; and great was his relief from anxiety when\nthe dance was at last terminated on the hearthstone where it began.\n\n\"And now, gentle sir,\" said the maniac, \"you are doubtless well\nprepared for your night's repose after this healthful exercise. Let\nme see that your sleeping apartment is ready.\"\n\nHad the roaring elements without permitted the stranger to have again\nventured abroad, he saw that he could not have possessed himself of\nthe keys of the outer door without the employment of force, which\nhis feeling heart never could have allowed him to have attempted. He\ntherefore sat patiently waiting until his hostess crossed the beams,\nand went into a small stone closet opening in the wall, whence she\nspeedily returned, and lifting a lighted brand of bog-fir from the\nfire, she presented it to him with the same air as if she had been\nputting a silver candlestick, with a wax candle in it, into his hand;\nand taking up another for herself, she, with all the delicacy of\nthe most refined lady, wished him a good night, and retired into\na room on the other side of the hall similar to that which she had\nindicated to him. Before retreating to his dormitory, the gentleman\ntook the precaution to rake the fire together, and to add to it one\nor two pieces of wood, which were piled up in the chimney near it,\nso as to keep up a certain degree of light in the place. He then\nmoved across the beams to the stone closet, where he found a heap\nof ferns nicely spread over heather, and putting his cloak on, which\nhad by this time become tolerably dry, he lay quietly down to try to\nprocure a little repose.\n\nHe had not lain long until he was awakened by several rats running over\nhim, and on looking out at the open door which gave him a view into\nthe large apartment, he beheld swarms of these creatures gambolling\nabout on the beams. Whilst he was lying watching their motions,\nhe was surprised to perceive his hostess crawling silently forth\non hands and knees from the small place she had occupied. Suddenly\nshe sprang upon the rats with all the agility of a cat, flew after\nthem hither and thither, with wild and frantic yells, leaping at the\nwalls in such a manner that she absolutely seemed to scramble up a\nportion of their height in the eagerness of her pursuit. The chase\nlasted until all the rats had disappeared, but ere it terminated,\nseveral of them had fallen victims to her wonderful expertness in\ncapturing them. Proceeding then to the hearth, she seated herself on\nthe stool by the fire, in a state of great excitement, and inserting\nher long nails into them, she stripped off their skins one after the\nother with inconceivable expedition, and as she did so, she rose up\nfrom time to time and suspended the bleeding reptiles on tenter-hooks\non one side of the chimney among many others which the stranger had\nnot till then observed, whilst she attached their skins to a similar\nset of hooks on the other side of the fire, amongst a corresponding\nnumber of trophies of the same kind.\n\n\"This is for my winter beef,\" said she in a wild soliloquy, \"and this\nis for my winter cloak!\" This she repeated as every new occasion\nrequired, till all were stowed away. After which the furious fit\nseemed to subside; and soon afterwards she retired to her bed, where\nshe lay so quiet as to give no more disturbance to her stranger guest,\ntill both were roused by the early dawn.\n\nThe morning was a smiling one, and as if she had partaken of its\npeaceful nature, she was again in one of her gentle lady-like humours.\n\n\"Will you walk, sweet sir?\" said she to her guest, with a profound\ncourtesy. \"Will you walk forth to see the morning sun kissing the\nopening flowers and drinking up the dewdrops from their lips? This\nway,\" continued she, as she ushered him down the broken stair, and\nsilently opened the locks and bolts of the outer door.\n\n\"I thank you most sincerely for your hospitality, Madam,\" said the\ntraveller to her whilst she was carefully locking the door behind\nher. \"I must now bid you farewell. I see my horse has had the good\nsense to break out from his stable during the night to feed on yonder\nrich bank of grass, so that he must be well enough refreshed by this\ntime to be able to finish my journey.\"\n\n\"What,\" exclaimed the maniac with a sudden transition to her highest\npitch of excitement, and with great rapidity of utterance, \"are you\ngoing to leave me too? Did you not come to this my castle to woo me for\nyour bride? And are you going to leave me too? But I forget, I forget,\"\ncontinued she, sinking into a low thoughtful tone of feeling, whilst\ntears came rushing to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. \"I must\nnot forget that I am pledged in my own mind. There was but one that\never truly loved me, and him I lost by being true to a base deceiver.\"\n\n\"What said you?\" exclaimed the stranger with intense interest.\n\n\"I say that men are deceivers!\" cried she with her wildest tone and\ngesture; and then becoming gradually calm, she went on singing with\ngreat pathos,--\n\n\n   \"Sigh no more ladies,\n    Ladies sigh no more,\n    Men were deceivers ever,\n    Men were deceivers ever,\n    One foot on sea and one on shore----\n\n\nYes! yes! on sea!--how many vows did that false man of the sea\nutter! and how cruelly did he break them on shore!\"\n\n\"What do I hear?\" exclaimed the gentleman. \"The very song! the very\nsong we so often sang in duet together at Calcutta!\"\n\n\"Calcutta!\" cried the maniac, earnestly seizing his wrist, and in a\ntone of deep feeling; \"yes, I sang that song often at Calcutta with\none who tenderly loved me. How often do I think on that!\"\n\n\"Merciful powers!\" cried the stranger, as he suddenly observed a\nsmall Indian wrought ring on the little finger of that hand by which\nshe had for a moment held his; \"by all that is wonderful, it is the\nring! the very ring! Let me see that ring!\"\n\n\"No!\" said the maniac, in a high, haughty, and determined manner;\n\"it shall never be touched by you nor any one else. He gave it to\nme--I have worn it--I have preserved it through all my miserable\nsufferings, and it shall go with me,\" added she, fervently kissing it;\n\"it shall go with me to my cold cold grave.\"\n\n\"Stop, stop!\" cried the gentleman, as she was turning away from him;\n\"avoid me not! I am he who gave it you!\"\n\n\"You!\" cried she, stopping suddenly in her retreat, drawing herself\nup to her full height, and looking back upon him with an air of the\nmost sovereign contempt; \"you Charles Gr\u00e6me!--Ha! ha! ha! ha!--you\nCharles Gr\u00e6me!--His face was fair, and with the expression of an angel;\nyours is sallow, withered, and wrinkled, like that of a baboon--his\nhair was lovely as the beams of the morning sun; yours is white, as\nthe eternal snow of the Himala--his form was like that of the Grecian\nApollo; yours is like that of winter. Go, traitorous man! I have had\nenough of falsehood! Come not near me! Chirsty Ross will wed no one\nnow but Charles Gr\u00e6me or the grave!\"\n\nIn an instant she darted from his sight, before he was aware of\nher intention, and she disappeared among the ruins. In the wildest\nstate of agitation he rushed after her. He thought he heard a faint\nshriek, but he vainly sought her with unremitting solicitude for some\nhours. Believing at length that she must have got into the interior\nof the building by some secret passage known only to herself, he\nunwillingly gave up his search, and the sea having now ebbed, and the\nflood in the river having somewhat subsided, he mounted his horse,\nwith some difficulty crossed the ford, and, oppressed with sorrowful\nthoughts, he slowly made his way to the castle of his noble friend,\nto whom he confided his sad tale. From him he learned much that was\nnew to him. A cambric handkerchief, embroidered with Chirsty's story,\nhad found its way to her friends, who, after many difficulties,\nsucceeded in rescuing her from her confinement. But alas! they found\nher not till her sufferings had rendered her a confirmed maniac. For\na time she felt soothed by the kindness shown her by her afflicted\nparents; and during the short time they lived, she amused herself by\nwandering harmlessly about the scenes of her childhood. But when her\nfather and mother were both dead, and all her other relatives being\nlikewise gone or removed, she abandoned her home and took up her abode\nin the ruinous building, of which she was for the most part left in\nundisturbed possession. Such was the melancholy outline of her history.\n\nBut Charles Gr\u00e6me was too feelingly alive to her unhappy situation to\ndelay one moment in attempting to find her, that he might spend the\nremainder of his life in watching over and protecting her. Next day,\ntherefore, assisted by his friend's people, he made his way into the\nruins, and sought every part of them. But he sought in vain. Everything\nremained as when he had left them on the previous morning, and although\nthe door was locked, the bolts on the inside were not fastened,\nshowing that the wretched inhabitant had not returned.\n\nBut the mystery was cleared up towards mid-day by a fisherman, who,\nas he was landing from his boat, found her lifeless body on the sands,\nwhere it had been left by the receding tide. The supposition was\nthat she had been drowned in attempting to ford the swollen river,\nimmediately after the scene of her parting with Charles Gr\u00e6me.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCOMPLIMENTARY CRITICISM.\n\n\nDominie.--'Pon my word, Mr. Clifford, you have given us good measure\nindeed; and of ane excellent faybric, too. As I shall answer, we are\nwell on with the small hours.\n\nGrant (pulling out his watch)--Is it possible? I declare I thought\nthat it had been only about ten o'clock. Why, it is a good hour and\na half after midnight.\n\nClifford.--I was resolved to reel you out a good long line while I was\nabout it. I thought that it was but fair to give Mr. Macpherson an\nopportunity of being even with me, by enjoying as good a slumber as\nI had last night, but his politeness was proof against the soporific\ninfluence of my tale.\n\nDominie.--Your tale would have been as good as an umberella against\nall the drowsy drops that ever were shaken from the bough of Morpheus\nhimself.\n\nAuthor.--Perhaps it might; but now that the umbrella is taken down, the\ndewy balm of the god begins to descend very heavily upon my eyelids.\n\nGrant.--Come, then, let us to bed.\n\nThe next morning's sun found us all later in bed than usual. After\nbreakfast we left the village, and winding down through the forest\nof tall pines that lies between it and the river, and crossing the\nancient bridge, we left the Spey behind us, and climbed the old\nmilitary mountain road that leads towards Tomantoul.\n\nClifford (stopping and looking back over the valley)--What a grand\nHighland prospect!\n\nGrant.--How proudly the grim old castle domineers over the extended\nforests, and the country of which it is the lord paramount! Let us sit\ndown on this green bank of velvet grass, and enjoy the view. See how\nhappily that single touch of bright light falls on the Cumin's tower.\n\nClifford.--Well thought off. Talking of the Cumins, we must not\nallow you to leave us, Mr. Macpherson, without telling us the story\nof Gibbon More, to which you alluded at Castle Grant.\n\nDominie.--I must tell it to you now then, gentlemen; for I grieve\nto say that I must part from you at the top of the hill a little\nway farther on. So, if you have a mind to sit down and enjoy this\nrefreshing breeze for a little time, I shall give you the legend in\nas few words as I can.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF GIBBON MORE CUMIN AND HIS DAUGHTER BIGLA.\n\n\nIf you will be pleased to remember, gentlemen, I already told you,\nthat previous to the fourteenth century the whole of Strathspey\nwas subjeck to that great clan or nation the Cumins. It was about\nthat period, as I informed you, that the Grants, from Glen Urquhart,\nwere, by royal favour, enabled to possess themselves of Freuchie,--a\nplace of strength, so called from a certain heathery hillock near to\nwhich it stood. The Cumin's tower was probably part of that original\nbuilding which, in the course of generations, has grown up into that\ngreat baronial pile which we now behold yonder. It is natural to\nimagine that the Cumins could not possibly regard this alienation of\nthe property of their clan without its begetting their hatred against\nthose who benefited by it, though they dared not always to show it\nby open deeds of violence. Their submission, however, was by no means\nowing to their weakness, for, notwithstanding that the Grants thus got\na footing in this country, so powerful did the Cumins continue for\na while, that many were the strangers that came from other clans to\nreside among them for protection, as was not uncommon in that olden\ntime of trouble; these fugitives changed their own names for that of\nthe people among whom they had thus found a safe retreat. But they\nwere never admitted to a full participation in all the rights of the\nclan Cuminich, without submitting to undergo a very odd sort of an\nirreverential baptism, altogether worthy of the iron age in which it\nwas practeesed.\n\nGilbert Cumin, Lord of Glenchearnich, as that country, watered by the\nriver Dulnan, was denominated, was usually called Gibbon More, from\nhis enormous size and strength. His chief residence was at Kincherdie,\non the north-western bank of the Spey, on the brink of the river,\njust where there is now a ferry across to Gartenmore, the vurra place,\nsir, where, as you have recorded in your book of \"The Floods,\" the\nworthy Mrs. Cameron made her miraculous voyage upon a brander. The old\nchronicler tells us, that the house stood on a green moat, fenced by a\nditch, the vestiges of which are yet to be seen. A current tradition\nbeareth, that at night a salmon net was cast into the pool below the\nwall of the house, and a small rope tied to the net, and brought in\nat the window, had a bell hung at it, which rung when a salmon came\nin and shook the net, so that the beast was quickly transferred from\nthe river to the pot. What think ye of that, Mr. Clifford?\n\nClifford.--Very ingenious! but foul poaching.\n\nWell, whilst Gibbon More Cumin flourished, the ceremony of Cumin-making\nwas always performed by his own hands. At the door of his castle there\nstood a huge stone, which I have often myself seen when I was a boy,\nand which, for ought I know, may be still in existence. It was hollowed\nout in the middle like an ancient baptismal font, and, indeed, it is\nby no means unlikely that it had been originally formed as such. Be\nthis as it may, however, Gibbon More had it always filled with water\nfor the refreshment of his fowls. But, besides its uniform devotion\nto the truly ignoble purposes of his poultry, it was also employed\nby him in the unseemly rites to which I have referred. When any of\nthe strangers of whom I have spoken had a desire to be metamorphosed\ninto a Cumin, he was brought incontinently to Kincherdie. There the\ngigantic Lord of Glenchearnich, with the observance of very great\nand decorous form, lifted him up, and having slowly and solemnly\nreversed the natural perpendicular position of the poor sinner,\nhe held him up by the heels, as Thetis did her infant boy Achilles,\nand having dipped his head three times amid the pollutory potation,\nas I may call the hen's water that filled the hollow stone, he set\nhim, gasping and gaunting, upright on his legs again, telling him,\nin a stately tone, henceforward to live and do like a Cumin as\nhe now was. But, notwithstanding this cantrip of Gibbon More's,\nthere was a marked distinction still preserved between those who\nwere Cumins by blood and those who were thus manufactured by him by\nvirtue of the chuckies' water, for these children of adoption and\ntheir descendants had always the degrading addition given to them of\nCuminich clach-nan-cearc, or Cumins of the hen-trough.\n\nIt happened, about the time I am speaking of, that young Sir John\nGrant, son and heir of Sir Patrick Grant of Stratherrock, now the\nLaird of Freuchie, did one evening thus hold converse with a curious\nmisformed waggish boy, who had no father, and who went by the familiar\nname of Archy Abhach, or Archy the Dwarf. Kicked and cuffed as the\nyouth had been about the castle, Sir John had taken compassion on him,\nand had made him his page; and the boy's gratitude and attachment\nwere consequently great.\n\n\"Why look ye so sad, sir?\" demanded the boy, gently approaching his\nmaster, as he sat one evening on the battlement of the bartizan,\nlooking towards the setting sun, with his head resting on the\nbasket-hilt of his claymore, and his legs swinging about, as if he\ncared not whether he should swing himself over the wall or not. \"Can\npoor Archy do nothing to rid thee of thy melancholy mood?\"\n\n\"Nay, boy,\" said the knight, kindly taking his hand, \"I doubt thy\npowers can scarcely reach my malady.\"\n\n\"As yet thou knowest not the extent of my powers,\" said the boy\ngravely, \"nor can I show thee my remedy till thou makest me to know thy\ndisease. Yet, methinks, my skill is such that I might dare shrewdly\nto guess at it. Hast thou not ta'en a heart-wound from a pair of\nbright eyes?\"\n\n\"So far I must needs say, that, judging from this first effort of\nthine, thy skill in divining is not to be questioned,\" said the knight.\n\n\"I will adventure further then, and say, that the slanting beams of\nyonder declining sun are now gilding the casement of thy lady-love,\"\nsaid the boy Archy.\n\n\"O Archy, Archy!\" cried the knight, giving full way to his feelings, \"I\nhave never enjoyed a moment's peace since I beheld her at Whitsuntide\nat the church of Inverallan. She is an angel.\"\n\n\"Granting that she be so,\" said the boy, \"for such they tell me must,\nreason or none, be yielded to all lovers--yea though the fair cause\nof their madness should be little less than a devil--granting, I say,\nthat she be an angel, surely that should be no reason why thou shouldst\nthus mope and pine, Sir Knight.\"\n\n\"Thou forgettest, boy, that the hatred naturally born between a Cumin\nand a Grant forbids all hope on my part,\" said Sir John despondingly.\n\n\"Methinks I could bring thee an instance where this hatred hath been\nexchanged for love,\" said the boy.\n\n\"Where? when? with whom?\" cried the knight eagerly.\n\n\"Here--now--and with Sir John Grant towards Matilda or Bigla Cumin,\nas she is called in the country here, daughter and heiress of the\nbig Lord of Glenchearnich,\" replied the boy laughing.\n\n\"Pshaw!\" cried the knight, with a disappointed air.\n\n\"Nay, dear master,\" said the boy; \"and if thou hast been able to get\nover this natural-born antipathy, why may not Bigla Cumin have been\nequally blessed by Heaven?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" cried the knight again, \"would it might be so!\"\n\n\"Wilt thou but give me leave to go to try what may be done?\" demanded\nthe boy. \"Be assured I shall be better than most mediciners, for if\nI do no good, I shall take especial care to do no harm.\"\n\n\"Kind boy, thou mayest e'en do thy best,\" said the knight. \"I well know\nthy zeal for thy master's good; but were thy powers somewhat more equal\nto thy zeal, I should count more on the success of thine efforts.\"\n\n\"Such as my poor powers may be, they shall be used to the utmost in\nthy service, Sir Knight,\" said the boy. \"Good night, then, so please\nthee; and farewell, it may be for some time, for I go on mine errand\nby to-morrow's dawn, and the better I prosper, the longer, perchance,\nmay be mine absence.\"\n\n\"Go, and may the Blessed Virgin guide thee and give thee luck,\" said\nthe knight. \"But see, boy, that thou bringest thine own person into\nno peril.\"\n\n\"Trust me for that,\" said Archy, as he disappeared from the bartizan.\n\nThe sun of next morning had scarcely well risen, and Gibbon More\nhad just issued from his door to take a look at its face, that he\nmight judge of the coming weather, when he descried an ill-formed\ndwarfish youth approaching, whose countenance, though ill-favoured,\nhad a certain prepossessing expression in it.\n\n\"Whence comest thou, little man?\" demanded the Lord of Glenchearnich.\n\n\"I come from the east,\" said the boy readily; \"my name is Archy--other\nname have I none--and I would fain be a Cumin.\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha!--a Cumin, wouldst thou?\" said Gibbon laughing. \"By\nSt. Mary, but our clan will be invincible when it shall be strengthened\nby such a powerful graff as thou! Tell me, what wouldst thou be good\nfor, boy?\"\n\n\"I could draw a bow at a pinch,\" said the boy. \"But I must needs\nconfess that I were better for the service of some gentle lady's\nbower. I'd willingly be thy fair daughter the Lady Matilda's page;\nand I'd serve her right faithfully.\"\n\n\"If Bigla should fancy thy ugly face, I care not if she should have\nthee,\" said Gibbon More, \"for though thy countenance be homely,\nit would seem to be honest.\"\n\n\"Make me a Cumin, and the lady shall have no cause to complain of me,\"\nreplied the boy.\n\n\"Thou shalt have thy wish then, boy, without further delay,\" said\nGibbon More; and he straightway lifted up the youth, and, with more\nthan ordinary gentleness, he performed the ceremony of the threefold\nablution on him.\n\nArchy Abhach, now converted into Archy Cumin, was speedily installed\nin his new office as page to the Lady Bigla, and, in his very first\ninterview, he contrived to establish himself very firmly in the good\ngraces of his fair mistress. But what might have been considered\nmore wonderful, he made a no less favourable impression upon her\nhandmaiden, a matter which jealousy might have rendered more difficult\nwith any attendant of a less amiable disposition than the attached\nAgnes possessed.\n\n\"There is something more than usually interesting about that poor\nfriendless boy,\" said the lady to Agnes, after her new page had been\ndismissed from her presence for a short time.\n\n\"A most interesting youth, notwithstanding the niggardly way in\nwhich dame Nature seems to have treated him,\" said Agnes archly;\n\"but as to his being friendless, I shrewdly suspect that he is a\nrogue for making that pretence.\"\n\n\"What mean you, Agnes?\" demanded Bigla.\n\n\"I mean that the varlet had no need to have come to Kincherdie to\nlook for protection, seeing that he hath long been the favourite of\none of the bravest young knights in all the country round,\" said Agnes.\n\n\"Of whom do you speak?\" demanded Bigla.\n\n\"Of a certain Sir John Grant, son and heir of old Sir Patrick Grant of\nFreuchie,\" replied Agnes, with an air of mock gravity; \"but, perhaps,\nyou have never seen nor heard of the man.\"\n\n\"O Agnes!\" cried Bigla, energetically clasping her hands, and throwing\ndown her eyes and blushing deeply.\n\n\"You have heard of him, then, lady?\" said Agnes.\n\n\"A truce to your raillery,\" said Bigla seriously, \"and tell me quickly\nall you know or guess of this matter.\"\n\n\"Why, all I know of the matter is simply this,\" said Agnes, in the\nsame tone, \"last Whitsuntide the Lady Bigla Cumin saw, for the first\ntime, the handsome young knight, Sir John Grant of Freuchie, at the\nchurch of Inverallan. The knight, with becoming gallantry, stepped\ngracefully forward and lifted the lady to her saddle, sighing deeply\nas he resigned the precious load to her prancing palfrey. The lady's\nbower damsel, the quick-sighted Agnes Cumin, soon perceived that the\nsaid knight and lady had made a mutual impression on each other. With\nher wonted acuteness and ingenuity, the said damsel soon extracted the\ntruth from the said lady; and seeing that a misformed imp of a page,\nthen in attendance on the said knight, hath now, without any apparent\ncause, left so good a master in order to undergo the ceremony of being\nbaptized as a Cumin in the nauseous hen-trough, the said acute damsel\nventures readily to pronounce that the flame burns as brightly and\nwarmly at Freuchie as it does in my lady's bower at Kincherdie--that\nis all.\"\n\n\"But what can Sir John Grant mean by all this?\" demanded Bigla,\nblushing more deeply than ever.\n\n\"To seek and secure an interview to be sure,\" replied Agnes; \"but I\nshall soon know what he would be at,\" continued she. \"I shall soon\nbe at the bottom of it all.\"\n\nWithout giving the Lady Bigla time to reply, the prompt and decided\nAgnes hurried away to hold converse with the page. Meeting, as they\ndid, like two sharp flints, they were not long in striking fire\nenough to throw light upon the matter. Having mutually made one\nanother fully aware of the position of affairs on both sides, they,\nwithout further hesitation, proceeded, like two able plenipotentiaries,\nto arrange plans for the future; and it was finally agreed between\nthem, without further ceremony, that the high contracting parties\nshould meet in person, on the ensuing evening, in the bourtree bower,\nat the lower end of the garden, beyond the rampart, and the page was\nforthwith despatched on a secret mission to the knight to inform him\nimmediately of this so happy an arrangement.\n\n\"Blessed Virgin, what hast thou done, Agnes!\" cried Bigla Cumin,\nere she had well heard her maid to an end; and hiding her crimsoned\nface with both her hands, \"What will Sir John Grant think of me?\"\n\n\"He will call you an angel, as Archy tells me he has already done,\"\nsaid Agnes coolly.\n\n\"Nay, nay, but this must not be!\" said Bigla, starting from her\nchair. \"Run, Agnes, and stop the boy from going on this most foolish\nand imprudent errand.\"\n\n\"Stop him,\" said Agnes. \"You might as well ask me to stop Black\nPeter's arrow after it has left his bowstring. The boy is half way\nto Freuchie by this time. He knows too well how warmly his news will\nbe received to allow the grass to grow at his heels.\"\n\n\"What will my father say to this strange arrangement, if it should\ncome to his knowledge?\" cried Bigla, \"to meet as a lover the son of the\nhead of the very house with which we have ever held so great enmity.\"\n\n\"In the first place, your father, good man, must know nothing about\nthis meeting,\" said Agnes. \"It concerns him not; secondly, if there\nhath been ill blood for so long between the two clans, the sooner\npeace and friendship is re-established the better, especially after\ntwo of the principal persons have met together in a Christian church,\nas you and Sir John have done.\"\n\n\"Agnes, Agnes!\" cried the lady, with emotions of vexation not\naltogether unmingled, it must be confessed, with certain tinglings\nof a more agreeable nature, \"Agnes, Agnes! thy precipitation in this\nmatter hath brought me into a most distressing state of perplexity. I\nknow not what to do.\"\n\nBut before the morning's sun had well risen, the page appeared in the\nlady's presence, with a perfumed billet, sealed with a flame-coloured\nsilk ribbon, and filled with such professions of love on the part of\nSir John Grant, as brought tenfold blushes into the lovely face of\nBigla; and so touched her young heart as to leave her without a chance\nof withstanding the powerful arguments of her handmaiden Agnes, backed\nup as they were by the warm descriptions of his master's sufferings,\nand the earnest solicitations for her compassion on him, which were so\neloquently urged by the clever page. The result was, that, attended by\nAgnes, she did go tremblingly to the trysting place at the appointed\nhour--listened with a pleasure she had never felt before to all the\nknight's fervent vows; and both were made so happy by their mutual\nconfessions, that the prudential suggestions of Agnes and Archy were\nrepeatedly required ere the tender separation could be effected. So\nwell, however, was that and several other interviews of a similar\nnature planned and brought about by the two able auxiliaries, that\nfor a long time the easy Gibbon More had no suspicion that anything\nof the sort was going on. But at length it did happen, that as Sir\nJohn Grant was returning from one of these meeting, he was rather\nunluckily encountered, not far from the house of Kincherdie, by Hector,\nthe confidential servant of Gibbon More. The man's suspicions were\nso awakened by the circumstance of the knight being on foot, that\nhe scrupled not to follow him at a distance, until he saw him join\nan attendant who held a couple of horses in a grove about a mile\noff. Full of his discovery, Hector went directly to Gibbon More;\nand there is no saying what the consequences might have been had\nnot the Lord of Glenchearnich been a person of a temperament almost\nmiraculously apathetical. So wonderful was his disposition in this\nrespect, indeed, that it was only after his patience had been assailed\nand battered, as it were, by repeated and most provoking attacks,\nthat he ever could be excited at all. But then, indeed, when he was\nonce roused, he became on the sudden like a raging lion, and his\nenormous strength and fearless courage being brought tremendously\ninto action by his fury, the effects were quite terrific.\n\n\"So you think, Hector, that the young Stratherrock stripling has been\nhere to look after Bigla,\" said Gibbon, after hearing his man's story\nto an end. \"Hum,--ha! I did perceive that the maiden caught his eye\nat the church of Inverallan on Whitsuntide. Ha, ha, ha!--to think of\na Grant being mated with her is too ridiculous. But, for all that,\nI cannot blame the boy for bowing before the shrine of my daughter's\nbeauty. I'll warrant the young goose came over here to try to get\nanother peep, were it only of her robe as it might chance to sweep by\nher casement. Wiser folks than he have done as foolish things; I've\ndone as much myself in my youth. But Bigla can know nought of this,\nso there is no harm done.\"\n\nWhether Hector's renewed cautions did or did not succeed in making\nhis master think something more of this matter than he was thus at\nfirst disposed to do, I cannot say; but certain it is, that the Lord\nof Glenchearnich was somewhat suddenly seized with the resolution of\ngoing some weeks earlier than he was wont, to spend the summer months\non his hill-grazing property of Delnahaitnich, near the source of\nthe river Dulnan. This was a most untoward event for the lovers, not\nonly because the distance between them was thus immensely increased,\nbut because Gibbon More's residence there was a small cottage,\nwhich might be called little better than a mere shealing, [5] in or\nabout which it would be next to impossible for them to meet without\nobservation. And accordingly after this move was made, some weeks\nwere vainly expended in fruitless attempts on the part of Archy Abhach\nto procure for his master Sir John, even the gratification of such a\ndistant view of the Lady Bigla's robe as her father described in his\nconversation with Hector. Yet Sir John often hovered about the place,\nand lay for many a night wrapped up in his plaid among the heather\nof the neighbouring forest with no other shelter but a projecting\nrock and the thick foliage of the firs that grew over it. Archy\nAbhach was almost as much disappointed as Sir John himself at being\nso baulked. His ingenuity was put to the very rack, but all without\neffect; because it somehow or other happened that Gibbon More never\nwent from home, and so his daughter was never left for one moment\nout of his sight. The knight had thus no comfort but in the frequent\nletters and messages which Archy contrived to carry between the lovers,\nand which they were fain to employ for want of those more interesting\ninterviews, of which they were now altogether deprived.\n\nIt happened that Archy Abhach was one night sent with one of those\nletters towards the place where his master Sir John Grant was lying\nhid in the upper part of the forest of Dulnan, which then spread much\nhigher over the hills than it now does. The moon was not yet risen,\nand the dense foliage overhead very much increased the darkness and\nthe difficulty of his way. As he was scrambling along past the narrow\nmouth of a small ravine that opened on the course of the stream he\nwas following, he came suddenly upon two men who were seated beside\nthe dying embers of a fire which they seemed to have used for some\npurpose of rude and hasty cookery. Curiosity led him involuntarily\nto stop for a moment to observe them; but becoming instantly aware of\nhis imprudence in doing so, he moved quickly away, and began to run as\nhard as he could. But the consequences which he dreaded were already\nincurred, and he had not gone many paces when he heard footsteps\nhurrying after him. He fled as fast as his legs could carry him,\nbut the darkness was such that he tripped and fell, and his neck was\ninstantly in the grasp of a powerful hand.\n\n\"I have him fast,\" said a rough voice in Gaelic; \"it is but a very\nsmall boy after all. Shall I whittle his craig with my skian-dhu?\"\n\n\"Not for thy life,\" replied another voice in the same language. \"Bring\nhim along with thee, that we may see what he is. Why wouldst thou\nhurt the creature till we know something more about him?\"\n\nThe man who had seized Archy now threw him over his shoulder as he\nwould have done a dead hare, and groped his way back with him to the\nravine, where a blaze being produced by a dry bush of heather, the boy\nwas set down between them for examination. Archy on his part was not\nslow in using his eyes also, and in a much less time than I can tell\nit to you, he ran them over the bulky rough figure of the individual\nwho had seized him, and then as hastily surveyed the compact well\nput-together active-looking person, and intelligent countenance of the\nother, who seemed in every respect to be the superior. This last was\nby no means strange to him, and, to the surprise of the man himself,\nhe immediately addressed him by his name.\n\n\"Corrie MacDonald!\" said he, \"sure I am that thou wilt never hurt\nany man belonging to Sir Patrick Grant of Stratherrock.\"\n\nBut I must now tell you that this same Corrie MacDonald was a certain\nhero who flourished in those days in Lochaber, and who made himself\ndreaded all through Moray-land and its neighbouring districts by the\nperiodical visits of plunder which he paid to them. Amongst other\ntracts of country, Strathspey and its tributary valleys were wont\nto be a prominent object of his attention. He had always a large\nband of followers at his command, who were equally expert in driving\naway herds of cattle, and brave in beating off the owners when they\npursued with the hope of recovering them. Corrie was a reaver of\nno ordinary character; for, robber though he was, he had a natural\nfund of liberality and generosity about him; and he had so great\na stock of native humour in him, that he was ever ready to indulge\nhis waggish disposition at any expense; and no predatory expedition\nhad ever half so great a relish for him, as that in which he could\ncontrive to mix up a bit of a frolic. Many a cow and ox had Corrie\nMacDonald carried away from the extensive possessions of the Lord of\nGlenchearnich. But these trifling depredations never disturbed the\ngood temper or overcame the patience of that most extraordinary man,\nthe effect of whose unparalleled forbearance was to awaken in the\ninquiring mind of Corrie MacDonald a certain philosophic curiosity\nto ascertain by experiment to what extent it was capable of being\nstretched; and he had long panted for a favourable opportunity of\nbringing this investigation to a fair trial.\n\n\"Corrie MacDonald,\" cried Archy Abhach, in a whining tone, \"sure I\nam that thou who hast never had quarrel with Sir Patrick Grant of\nStratherrock wilt never hurt any man belonging to him.\"\n\n\"Thou art right,\" replied Corrie. \"Not only shall I respect the\nsafety of every man belonging to Sir Patrick Grant, but I will even\nrespect thee, who art but a mannikin, if thou canst prove thyself to\nbe his. I have had peaceable passage to and fro through his grounds\non Loch Ness side for too many years to do otherwise.\"\n\n\"Then look ye here,\" said Archy, plucking from his bosom the letter\nof which he was the bearer, and straightway showing the address,\nwhich was--To the honourable and gallant knight. Sir John Grant of\nFreuchie, these, with speed.\n\n\"That is all well,\" said Corrie. \"But methinks, mannikin, that\nthis is anything but the road to Freuchie, if I know aught of this\ncountry side.\"\n\n\"My master is up in the forest, a little bit above this, waiting for\nmy tidings,\" said Archy.\n\n\"Aha!\" cried Corrie, relaxing his features into a smile, \"some love\nadventure, I warrant me. Awell! I am the last man to put hindrance\nin the way of any such matter, especially where Sir John Grant is\nconcerned. Nay, I would willingly go a good way out of my road to\nhelp him on.\"\n\n\"Sayest thou so, Corrie MacDonald!\" cried the urchin. \"Then could I\ntell thee how thou mightest lend my master thy most effectual aid,\nand yet keep thine own road still, and that to thine own most abundant\nprofit.\"\n\n\"How may that be, my small man?\" demanded Corrie. \"If thou canst make\nthy plans clear to my conviction, thou shalt find me ready, zealous,\nprompt, and decisive.\"\n\n\"Thou knowest Gibbon More Cumin, lord of these broad lands of\nGlenchearnich,\" said Archy.\n\n\"Know him?\" said Corrie with a grin. \"Well do I that.\"\n\n\"He is living here hard by at Delnahaitnich,\" continued the page. \"He\nkeeps home so close, that no one can even have a sight of his daughter,\nfar less have speech of her. Couldst thou not carry away his cattle\nfrom the forest here, so as to furnish him with a reasonably rational\nobject for travelling for a season?\"\n\n\"By Saint Comb, but thou hast a wit larger than the tiny proportions\nof thy body might teach one to look for!\" said Corrie. \"The notion\nis excellent. I have long wished to work that lump of dough into a\nferment. And, by Saint Mary, as the creach will be carried off from\nunder his very nose, I shall stir up his temper now, if it is to be\nstirred up at all by mortal man. So speed to thy master, and keep\nhim advised to watch his time; and if I don't by and by clear the\nway for him, by giving Gibbon More and his people a chase of a day\nor two through the hills after me and my men, I shall wonder of it.\"\n\n\"Master, master,\" cried Gibbon More's man Hector, as he came running\nin to him next morning quite out of breath, \"Corrie MacDonald has\nbeen in the forest last night, and he has carried away every stot he\ncould find on this part of your lands.\"\n\n\"Has the rascal taken the cows too?\" demanded Gibbon coolly.\n\n\"No--sure enough--he has not taken a single cow,\" replied Hector,\n\"I counted the cow-beasts myself, and they are all safe.\"\n\n\"There was some civility in that, however,\" said Gibbon laughing. \"The\nfellow is a thief of some consideration; for if he hath left us the\ncows, thou knowest, Hector, that we shall have plenty of stot beasts\nby and by.\"\n\n\"Ou aye, surely, sir,\" said Hector as he retired, very much\ndisappointed by the manner in which his intelligence had been received.\n\nCorrie was not without his spies; and the oxen were hardly well so far\nover the hill, on their way to Lochaber, as to be fairly considered\nbeyond all reach of recovery, when he returned with some of his people\nto prowl about Delnahaitnich. There he soon learned from Archy Abhach\nthe manner and speech with which Gibbon More had received the news\nof his loss.\n\n\"I'll try him again,\" said Corrie. \"The fellow must be the dullest\nstirk that ever was calved.\"\n\n\"The cows are all gone now, master!\" cried the same ill-omened\nmessenger, as he entered Gibbon More's apartment next morning before\nhe was out of bed.\n\n\"A plague upon the plundering thief,\" cried Gibbon More, \"has he\ntaken the young beasts too?\"\n\n\"No!\" said the man, who was much disappointed to find that this,\nhis second piece of bad news, was just as unsuccessful in rousing\nhis master's ire as his first had been. \"He has not ta'en a single\nyoung beast, but, on my conscience, I'm thinking he has ta'en enough.\"\n\n\"The villain robs by rule, I see,\" said Gibbon; \"but since the young\nbeasts are safe, Hector, we shall have plenty of both cows and stots\nagain, anon, you know.\"\n\nCorrie MacDonald, who was curious to find out how this second loss was\nto affect Gibbon, was absolutely piqued beyond endurance when he heard\nof the quiet manner in which he had taken it. Withdrawing a handful\nof his people from the large body of them who were then in charge of\nthe second prey he had taken, he lay in ambush for a third night.\n\n\"We're altogether harried now then!\" cried Hector, as he appeared\nthe third morning with a face like a ghost. \"Every young beast upon\nthe place is gone.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Gibbon More, starting up to hurry on his clothes in\na state of the fiercest excitement, \"does the caitiff make a butt\nof me? I can bear to lose my bestial, but to be played on thus by a\nthieving scoundrel is more than man's patience can suffer. I'll teach\nthese ruffians to crack their jokes upon me! Where is my two-handed\nsword?\"\n\n\"Father, father! dear father, where are ye running to?\" cried his\ndaughter Bigla, as she met him raging out at the door like a roaring\nlion. \"Where are you running without your bonnet?\"\n\n\"I have no time to speak now,\" replied the infuriated Gibbon. \"I'll\ntell you all about it when I come back.\"\n\n\"I fear he has gone on some rash and dangerous enterprise,\" said Bigla,\n\"run, run, Hector, and gather the people, and be after him with help\nas fast as you may.\"\n\nHector was not slow; but he must have been active indeed, if he could\nhave caught Gibbon More at the pace he was going. He rushed up the\nsteep hill in front of his dwelling, and was soon out of sight.\n\nGibbon had no sooner reached the summit, than, throwing his eyes\nabroad, he espied his young cattle feeding on the south side of the\nhill called the Geal-charn, or the Hoary Hill; and from the smoke which\nhe observed curling up from a ravine at a short distance from the spot\nwhere the animals were scattered about, he at once conjectured that\nthe robbers had chosen that concealment as a fit place for cooking\ntheir morning meal. He was right in this supposition; for, judging\nfrom his former apathy, Corrie MacDonald had not quite calculated\nthat this third act of depredation would lead to so speedy a pursuit.\n\n\"What a pity it is that Gibbon More Cumin has no more beasts left in\nDelnahaitnich,\" said Corrie MacDonald to his people, with an ironical\nlaugh, as they sat in a circle round the fire, devouring one of the\nyoung beasts they had killed.\n\n\"We need not come back here for a while, till he sends up some more\nstock from Kincherdie,\" said one of his men.\n\n\"We have done not that much amiss in these three turns,\" said\nanother. \"I'm thinking we may be content to free him of blackmail\nfor a season.\"\n\n\"By the beard of St. Barnabas, but we'll come back again and again,\nuntil we drive away every beast the cowardly loon has between this\nand Spey,\" said Corrie. \"What should we do with such a lump of butter,\nbut keep melting at it as long as it will run.\"\n\n\"Surely, surely,\" replied several of them.\n\n\"It will make our broth all the fatter,\" said Corrie, laughing again.\n\n\"Villains, do ye dare to laugh at me at the very moment when you\nare feeding at my cost?\" cried Gibbon More, rushing suddenly and\nunexpectedly among them, like a raging wolf into a flock of penned\nsheep. \"I'll teach you to make a fool of me.\"\n\nThe immense blade of his two-handed sword gleamed like a meteor in\nthe air, flashed in the sun, and shed lightnings into their terrified\neyes. Each of them tried to scramble to his feet as he best could;\nand one or two were shorn of their heads ere they could rise from the\nground. Bonnets with heads in them fell to right and left, as I have\nseen ripe apples scattered from their parent bough by a violent gust\nof wind, or by the inroad of some thieving schoolboy. No one thought\nof anything else but flight; and the actions of all were as quick\nas their thoughts. But Gibbon More's enormous double-edged weapon\nwas quicker in the repetition of its sweeping cuts than even thought\nitself. On he went, slashing right and left after them as they fled,\ntill he had strewed the ravine and the hill-side with about a dozen of\ntheir carcases, and then, breathless and overcome with rage, haste,\nand toil, he sat himself down to rest on the heather. The remainder\nof the robbers were thus allowed to escape; and as he did not know\nthe boasting Corrie MacDonald personally, that hero contrived to get\nsafe away among the rest, and went home to Lochaber, somewhat less\ndisposed to try experiments on the temper of Gibbon More Cumin, than\nhe had declared himself to be before this his terrible and unlooked\nfor onslaught.\n\nGibbon More's people, with Hector at their head, arrived too late to\nshare with him in the glory of his victory. But they were useful in\nburying the slain. A few tumuli, which are still to be seen raising\ntheir green heads among the heather on the southern declivity of the\nGeal-charn, were thrown up by them over the dead bodies; and they then\nhad the satisfaction of driving home their master's young cattle in\nsafety to their native pasture, where the animals afterwards grew to\nbe cows and oxen, entirely free from any further alarm from Corrie\nMacDonald.\n\nI need not say that the sharp-witted page took good care that his\nmaster should profit by the temporary absence of Gibbon More. Sir John\nGrant was at the cottage immediately after the Lord of Glenchearnich\nhad left it. But the knight had little advantage after all from an\nadventure which had cost Corrie MacDonald so dear. He had indeed\nthe satisfaction of again beholding and conversing with Bigla;\nbut, filled as she was at the time with alarm and anxiety about\nher father's safety, she could talk about or listen to no other\nsubject. The time of the Lord of Glenchearnich's absence fled like\na short dream. His anticipated travel of a few days had, by his own\nextraordinary activity and courage, been reduced to a few short hours,\nand the wary and watchful page had barely time to warn his master away,\nere Gibbon More's voice was heard calling to his people, as he returned\nto the house begrimed with the blood and soil of his recent conflict.\n\nBut Sir John's more frequent opportunities of meeting with Bigla were\nsoon afterwards again happily renewed by the return of Gibbon More to\nKincherdie; and, by the ingenuity of the page, these stolen interviews\npassed over undiscovered even by the lynx-eyed Hector, whose energies\nwere by this time somewhat diverted from their wonted watchfulness,\nby a certain newborn affection which had recently possessed his bosom\nfor the fair maid Agnes.\n\nIt happened on one occasion that Gibbon More chanced to go to a fair\nor market at Inverness. The streets were crowded with people, as well\nas with horses, cows, and oxen of all sorts. There might have been\nobserved the eagle-winged bonnet of the chief, followed by his tail of\nclansmen and dependants; and chieftains were seen promiscuously mingled\nwith cattle-boys, gillies, and serfs of every degree and denomination,\nthronging the public way. Many were the friendly salutations, and\nmany the flashes of hostile defiance that passed among the various\npersonages who, coming from distant parts of the country, chanced on\nthat day to meet each other. Often was the authority of the provost,\nthe bailies, the sheriff, and other officials called into operation\nto quell embryo quarrels, and sometimes it was all that the united\nforces of these public functionaries could do to keep the restless\nand bloodthirsty dirks and claymores in their sheaths. Rarely\ndid the mantled and well-wimpled damsels venture forth amidst the\ncomplication of dangers that were to be encountered at every step\nfrom the prevalence of those quarrels, as well as from the horns of\nthe cattle and the heels of the horses. They contented themselves\nwith saluting their friends from their open lattices; and many were\nthe warm though distant acknowledgments that took place between the\nyoung and the fair ladies, who, whilst they were ostensibly occupied\nin gazing at the marvels in the street,--at the jesters and mummers\nwho jingled their bells, or grinned with their painted faces, and\ntrolled their rude and threadbare rhymes to ditties as unpolished, the\npretty creatures were in reality altogether overlooking these vulgar\nabsurdities, and were holding interesting conversations by signals,\nonly known to themselves, with their handsome Highland lovers in\nthe street.\n\nBigla Cumin was an heiress of consequence, but she was moreover very\nbeautiful, so that many were the eyes that sought her as she sat at\na lofty balcony in the house of a burgher friend of her father's,\nand not a few were those who endeavoured, and endeavoured in vain,\nto obtain one glance of recognition from her. I do not mean to say,\nhowever, that the lass was haughty, but she bore herself with the\nmodesty befitting her years and her sex. There was but one on whom she\ndid vouchsafe to look with an eye of yespecial favour, and that was\nSir John Grant. Her heart beat in double time when he and his father,\nSir Patrick the Lord of Stratherrock, passed by in their gay red and\ngreen tartan, which, except in its broad blue lysts and in its want\nof those pure white sprainges which enliven that of the Cumin, had so\ngeneral a resemblance to it, that at a little distance they might have\nbeen easily mistaken for each other. When the rays from her bright\neyes shot across the street in a condescending smile in return for\nthe more than merely courteous reverence which he made to her, their\nsunshine was concentrated, if I may so express myself, as if it had\nbeen met by the burning glasses of that most wonderful man Archimedes,\nand it was returned to her in one melting focus of adoration.\n\n\"Angel that she is!\" said Sir John to his father.\n\n\"She is an angel, indeed, boy!\" replied the elder knight; \"and,\nmoreover, there be angels enow in her father's coffers, not to mention\nthose broad acres of his which would give to the Grants so pretty\na little principality in Strathspey. Stick to her, boy! She is well\nworth the winning.\"\n\n\"Would I could but have an interview with her, freed from all chance of\ninterruption from her old father!\" said Sir John in a tone of vexation.\n\n\"Trust to me, dear master,\" said Archy Abhach in a whisper, as at\nthat moment he plucked the knight's sleeve. \"Watch well thy time! I\nhave seen some one in the town here to-day who will be right willing\nto lend thee a helping hand.\"\n\nGibbon More was not wont to go without the following of a chieftain\non such occasions as this; and he generally bore his portly person\nover the crown of the causeway with a dignity which, when at home, he\nlaid aside with his best bonnet, doublet, and plaid. The recognition\nbetween him and his new neighbour, as he called him, was remarkably\nwarm and friendly on the part of Sir Patrick Grant, and very stately\nand condescending on his own side. His eyes were offended at the sight\nof the two Grants and their followers, and he sought relief from them\nin looking at a beautiful black palfrey which a West Highland gilly\nwas leading down the street. The prancing, the caracoling, and the\nmenage of the animal showed that it had been bred of the gentlest\nArabian blood in some far away English pasture.\n\n\"Ho!\" cried Gibbon, stopping the man. \"Who is the owner of that\nbeautiful creature?\"\n\n\"I am the owner, sir,\" replied a sharp-eyed little man, right well\naccoutred both as to his arms and garb, but having no remarkable\nsigns of any great rank about him.\n\n\"Are you for parting with the pretty creature?\" inquired Gibbon More.\n\n\"I should not care much to part with him to a good customer,\" replied\nthe other.\n\n\"Is he young, gentle, sound, and sure-footed?\" demanded Gibbon.\n\n\"I'll answer all your questions by and by,\" replied the West\nHighlander, \"if you will only do me the favour to satisfy me as to\none point.\"\n\n\"What is that?\" asked Gibbon More.\n\n\"Will you tell me what part of the country you come from?\"\n\n\"From Strathspey, to be sure,\" replied Gibbon.\n\n\"I guessed as much,\" said the other. \"I see, moreover, from the set\nof your tartan that you are a Cumin, and by your attire, bearing,\nand following, I can guess that you are a gentleman of some note. Do\nyou happen to know Gibbon More Cumin of your country?\"\n\n\"Know Gibbon More Cumin!\" cried he, laughing good humouredly; \"if\nI know anyone, I should know him, seeing that he always lives in\nthe house with me, and that we never eat a meal asunder. I love him\nbetter than a brother. But not to keep you any longer in doubt--I am\nGibbon More Cumin!\"\n\n\"I am truly glad to see you,\" said the West Highlander, seizing his\nhand and shaking it heartily. \"You are the man, of all others alive,\nto whom I am most obliged.\"\n\n\"Ha, friend!\" replied Gibbon, looking hard and seriously at him,\n\"I cannot say that I recollect having ever seen you before; how then\nhave I happened so to have obliged you?\"\n\n\"Well!\" said the other, \"if you cannot remember that you ever saw me\nbefore, the greater was your kindness to me--unsight unseen, as we\nsay. It is not every man that keeps such an easy reckoning as you do\nof the benefits for which his friends are indebted to him.\"\n\n\"But what benefit have you had from me?\" demanded Gibbon.\n\n\"I'll tell you that,\" said the West Highlander. \"I'll tell you that\nin a moment. You see, I have no less than three strapping lasses of\ndaughters. I have married all the three, and to each one of them I\ngave a tocher which you provided.\"\n\n\"Tut!\" cried Gibbon laughing, \"the man is demented. When did I ever\ngive a tocher to daughter of yours? By St. Mungo, I have a strapping\nlass of a daughter of my own to portion. I have little ado therefore\nto portion those of other people.\"\n\n\"What I say is nevertheless true,\" replied the other. \"And so sensible\nam I of the obligations I owe to you, that by way of a small return,\nand to show my gratitude, I must ask of you, as a favour, to accept\nof this horse of mine as a present for your daughter; and if you will\ngo to the inn with me, I shall be happy to give you a pint of French\nClaret, if such be to be had in the town, to drink good luck to the\nyoung lady and her new palfrey.\"\n\n\"As I am a Cumin you are an honest fellow!\" cried Gibbon More,\nshaking him again heartily by the hand. \"But I prythee explain--I\ncannot accept either your present or your wine till you tell me who\nyou are, and until you expound your riddle to me.\"\n\n\"I am not sure how far I am safe to do that,\" said the other archly,\n\"especially here, on the High Street of Inverness; and you standing\nthere with so many pretty men at your back.\"\n\n\"If I have done you kindnesses heretofore,\" said Gibbon, \"what fear can\nyou have of me now, stand where I will, or let me be backed as I may?\"\n\n\"Why, then, you see,\" said the other, with a certain degree of\ncomical hesitation, \"I must confess that I did, on one occasion,\npresume somewhat too far on your liberality, and in your anger you\ngave me such a fright, that I am not sure that I have just altogether\ngot the better of it yet.\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha! why, you give me more riddles every time you open your\nmouth,\" replied Gibbon. \"When did I ever give you a fright?\"\n\n\"Ou! troth sudden and terrible was the fright you gave me!\" said the\nman, \"and surely after tochering of three daughters, each of them\nwith twelve beautiful milch cows and a bull, all of which came from\nyour pastures, I should have been contented. But I'm thinking that if\nI was a small thing over greedy, the fright I got from Gibbon More's\ntwo-handed sword, as it flashed behind me on the Geal Charn, was enough\nto put all greed out of my head, so far at least as he was concerned.\"\n\n\"Hoo!\" exclaimed Gibbon with a long whistle, \"ha! ha! ha! Corrie\nMacDonald! as I am a Cumin, you are a most merry conditioned rogue\nas ever I met with! Your hand again! I accept your handsome present,\nand I will go drink your pot of wine with you, with all my heart,\nto my daughter's health, and to a better acquaintance between you and\nme. Ha! ha! ha! By St. Mary, but I am sorry now that I killed your men\nand so grievously frightened yourself. But, though the poor fellows\nare past all hope of recovery now, I am resolved that your dread of\nme shall be drowned in your own flagon. Lead on then, my brave fellow,\nto your hostel.\"\n\nGibbon More had too much enjoyment in this unexpected meeting and\nmerry-making to allow it to terminate very soon; but Bigla Cumin was\nin some degree recompensed for the tedious time she had to tarry for\nher father by the long interview which she enjoyed with Sir John\nGrant, as well as by the sight of the beautiful prancing palfrey,\nwhich was led out for her to ride home upon.\n\nIt was not very long after this occurrence that poor Gibbon More Cumin\nwas seized with a sudden malady, of which he died after a few days'\nillness, and he was carried by his friends and dependants to be laid\nto sleep in the tomb of his fathers. Jealous of the Grants even in\nhis dying moments, he left Bigla, his orphan daughter and heiress,\nunder the guardianship of some of the chieftains of his own clan,\nwith earnest injunctions above all things to \"keep her out of the\nfremyt [6] hands of Freuchie.\"\n\nThere was no one more anxious to fulfil this dying order of Gibbon's\nthan one of the Cumins, who at that time possessed Logie, which, in\nlater times, became the patrimonial property of that more recent branch\nwhence proceeded the worthy family which is now so designated. This\ngentleman had been for some time one of Bigla's suitors; and his\npretensions had been always favourably looked upon by her father. The\ndays of mourning for the old man were not yet expired, when Logie came\nto Kincherdie, gaily apparelled, and well appointed and attended,\nand urging the authority of a father's dying wish, he signified to\nBigla his desire of taking her with him on the ensuing day to his\nresidence on the banks of the river Findhorn, where, as his guest,\nand under the protection of his aged mother, she should find a safe\nand comfortable asylum. Though satisfied that there was more of the\nwarmth of the lover in the language in which this invitation was\nconveyed, than altogether befitted the character of a guardian, yet\nthe young maiden, in her present lonely state, could not well find\nany reasonable excuse for refusal, and accordingly she was compelled,\nhowever unwillingly, to accept his offer, and she issued orders to\nher people to prepare for the journey.\n\nThe prospect of so soon leaving that home where she had spent her whole\nlife under the fostering care of her doting father, filled her heart\nwith a double portion of sorrow; and after artlessly communicating her\nfeelings to Logie and his friends, she craved their pardon, entreated\nthem to entertain one another, and to make themselves at home, and\nthen she sought the retirement of her chamber, where she spent the\nremainder of the day, and the greater part of the evening, in giving\nway to that affliction which had more than one exciting cause.\n\n\"My dear mistress,\" said her faithful maid Agnes Cumin, breaking\nin upon her as she sat in silent abstraction, with her moist cheek\nresting upon her hand, \"why should you cry your eyes out thus? The\nnight is soft and balmy, a little fresh air would do you good. Do let\nme throw this plaid over you, and be persuaded to step out a little,\nwere it only as far beyond the walls as the bourtree bower at the\nlower end of the garden.\"\n\n\"I cannot, my good Aggy,\" replied Bigla, with a fresh flood of tears;\n\"in sooth I have no heart.\"\n\n\"Come! be persuaded to try the air,\" said Agnes. \"Who knows what sighs\nand tears may be at this moment idly fanning the leaves and watering\nthe rosebuds of your own bonny bower.\"\n\n\"What say you?\" cried Bigla, starting up with a suddenly acquired\nenergy. \"What say you, Aggy? is he in the arbour?\"\n\n\"Hush, my lady!\" said the cautious girl, \"he is there; and from his\ntears and sighs I should judge that his heart is well attuned to\nthine at this moment.\"\n\n\"Let me fly to him!\" exclaimed Bigla, \"the moments are most precious;\"\nand throwing her plaid hastily around her, she stole out beyond the\nbarbican; and, having reached the garden, she ran on tiptoe to the\nsimple elder-bush bower at the farther end of it, leaving Archy Abhach\nto keep watch against intrusion.\n\nThe scene between Bigla and her lover was tender and melting. For a\ntime they did little else than weep and sigh together.\n\n\"Aggy tells me that you go with Logie to-morrow,\" said Sir John at\nlast. \"How could you suffer yourself to be persuaded to agree to any\nsuch arrangement?\"\n\n\"It was with no good will that I did so,\" replied Bigla; \"but as\nLogie was armed with my dear departed father's delegated authority,\nand as his proposal was backed by a parent's dying wish, I could not\nwithstand his request.\"\n\n\"Holy Mother, then art thou lost to me for ever!\" cried Sir John\npassionately. \"Canst thou thus coolly resolve, even for such a cause,\nto throw thyself into the very jaws of those from whom I can never\nhope to reclaim thee but by force of arms!\"\n\n\"Force of arms!\" said Bigla. \"I question much whether any force\nof arms from the Grants could prevail against the men of my clan,\nwho will have the keeping of me. But fear not, for the time is not\nfar distant when the law will give me guidance of mine own affairs;\nthen mayest thou reclaim me from myself with full assurance of a\nready compliance on my part.\"\n\n\"But what if these clansmen of thine should basely coerce thee to\na hated union with one of themselves?--with Logie, for instance,\nwho is old enough to be thy father!\"\n\n\"I have no such fears,\" replied Bigla.\n\n\"By the rood, but I have!\" cried Sir John hurriedly. \"You forget the\nold saying,--Whilst there are leaves in the forest there--a--a--a\"----\n\n\"Nay,\" said Bigla playfully, \"do finish your proverb, Sir\nKnight. Whilst there are leaves in the forest there will be guile in\na Cumin. Did your worship mean that as a compliment to me, or do you\nforget that I, too, am a Cumin?\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, nay! my dearest Bigla, you are truth itself,\" replied Sir\nJohn eagerly. \"Pardon me, my love, for quoting this old saw; but,\nseriously, you are too valuable, too tempting a prize to be risked\nin any hands but--but--but\"----\n\n\"But yours, as I presume thou wouldst say, good Sir Knight,\" replied\nBigla, interrupting him in the same playful tone.\n\n\"Thou hast said it, angel of my life!\" exclaimed Sir John, rapturously\nkissing her hand. \"I can and will resign thee to no one! Thou art my\npledged, mine affianced bride!\"\n\n\"I am, I am, indeed I am,\" said Bigla tenderly.\n\n\"Then why shouldst thou put our mutual happiness to peril?\" cried\nSir John. \"Why not secure it by flying with me this moment? My horses\nand people are within a whistle of where we now are, and in half an\nhour's riding or so we shall be safe within the walls of Castle Grant.\"\n\n\"No, no, no!\" replied she, \"a stolen marriage would neither be for\nthe credit of Sir John Grant nor for that of Bigla Cumin. Besides,\nI should be but a poor offering at Castle Grant were my broad lands\nnot well buckled to my back.\"\n\n\"I care not for thy lands,\" said Sir John, \"'tis thyself I would\nwed, and not thine estates. And if that be all, let us to horse\nforthwith. Better for me to secure thy precious self, though with\nthe chance of losing thy lands, than lose thee in trying to save\nthy lands.\"\n\n\"'Tis gallantly resolved of thee, Sir John,\" said Bigla; \"but I cannot\nallow thy chivalrous ardour to do us both so serious an injury. All\nI ask of thee, then, is to trust everything to my discretion and\nresolution, and, depend upon it, thou hast nothing to fear.\"\n\nThe parting between the two lovers was tender and prolonged, and it\nwas only at length finally effected by the interference of Agnes\nand the page, who came running to tell them that the revellers in\nthe hall were breaking up. And what he told them was true, for Bigla\nfound that she required the exertion of some degree of ingenuity to\neffect her retreat to her chamber unnoticed.\n\nAn early hour of the next day beheld the cavalcade, formed by the\nunited trains of Bigla Cumin and her kinsman the Laird of Logie,\nwinding away from her paternal mansion, amidst the mingled lamentations\nand benedictions of her people. Bigla was mounted on her favourite\npalfrey, the beautiful and fleet courser of Arabian blood which was\npresented to her by Corrie MacDonald. Her maid Agnes rode by her\nside on an animal of mettle little short of that which carried her\nmistress. Logie and his friends, all well armed, surrounded both in\na sort of irregular phalanx, which Bigla could not help thinking had\nmore the appearance of a guard to prevent the escape of a prisoner,\nthan that which might do her honour or give her protection. Her own\nfollowers were but few, and they were mixed up with those of the\nLaird of Logie. In the midst of them was the faithful page Archy, to\nwhose care was committed the charge of a small iron-bound oaken chest,\nwhich contained her family charters and other important documents. This\nLogie had especially insisted that she should carry with her, in order\nto secure its safety. The strange misformed urchin sat like an ape,\nmounted on a very remarkable milk-white steed, of noble courage and\nbeautiful proportions, and whose action was in no degree inferior to\nhis beauty. As this fine animal had been accustomed to carry Gibbon\nMore himself for some years before his death, it was not wonderful\nthat Bigla should have ridden up to caress him ere the march began,\nand whilst she did so she contrived to give some secret orders to\nthe rider, which did not appear to have been poured into a deaf ear.\n\nThe sun was nearly in the meridian before the party reached that\npoint on the edge of the high plain, immediately over the double\nvalley of the rivers Findhorn and Divie. There, as you know, a grand\nand extensive view of these romantic twin glens is to be enjoyed,\ntogether with the broad, rich, and beautiful vale that is formed by\ntheir union, with the majestic combined stream winding away through it,\nbetween its rocky, irregular, and wooded banks, till it is lost amidst\nthe vast extent of forest stretching widely along both sides of it,\nas it proceeds on its course towards the fertile plains of the low\ncountry of Moray, and its distant firth, the whole being bounded\nby the blue mountains of the north. Bigla had seen this glorious\nprospect more than once before, but she was an enthusiastic lover\nof nature, and, consequently, she was not sorry when she heard the\nLaird of Logie propose that they should alight for a few moments to\nrest themselves, and that they might enjoy it, at greater leisure,\nand with more ease to themselves. Logie did not make this proposal\nwithout private reasons of his own. Having contrived to seat himself\napart with Bigla, he began to urge his passion with an energy which he\nhad never ventured to employ before, and after using every argument\nthat he thought might be most likely to prevail on her to yield to\nhis suit, he seated her again on her palfrey, and as he rode down\nthe wooded steeps by her side, he continued to press her eagerly\non the same subject, without taking the trouble to use the delicacy\nof speaking in a tone which might have rendered their conversation\nprivate from those with whom they travelled.\n\n\"If you will only consent to be mine, fair Bigla,\" said he, \"I will\nmake you mistress of as much of the bonny land of Moray as your bright\neyes can reach over.\"\n\n\"I knew not that thy patrimony had been so ample,\" said Bigla coldly.\n\n\"Put your fate and mine upon the peril of this condition then,\"\nsaid Logie eagerly.\n\n\"I trow I might safely do so, were I to bar all trick,\" replied Bigla.\n\n\"Nay, then, thou art pledged to stand to the bargain,\" said Logie.\n\n\"I am pledged to nothing,\" replied Bigla haughtily.\n\n\"Ha, look there now, gentlemen!\" cried Logie. \"My fair ward and\nkinswoman Bigla Cumin here hath pledged her own pretty person to me, on\ncondition that I shall make her mistress of as much of bonny Moray-land\nas her beauteous eyes can reach over. Now, how say you? Let her\ncast her eyes forward, and you will all bear me witness, my friends,\nthat she can now see nothing of which I am not the undoubted owner.\"\n\nBy this time, you must know the cavalcade had descended from the\nhigh grounds through the winding hollows of the steep wooded braes,\ntill all the distant and more extended part of the landscape was\nlost by the rise of the opposite high grounds, and certainly from\nthe umbrageous recess where they now stood, nothing was to be seen\nbefore them but the lands of Logie.\n\n\"The joke is very well,\" said Bigla, not a little piqued, and reddening\nconsiderably at the liberty which had been thus taken with her before\nthe men-at-arms who followed them; \"but though Moray-land was all\nthine own from Ness to Spey, I would not have thee if thou wouldst\nlay it all at my feet.\"\n\n\"Talk not so proudly, mistress!\" said Logie, very much nettled. \"There\nare many maidens more than thy marrows, who would be happy to mate\nwith me, though I had nothing but this good claymore for my portion.\"\n\n\"I doubt it not,\" replied Bigla; \"but as I am not one of these,\nit may be as well perhaps that we talk not again on any such subject.\"\n\n\"A little less haughtiness would have better become thee,\" said\nLogie. \"You forget that you are not now on Dulnan side; and, moreover,\nyou forget that I am your guardian.\"\n\n\"Nay, it is you who forget that you are my guardian,\" replied\nBigla. \"I do feel, indeed, that I can never forget that thou art so;\nand, moreover, that there is a cruel difference between an unfeeling\nguardian and a fond father.\"\n\n\"I am armed with thy father's authority,\" said Logie hastily; \"and\nI will exert it.\"\n\n\"By basely taking advantage of it to proffer thine own vile suit,\"\nsaid Bigla.\n\n\"To see, at least, that Freuchie's son proffers no more suit to\nthee,\" replied Logie. \"If he took leave of thee last night beyond\nthe barbican, I trow it shall be his last leave-taking of thee.\"\n\n\"Last night!\" said Bigla with surprise.\n\n\"Aye, last night,\" said Logie bitterly. \"Dost think I have not found\nout your secret meeting? Had I caught the caitiff his blood should\nhave paid for his impudence.\"\n\n\"'Tis well to boast now, fair sir!\" said Bigla, \"now that thou hast no\nchance of any such encounter. Oh, would I were on my bonny Dulnan side\nagain! but I trust that my foot shall soon be on its flowery turf.\"\n\n\"That shall be when thou hast my permission,\" said Logie, allowing\nhis passion to get the better of him.\n\n\"What! am I so in restraint then?\" said Bigla taking a scarf from her\nneck, and waving it behind her head in such a way, that it was hardly\nperceived to be a signal by any one but Archy Abhach. He no sooner\nobserved it, however, than he began to rein his steed backwards,\nuntil he fell behind the line of march.\n\n\"Aye, bold girl, thou shalt obey me ere long as thy husband as well\nas thy guardian!\" continued Logie.\n\n\"Sayest thou so?\" said Bigla, putting on her Arabian to a gentle\ncanter over the meadow towards the ford of the Divie, whither they\nwere then going, so as to rid herself in some degree of the throng\nby which she had been surrounded. Then turning in her saddle, she\nshouted aloud--\"Ride, Archy, for thy life, man! Ride! ride! Men of\nGlenchearnich, follow your mistress. Come, Aggy, spur with me, and\nmay Saint Mary be our guide!\"\n\nAnd with these words she and her maid boldly dashed their steeds,\nbreast deep, into the ford, and quickly stemmed the stream of the\nDivie, whilst the well-tutored Archy Abhach wheeled his horse suddenly\nround at her word, and, drawing his dirk, he pricked his milk-white\nsides till the red blood spurted from them, and the noble animal\ndarted off, with his flea-bite of a burden, towards those wooded\nbraes, down which they had so recently come. The Laird of Logie and\nhis followers stood for some moments astounded on the mead, before they\ncould determine what to do. On the one hand fled the lady; and on the\nother hand the charters of her lands, her bonds, and her wadsets were\nalready winging their way upwards through the woods; and the question\nwas, which of the two objects of pursuit was the most important. Even\nafter he had gathered his scattered recollection, Logie stood in doubt\nfor a time. At length, seeing that Bigla Cumin had taken the direction\nof the house of Logie, so that he was still left, as he reckoned,\nbetween her and her own country, he quickly made his selection.\n\n\"After that miscreated devil on the white horse!\" cried he. \"Take\nthe caitiff and the kist he carries!--take him dead or alive!--but,\nat all hazards take the kist!\"\n\nOff went the laird and his people helter-skelter after Archy Abhach,\nwhilst the followers of Bigla Cumin were left at liberty to become her\nfollowers indeed. The waters of the Divie frothed and foamed again\nas they dashed through after her. I need not tell you, gentlemen,\nwho know the carte de pays so well, that although Bigla rode off at\nfirst in the very direction in which the laird had wished her to go,\nI mean towards his own house, she had no sooner forced her way up\nthe steep narrow path leading from the ford, than she found herself\nin a position where she had it in her power to choose between two\nways--one stretching straight onwards towards the house of Logie,\nand the other leading directly back over the hills to the eastward of\nthe Divie towards her own country, by a route different from that which\nshe had travelled in the morning. There she stood for some moments on a\nconspicuous point overlooking the valley. But you may easily guess that\nshe stopped not from any doubt that possessed her as to which of the\ntwo ways she should take--she only waited till her panting followers\nhad clustered around her; for they had no sooner gathered than she\nwaved her scarf again, and, amidst the shouts of her men-at-arms,\nshe turned her horse's head to the hill, and began to breast it most\nvigorously. Logie beheld her manoeuvre, and it shook his purpose for\nan instant. He gave hurried and contradictory orders, which only had\nthe effect of slackening the pursuit after the urchin page, and Bigla\nhad the satisfaction of seeing that faithful creature shooting far up\namong the bowery braes ere any final decision had been taken by the\nlaird. At length, a small plump of horsemen were sent off towards the\nford to pursue Bigla, whilst the remainder, with Logie at their head,\nrenewed their chase after Archy Abhach and his precious casket.\n\n\"Who is he, think you, that rides hither with so much haste from the\npass of Craig-Bey?\" demanded Sir John Grant of the man-at-arms on\nwatch, as he stalked along the bartizan of his castle to take a look\nover the country, about the time that the sun was hastening downwards\nto hide himself below the western horizon.\n\n\"If mortal man it be who looks so like a speck on the saddle, he either\nrides with hot news to spur him on, or he has some enemy after him,\"\nreplied the man.\n\n\"By'r lady, but you have guessed right well,\" said Sir John; \"for\nsee! there comes a straggling line of some dozen of horsemen rattling\nlike thunder through the pass.\"\n\n\"Methinks that the elf who flies bears some strange burden behind him,\"\nsaid the man-at-arms.\n\n\"He doth so, indeed,\" said Sir John.\n\n\"Some common thief, I'll warrant me, who hath carried away a booty\nfrom some usurious burgher of Forres,\" said the man-at-arms.\n\n\"Be he what he may, his white horse is no carrion,\" said Sir John. \"How\nthe noble animal devours the ground!\"\n\n\"He is as like old Gibbon More's favourite horse as one egg is to\nanother,\" said the man-at-arms as he drew nearer.\n\n\"Gibbon More's, saidst thou?\" exclaimed Sir John; \"and, by all that\nis good, he that rides is like my faithful page; but see, he turns\nthis way. Let's to the barbican,\" and, taking three steps down the\nnarrow stair at each stride, he was at the barbican in a few moments.\n\n\"What, ho!\" cried Sir John, as the horse came galloping up to the\ngate. \"What, ho! Archy Abhach, is it you? What news of thy mistress?\"\n\n\"I have neither time nor breath to speak of her at present,\" cried\nArchy, leaping from his horse, and hastily unbuckling the little\ncharter-chest from behind the saddle of his reeking horse; \"but\nhere--catch!--there you have her charters and titles, being that\nwhich I reckon some of the people who are after me would think the\nbest part of herself. There, catch, I say!\" and with that, he threw\nthe precious box clean over the top of the wall.\n\n\"Soh!\" continued Archy, taking a long breath--\"I have done my lady's\nbidding like a true Cumin, and now I must draw to defend mine own head,\nlike a true Grant, for the knaves will be upon me.\"\n\n\"Thou shalt not long lack help, my brave little fellow!\" cried Sir\nJohn, and in a moment, a party of armed Grants came crowding out\nfrom the gate at the heels of their young chief. And, as Archy's\npursuers came up one by one, they collected into a knot on the top\nof the heathery hillock, and then filed off without ever daring to\ncome within bowshot of the walls.\n\n\"Now, tell me what has befallen the Lady Bigla?\" cried Sir John Grant,\nimpatiently addressing the page.\n\nThe faithful Archy Abhach gave him a brief outline of all he knew.\n\n\"To horse! to horse!\" cried Sir John, hardly waiting till he had\nfinished. \"Holy St. Mary! she may be lost if we tarry.\"\n\nA very few minutes only were expended ere Sir John and his troop were\nmounted and away. They galloped after the retiring Cumins, but they\ncould see nothing of them anywhere. He had got to the side of the\nhill of Craig-Bey, and was stretching his eyes in all directions,\nwhen the distant clash of conflict came up through the woods that\nsloped away into the glen to the right. Sir John gave the spur to\nhis horse, and dashed down through the thicket, calling to his men\nto follow him. In a grassy holm, by the side of a small stream,\nhe found Bigla Cumin surrounded by her faithful but small band of\nfollowers, who were bravely defending her against a superior body of\nassailants. His sudden appearance immediately dispersed her enemies,\nand, overpowered by the fatigue occasioned by her long wearisome\nand rapid flight, as well as by the alarm which she had endured, she\nslipped from her palfrey, and sank exhausted on the ground. Sir John\nGrant was soon on his knees beside her, to support her weakness, and\nto calm her agitation. She had owed her escape, in the first place,\nto the swiftness and endurance of her favourite Arabian blooded\npalfrey, together with her own wonderful hardihood as a horsewoman,\nwhich, much surpassing that of the Lady Juliana Berners herself,\nhad carried her over mountain and moss, through bog and stream, in\na manner altogether inconceivable; and, secondly, to the appearance\nof Sir John Grant, just as she had been attacked by a quickly formed\nambush of the retreating Cumins, whose onset had given time to those\nwho pursued her to come up, by which means she and her people being\nhemmed in on all sides would have been speedily overcome.\n\nEre the evening closed in, Bigla Cumin found herself safely housed\nwithin the walls of Castle Grant; and the very next day the priest's\nblessing gave to Sir John Grant her fair hand, and with it her fair\nlands too.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nVELVET CUSHIONS.\n\n\nClifford.--Well done, Bigla Cumin! If ever I marry, I am resolved\nto have a fearless wife who can gallop across a country. But\nhey!--(stretching himself as we arose to proceed)--I protest I am quite\nstiff. Confound your green velvety grass! commend me rather to your\nvelvet cushion of Genoa. Your story was too long, Mr. Macpherson,\nand by far too interesting for a breezy hill-side and a dewy bank\nlike this.\n\nDominie.--It will grieve me sore, Mr. Clifford, if you should in any\nway suffer from my prolixity.\n\nClifford.--Tut, man, I'd sit in a snow-wreath, or on a glacier, to\nlisten to you. But, hark ye! what was that you muttered, before you\nbegan your story, about leaving us?\n\nDominie.--Really I cannot speak it without vurra great pain,\nMr. Clifford; but my path disparts from your road a little way\non here. I have to wend my way through the whole extent of these\nwild forests, which you see below us there, stretching across the\nintermediate country between us and the misty Cairngorums yonder. I\nam journeying to visit a brother of mine, who, as the elegant author\nof Douglas hath it,\n\n\n          \"Feeds his flocks,\n    A frugal swain,\"\n\n\non the slopes of the mountains beyond.\n\nClifford.--Nay, nay, we cannot part with you so. Had it been a lady,\nindeed, that you were going to visit, I should not have said a\nword. But for a brother merely.\n\nDominie (with the tear swelling in his eye).--Pardon me, Mr. Clifford,\npardon me; but I have an affection for my brother which few can\nestimate. We were twin bairns. Ewan and I alone remain of all our\nfamily. I make a yearly journey to visit him.\n\nClifford.--I venerate you for your feelings, and I sympathise with\nthem from the bottom of my heart. But if I may make a guess at the\ngeography of the country before us, I should conceive that if we could\npersuade you to go with us to Tomantoul to-day, your walk from thence\nto your brother's to-morrow would be but short.\n\nDominie (hesitating).--Hu--um!--that may be, sir. I am sure I am vurra\nhappy in your company; but, may I ask gentlemen, what your plans are?\n\nClifford.--We tie ourselves to no plans. For aught we know we may\nbe in Switzerland or Sweden before this day month. But, at present,\nwe propose to proceed up the Glen of the Aven to-morrow, on our way\nto Loch Aven.\n\nDominie.--It is a wild place, and the way is not easy to find.\n\nAuthor.--Wild enough, indeed. I once wandered all round it; but I\nnever approached it by its own glen.\n\nDominie.--I would have fain gone with you as your guide, for well do\nI know every mountain, moss, rock, and well by the way. But I cannot\nmistrust my brother, who is expeckin' me about this time. Albeit,\nas I cannot go all the way myself with you, I would fain, before I\nquit you, put you into the hands of one who is well acquainted with\nall the mountain tracks and passes, that there may be no risk of your\nlosing yourselves amidst those savage Alpine solitudes.\n\nClifford.--Ah! that would be kind of you indeed.\n\nGrant.--Had you not better consent to spend this night with us at\nTomantoul, then, Mr. Macpherson.\n\nDominie.--I was just thinking in my own mind that I behooved so to\ndo. I can then see you as far up Strathdaun to-morrow as Gaulrig,\nwhere old Willox the Wizard lives, and there----\n\nClifford.--What! a wizard, said you? You don't mean to put us under the\nguidance of Satan, I hope. That would indeed be sending us to the----\n\nDominie.--No, no, Mr. Clifford; but there is a friend of mine, who\nlives near to old Willox, one Archy Stewart, a retired sergeant,\nwho will be just the man for your purpose, if we can find him at\nhome. He knows every inch of the mountains, and, moreover, he is as\nfull of old stories as an egg is full of meat.\n\nClifford.--The very man for us. But what can you tell us of old Willox\nthe Wizard? I hope we shall see him.\n\nAuthor.--I have often heard of him. His name is MacGregor, is it\nnot? I should like much to see him.\n\nDominie.--You will be sure to see him if you call at Gaulrig, for,\nas he is now above ninety, he is too old to leave home. He is worth\nthe seeing too; for although, as I need not tell you, gentlemen,\nhe never possessed any supernatural power, yet his cleverness must\nhave been great to have enabled him to make the whole country, far and\nnear, believe, even in these more enlightened days, that he can divine\nsecrets and work wonders by means of his two charmed instruments--the\nmermaid's stone and the enchanted bridal of the water-kelpie.\n\nClifford.--How the deuce did he get hold of such articles? and what\nsort of things are they?\n\nDominie.--You will easily persuade him to show them to you; and it will\nbe better for me to leave him to tell his own story about them. But, as\nI have now made up my mind to go on with you to Tomantoul, gentlemen,\nI can tell you a short anecdote or two of him as we journey on our way,\nwhich will show you that all his fame as a warlock really rested on\nhis own natural acuteness.\n\nClifford.--I could have guessed as much, methinks, without being any\ngreat conjuror myself. But let us have your anecdotes, if you please.\n\nDominie.--I had much information about Willox from the Rev. John\nGrant, late Minister of Duthel, who was acquainted with him for\nmany years. For, notwithstanding the warlock's reputation for\nthe possession of uncanny qualities, he was uniformly consorted\nwith and treated as a gentleman by all the gentry of this Highland\ncountry. My old and worthy, and kind and benevolent friend, Mr. Grant,\nwas a man of too much wisdom as well as learning to believe in the\nsupernatural powers of Willox, or any such pretender. Mr. Grant,\nindeed, was a man of vurra enlarged mind and sound judgment, a deep\ndivine, a classical scholar, such as is seldom to be met with in our\npoor country of Scotland, an admirable critic, and an elegant poet;\nand although what I may be stating regarding him has little to do\nwith what I am going to tell you about Willox, yet, as you may have\na chance to hear more of Mr. Grant from my friend Sergeant Archy\nStewart when you come to make his acquaintance, I may be allowed to\ncomplete my sketch of this remarkable man by saying that, whilst he\nwas pious and regular in his duties, as became a clergyman, he was,\nnevertheless, cheerful and convivial, and extremely fond of a bit of\nhumour; and, moreover, as he was often called upon to give his opinion\npretty strongly in argument, he was equally ready to back it up at\nany time by his courage and bodily vigour against the brute force\nor the insults of his opponents, in days, now happily gone by, when\neven the sacred character of a minister of the gospel did not always\nproteck his person from injury. To enable him to defend himself the\nmore effectually in such chance encounters, nature had given to him\na stout and athletic frame and a nervous arm, in addition to which\nhe did himself furnish the hand of that arm with a great hazel stick,\nwhich he facetiously called his Ruling Elder, and so armed, no man nor\nset of men in the whole country side could make him show his back. He\nwas a capital preacher; but many doubted whether his sermons or his\ncudgel wrought the most reformation in his neighbourhood.\n\nIt was observed that Mr. Grant was always peculiarly unfortunate\nin losing his cattle. Not a year passed that some of them did not\ndie of a strange and unaccountable disease which quite baffled the\nskill of all the farriers and cow-leeches in the district. But on one\noccasion the mortality was so great as seriously to threaten the utter\nextermination of his stock. As this calamity seemed to affect none of\nhis neighbours, and to fall upon him alone, it was not unnatural for\nhis superstitious servants to say that his cattle were bewitched. In\ntheir opinion nobody but Willox could cure such an evil.\n\n\"If you don't send for Willox, sir, you'll lose every nout beast in\nyour aught,\" said the minister's hind.\n\n\"Saunders,\" replied the minister, \"although I have no faith in any such\nwicked and abominable superstitions as would gift Mr. MacGregor with\nsuperhuman powers, I am willing enough to give him credit for more than\nordinary shrewdness and sagacity as a mere man. You may, therefore,\nsend for him with my compliments, as I believe that he is more likely\nthan any one to discover the natural cause of these my losses.\"\n\nWillox came accordingly; and after the usual salutations he took the\nparson aside.\n\n\"Between you and me, Mr. Grant,\" said he, \"there is no use in my\nmaking any pretence of witchcraft. But you know we may find out the\ncause of the death of your cattle for all that. Your losses, I think,\nalways happen at or about this particular season of the year?\"\n\n\"They do,\" replied the parson.\n\n\"Come, then, let you and me take a quiet walk together over your farm.\"\n\nMr. Grant and Willox patiently perambulated the farm, and especially\nthe cattle-pastures for some hours together, Willox all the while\nthrowing his sharp eyes around him in every direction, until they\ncame to a hollow place where the warlock suddenly stopped.\n\n\"Here is the cause of the evil,\" said Willox, at once pointing\nto a certain plant which grew there, and nowhere else in the\nneighbourhood. \"If you will only take care that your man Saunders\nnever allows your cattle to get into this hollow until the flower of\nthat plant is withered and gone, you will find that you will never\nagain lose a single beast in the same way.\"\n\nI need not tell you, gentlemen, that Mr. Grant took care that the\nwarlock's advice was strictly followed; and the result was perfectly\nsatisfactory.\n\nClifford.--A most invaluable wizard! I wonder whether one might hold\na consultation with him on the mysteries of fly-fishing.\n\nGrant.--I have no doubt he could advise you well.\n\nClifford.--Nay, it was not for myself that I was asking. I manage to\ndo well enough by means of mine own conjuring rod; but to you and\nmy friend there some little aid of magic might be useful, seeing\nyou can make so little of it by your own simple skill. But come,\nMr. Macpherson, what more of old Willox?\n\nDominie.--A great alarm was created at Castle Grant, in consequence of\na strange madness that frequently seized upon the cattle at pasture\nin the grounds. At such times they were observed furiously running\nin all directions, with the tips of their noses and tails in the\nair, and bursting over all the fences. The easiest solution of this\nphenomenon was to say that they were bewitched; and all the servants\nabout the castle, especially those who had the broken fences to mend,\nbelieved that it was the true one. Even Sir James Grant, worthy man,\nwhen brought out to judge for himself, could not deny the grounds\nat least of this general opinion. To satisfy those who held it,\nhe allowed the aid of Willox to be called in.\n\n\"Some trick has been played here,\" said the warlock, after inquiring\ninto all the particulars, and minutely examining those parts of\nthe pastures where the animals were in the habit of lying most\nfrequently. \"Some wicked person has thrown some disagreeable odour\namong the beasts.\"\n\nThe probability of this was doubted by every one present. Nay, every\none declared that such a thing was impossible.\n\n\"Well,\" said Willox, \"I know that what I say is true; and I'll soon\nconvince you all that it is possible. Drive the cattle into the fold.\"\n\nThe cattle were folded accordingly, and Willox walked into the very\nmidst of them. There he took certain ingredients from his pocket,\nand putting them on a small bundle of tow, he prepared to strike fire\nwith a flint and steel.\n\n\"Now, gentlemen,\" said he, \"I advise all of you who have any regard\nfor your own safety to look sharp to it.\"\n\nThe fire was struck, the tow was kindled, a most offensive stench\narose, and no sooner had the cattle winded the fumes of it, than they\ndarted off in twenty different directions, as if the burning tow had\nbeen the fuse that discharged them from some vast bomb-shell. The\npoles and other barriers of the fold were shivered and levelled in\na moment as if such an inclosure had never existed. Down went the\nastonished spectators one by one in detail, as they chanced to come\ninto the diverging lines of flight of the scattering herd. Smack,\ncrash, and rumble went the nearer fences, as the several flying\nanimals went through or over them, like cannon-shot; and by the time\nthe poor wounded, maimed, and crippled people had gathered themselves\nto their legs, such of them, I mean, as had legs left to stand upon,\nthey beheld, to their utter dismay, the cattle scouring the distant\ncountry in all directions.\n\nI need hardly add, that a little further investigation enabled Willox,\nwithout the aid of witchcraft, not only to satisfy every one that\nhis first suspicions had been well founded, but also to prove that\nthey had been so by discovering the offender.\n\nGrant.--Depend upon it, this warlock must be no ordinary man.\n\nDominie.--I have another anecdote of him. A certain farmhouse in\nStrathspey was said to be haunted. Stones and dust and rubbish were\nthrown into the middle of the family apartment, and no one could\ndiscover whence or from what hand they came. Mr. John Grant, the\nminister of the parish, was sent for to lay the ghost; and to the\ngreat comfort of those to whom the house belonged, he came accompanied\nby Willox.\n\n\"While I am engaged in going through the evening family worship,\"\nsaid the parson to Willox, \"do you keep your eyes on the alert,\nand try to ascertain whence the missiles appear to come.\"\n\nThe minister began the duties of the evening. A psalm was sung. During\nthe time the people present were singing it, the volleys were\ndiscontinued; but the moment the psalm was ended, the discharges\nagain commenced.\n\n\"We had better sing another psalm,\" whispered Willox to the\nparson. Mr. Grant immediately gave out some verses accordingly. The\ndisturbance ceased as before; but they were no sooner concluded,\nthan it began again with redoubled fury. The sharp eyes of Willox shot\nlike lightning into every part of the chamber. In an instant they were\narrested by one of those great clumsy wooden partitions so common in\nour Highland farmers' humble dwellings, which, being boarded on both\nsides, rise up a certain height only towards the bare rafters above,\nleaving the vast vacuity below the roof undivided from end to end of\nthe building. Willox gave a preconcerted sign to the parson.\n\n\"My friends,\" said Mr. Grant, \"I insist that the boxing of that\npartition be immediately opened up.\"\n\nHis orders were obeyed, and no sooner were the boards removed than\nthe ghost was discovered. A little black Highland herd lassie sat\ncowering within, her face filled with dread of the punishment that\nawaited her. The creature had managed from time to time to creep in\nthere by lifting up a loose plank, and from that concealment she had\ncontrived to throw her missiles over the open top of the partition\ninto the apartment, all which she had done to revenge herself against\nthe family for having been whipped for some piece of negligence of\nwhich she had been guilty. The parson had no sooner learned these\nparticulars, than he pounced upon the trembling culprit, like a great\nmastiff on a mouse, and dragging her forth, he, without the least\ndelay or ceremony, gave her, to use his own phrase, a good skegging.\n\nClifford.--Had Mr. Grant and Willox been sent for, the celebrated\nghost of Cock Lane would have had but a short reign of it.\n\nDominie.--I have but one story more of Willox to plague you\nwith. William Stuart, a farmer in Brae Moray, was led, by his\nfather's persuasion, and very much against his own inclination,\nto marry a woman whom he could not like, all because she possessed\na certain tocher. He went to his marriage like a condemned thief\nto the gallows, and from the very first moment he treated his wife\nas an alien. A certain worthy lady in the neighbourhood, who felt\ninterested in Mrs. Stuart, firmly believed that her husband's dislike\nto her was occasioned by witchcraft. She accordingly sent for Willox,\nand entreated him to exercise his skill in the poor woman's behalf,\nand the warlock undertook to do all in his power for her.\n\nHaving contrived to pay a visit at Stuart's house, when he knew that\nhe should find him at home, he accepted his invitation to stay to\ndine with him, and after they had had a cheerful glass together,\nWillox ventured to begin his attempt by drinking Mrs. Stuart's health.\n\n\"You are the only man, Stuart, that does not admire your wife,\"\nsaid Willox, in a half jocular tone.\n\n\"May be so,\" said Stuart dryly.\n\n\"If you were not bewitched, as my skill tells me that you are,\nyou would find more happiness at your own fireside than you do,\"\ncontinued Willox.\n\n\"Maybe I am bewitched,\" said Stuart, from the mere desire of being\ncivil.\n\n\"I tell you I know you are,\" said Willox, \"and if you will allow me\nI shall soon show you the people who have bewitched you.\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! I should like to see them,\" said Stuart with a forced laugh;\n\"but if you do show them to me, you are even a greater conjuror than\nI take you to be.\"\n\nWillox, with great solemnity, now took forth the mermaid's stone from\nhis pocket. It was semi-transparent, circular, and convex, like an\nordinary lens, and it filled the palm of his hand. Placing the back\nof his hand on the table, and keeping the stone in the hollow of it,\nhe solemnly addressed Stuart.\n\n\"If you would know those who bewitch you,\" said he, \"look downwards\nthrough the mermaid's stone.\"\n\n\"I see nothing,\" said Stuart, following his direction.\n\n\"Do you see nothing now?\" demanded Willox.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Stuart, \"I see something like a red spot.\"\n\n\"Look again, do you see nothing more now?\" demanded Willox.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Stuart again, \"I see something like a black spot, a little\nway from the red spot.\"\n\n\"Listen, then!\" said Willox. \"These are the heads of a red-haired\nlass and a black-haired lass, and it is they who bewitch you from\nyour lawful wife.\"\n\n\"If you are not a great warlock, you are at least a great rascal,\"\ncried Stuart, losing all temper; \"but by the great oath, I'll soon\nknow which you are.\" And saying so, he suddenly seized on the wizard's\nhand before he was aware, and turning it up, he extracted two pins\nfrom between the fingers, the head of one of which had been dipped\nin red wax, and the head of the other in black wax.\n\n\"You scoundrel,\" said Stuart, preparing to assault him, \"you have\nbeen unjustifiably prying into my secrets, but I'll teach you to use\ngreater discretion in future.\"\n\n\"Approach me at your peril!\" cried Willox, stepping back towards\nthe door, and brandishing a dagger which he drew from his bosom. \"I\nhave done or said nothing but what is friendly to you, and if you\nhave the folly to attempt anything of a different nature towards me,\nyou must take the consequences,\" and so saying he immediately took\nhimself off. So ended the Dominie.\n\nOur walk to-day had little beauty in it, except in its distant\nprospects, which, when we looked over the vast extent of fir forests\ntowards the Cairngorum group of mountains, were always grand. The\nscenery of the Aven indeed, and especially at the spot where we crossed\nit, delighted us all. The fragment of the ruined bridge of Campdale\nstill stood, a sad monument of the ravages of the fearful flood of\nAugust, 1829; but the stream now sparkled away along its customary\nchannel like liquid crystal.\n\nClifford (stopping mechanically to put his fishing-rod together).--It\nis certainly the clearest stream I ever beheld. Yet shall I try my\nskill to extract some trouts from it for dinner.\n\nGrant (as we ascended the path that led us up from the deep glen\nof the Aven where we left Clifford fishing).--Anything to be seen\nat Tomantoul?\n\nAuthor.--Nothing that I have ever been able to discover. The sight is\none of the dreariest I know,--a high, wide, bare, and uninteresting\nmoor, quite raised, as you see, above all the beauties of the river,\nwhich are buried from it in the profound of the neighbouring valley;\nnor has the village itself any very great redeeming charm about it.\n\nGrant.--How comes it that all the cottages and walls are built of\nsandstone in the very heart of this primitive country?\n\nAuthor.--You may well be surprised, but you will perhaps be still more\nastonished to learn that the place stands on a great detached isolated\nfield of the floetz strata, four miles in length by one in breadth,\nwhich has been raised up on the very bosom of the primitive granite.\n\nGrant.--A curious geological fact.\n\nAuthor.--It is a fact which I learned when I was here formerly from\na very intelligent gentleman who is the clergyman here, to whom I\nwas also indebted for much valuable information during my inquiries\nabout the great flood. I shall be happy to introduce you to him.\n\nGrant.--I believe similar instances occur elsewhere in this part\nof Scotland.\n\nAuthor.--Yes, at Kildrummie Castle, in the Glen of Dollas, and also\nnear the borders of the primitive in the vale of Pluscardine.\n\nDominie.--To what strange changes has this earth of ours been\nsubjeckit!\n\nGrant.--Tell me, I pray you, what nice looking house is this?\n\nAuthor.--It is the residence of the clergyman; perhaps you would\nlike to call on him now, while our friend here goes on to the inn\nwith our man to secure beds and entertainment for us all.\n\nGrant assented, and, entering the manse accordingly, we remained\ntalking very agreeably there, until the whistling of Clifford, as he\nmarched up the street with his rod in his hand, and his fishing pannier\non his back, made us suddenly terminate our interesting colloquy,\nin order to run after him. As we got into the inn we found him in\nthe act of admiring his trouts, which filled a large trencher.\n\nClifford.--See what noble fellows! There is one of three pounds and\na half if he is an ounce. I hooked him in the pool above the broken\nbridge, and I called to you as you were going up the hill to come\nback and witness the sport he yielded; but you were too intent on\nyour own conversation to hear me, and so you lost it all. What were\nyou talking about?\n\nGrant.--Geology.\n\nClifford.--Geology!--fiddlesticks. By all that is good, you deserve\nto dine upon fossil fishes.\n\nAuthor (to the landlady).--Well, ma'am, I hope you can give us\nsomething good for dinner.\n\nLandlady.--We shall see, sir; we'll do the best we can.\n\nAuthor.--You will at least be able to give us an omelet, after the\ninstructions I gave you when I was last in your house.\n\nLandlady.--That I can; I made one for the Duke when he was up here\nat the fowling, and he said that it was just famous.\n\nClifford.--Can you give us any soup?\n\nLandlady.--Na, sir; I'm dootin' that I hae na time for that.\n\nClifford.--Pooh! If you will give me a large smooth white pebble,\nsuch as is called by my geological friends here quartz, but which you\nknow better, I believe, by the name of a chucky-stane, I'll make some\ncapital soup out of it in a very few minutes.\n\nLandlady.--Odd, sir, I'm thinkin' ye'll be clever an ye can do that.\n\nClifford.--Be quick, then, and fetch me such a stone as I have\ndescribed. Remember it must be quite clean, and large enough to make\nsoup for four gentlemen,--and recollect that we are very hungry.\n\nLandlady (entering with a stone in one hand).--There it is. It's\nquite clean, for I washed it wi' my ain hands.\n\nClifford.--So, that is all right. Now, fetch me a pan with clean\nwater in it. Oh, you have it there, I see. Well, put in the stone,\nand put the pan on the fire. Now, you see, my good woman, I am a pupil\nof old Willox the Warlock, therefore you need not be astonished at\nanything I do. Go get me a spoon to taste the soup with. (Whilst her\nback is turned, slyly dropping a cake or two of portable soup into\nthe pot.) Aye, now, let me see; taste it yourself. It already begins\nto have some flavour.\n\nLandlady (astonished).--Have a care o' huz a', so it has!\n\nClifford (stirring it).--But, stay a moment; taste it now!\n\nLandlady (taking a spoonful of it).--Keep me, that is just awthegither\nmaygics indeed!\n\nClifford (tasting it).--Oh, it will do now. Bring me an iron spoon\nto take out the stone with. Now, here take it away, dry it well,\nand lock it carefully up in your larder; for, you perceive, that\nit is but very little wasted, and, consequently, it will make some\ngood tureens of soup yet; and though such stones are plenty enough,\nyet you know it is always good housewifery to be economical.\n\nLandlady (taking away the stone).--That's true, indeed, sir.\n\nGrant (after we had dined).--Well, thanks to Clifford's chucky-stone\nsoup, his delicious fritto of trout, our landlady's excellent\nmutton-chops, and your omelet, we have dined like princes.\n\nClifford.--I am now hungry for nothing but a narrative. Come,\nMr. Macpherson, as we are to lose you to-morrow, I must remind you\nthat you are still in my book for some story about Old Stachcan,\nthe man with the pistol, I mean, whose portrait we saw at Castle\nGrant. Pray do not hesitate to clear off your score.\n\nDominie.--I need not say, Mr. Clifford, that since you and your\nfriends here are so good as to accept of such poor coin as my bit\nstories, in return for all the kindness and condescension which I have\nreceived from you, it is well my part to pay it readily, and without\na grudge. But what I had to tell you about Old Stachcan was more an\naccount of the man than any very parteeklar story about him. Now,\nas you will pass by the very bit where he lay concealed, I would\nrather leave it to my friend Sergeant Archy Stewart, who knows more\nabout him than I do, to give you his history on the spot.\n\nGrant.--Well, since that is the case, Mr. Macpherson, I shall undertake\nto tell a story for you. And instead of that which you were to tell\nus about one Grant, I shall give you a legend which I have heard of\ntwo lairds of that name.\n\nClifford.--Provided you do not on that account make your story twice\nas long as Mr. Macpherson's would have been, I for one am contented.\n\nGrant.--If I should do so, you have your resource, Clifford, you\nmay go to sleep, you know; and if you do, I shall perhaps have the\npleasure of singing, in the words of Scott's Water Sprite,--\n\n\n    \"Good luck to your fishing.\"\n\n\nClifford.--No more of that, an thou lovest me, Hal.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF THE RIVAL LAIRDS OF STRATHSPEY.\n\n\nSome time previous to the Reformation a venerable priest, of the name\nof Innes, lived at Easter Duthel, in Strathspey, and superintended\nthe spiritual concerns of the people of the surrounding district. He\nwas a benevolent old man, whose heart was devoted to the duties of\nhis sacred office, and to those deeds of Christian benevolence which\nhe inculcated upon his flock by example as well as by precept.\n\nThe only other occupation which the good man had was the watching\nover the nurture and education of his orphan niece, Helen Dunbar, who\nhad been early left to his care by the death of her mother, his only\nand much beloved sister. Helen was a beautiful young creature. Her\nfeatures were of the most perfect regularity of form and arrangement,\nher complexion was the fairest imaginable, the lustre of her dark\neyes was softened by their long eyelashes, and her jet-black hair\nfell in rich abundance over her person, which was in every respect\nmost exquisitely and symmetrically moulded. But what was better\nthan all this, she was as good as she was beautiful. Her whole time\nand thoughts were occupied in finding out objects for her uncle's\nbenevolence, and, like his ministering angel, she was ever ready to\nfly to the cottage of the poor, or the bedside of the sick, to bear\nthither such comfort or consolation as he had to impart, when the\ninfirmities incidental to his declining years rendered it impossible\nfor him to bestow them in person. When he was able to go upon his own\nerrands of charity he never failed to do so; and on such occasions it\nwas a pleasing sight,--a sight that might have furnished a fine subject\nfor a painter--to have beheld her acting as the crutch of his old age,\nand the ready auxiliary of all his beneficent actions. You may easily\nbelieve that so amiable a pair as Priest Innes and his niece could\nnot fail to secure the love and admiration of every one who knew them.\n\nWhen they appeared in church, the grey hairs, and the thin, pale,\nspiritual countenance of the old priest, were looked up to by his\nflock with reverential awe, as if he had been some being who was only\nlent to them for a brief season from another and a better world, and\nwho might every moment be called on to return thither. But whilst\nthere was enough of heaven in the young and healthful face and\nform of Helen Dunbar, she was regarded by all with an affectionate\nattachment which savoured more of the kind and kindred feelings of\nhumanity, and the good folks were thus satisfied through the niece\nthat the uncle was allied to the earth. Fathers and mothers regarded\nher and loved her as a daughter, young maidens looked upon her with\nthe warmest sisterly affection, and the youths of the district, with\nwhom modesty naturally made her less familiar, beheld her with that\nrespectful adoration which was due to so angelic a creature. I speak,\nof course, of those of humbler rank; for there were many among the\nyoung knights and lairds of the neighbourhood who would have willingly\nrobbed the old man of his treasure by carrying her home as a bride.\n\nOf this latter class there were two, who, as they were the most\nremarked of the admirers of Helen Dunbar, were also believed to be the\nmost formidable rivals to each other. These were Lewis Grant, the young\nlaird of Auchernach, and John Dhu Grant of Knockando. The first of\nthese was a tall, handsome, fair-faced young man, universally believed\nto be open, brave, generous, and warm-hearted. He had the art of making\nhimself beloved by all who knew him, and people thought that he had\nno fault in life but a certain degree of hastiness of temper, which,\nas folks said, might flash out violently upon particular occasions,\nand yet would pass away as harmlessly as a blaze of summer lightning,\nleaving everything peaceful behind it after it was gone. The other\nwas a dark swart man, properly conducted, and calm and cold looking,\nwhom it somehow happened that nobody knew sufficiently either to\nlike or to dislike. Both of these gentlemen were observed to be very\nassiduous in their attentions to Helen Dunbar upon all occasions where\nthey were seen in her company. But the talk of the country was, that\nif either of them met with encouragement at all, Lewis of Auchernach\nwas rather the happier man. As the fact, if it was a fact, could have\nbeen known to himself and the lady alone, this suspicion probably arose\npartly from the circumstance that Auchernach was the general favourite,\nand partly because his place of residence was nearer to the parsonage\nof Easter Duthel by some fifteen or twenty miles or so than that of\nhis rival. But I, who as a narrator of their story am entitled to\narrogate to myself a perfect knowledge of all their secrets, and in\nvirtue of such my office, to be present at, and to describe scenes\nwitnessed by no eyes but those of the actors themselves, I will\nventure to assure you, upon my own authority, that public opinion,\nhowever rarely it may be correct, was in this instance the true one,\nand that Lewis Grant of Auchernach had really for some time been\nthe favoured lover of the fair Helen Dunbar; that they had already\nplighted troth to each other, and, moreover, that their mutual love\nwas neither unknown nor disapproved of by the lady's venerable uncle.\n\nYou will easily guess, from what I have already told you of the good\npriest of Easter Duthel, that he was not one of those sour sons of\nthe church who think that it is their duty to keep as much aloof\nfrom their flocks as they possibly can, and who would consider it\nas quite unclerical to appear capable of participating in their\nharmless amusements, who think it better to allow rustic enjoyment\nto run into what riot and excess it may, than to hallow and temper\nit by the sacredness of their presence. Priest Innes and his niece\nwere always invited and expected to be present at all merry-makings;\nand the consequence was, that he kept many such scenes within the\nbounds of innocence and propriety, which might have otherwise gone\nvery much beyond their limits. A word from their pastor indeed was\nat any time sufficient to bring the liveliest and most exciting revel\nto a decent close.\n\nIt happened that a joyous meeting of this sort occurred one night\nat the mill of Duthel, occasioned by the marriage of the miller's\ndaughter. As the miller was a wealthy man and well known by all ranks,\nand the bridegroom was highly respectable, the assemblage was graced\nby many of the lairds and better sort of people along the banks of\nthe Spey; and, amongst others, both Auchernach and Knockando were\nthere. The matrimonial rite was performed by the good Priest Innes\nwith all due ceremonial. But when the company adjourned to the long\ngranary, where the sports of the evening were to be held, and when\nthe harps and the bagpipes began alternately to give animation and\njoy to the scene, he did not consider that the jocund dance or the\nmerriment that ensued brought with it any just or reasonable argument\nfor his departure. On the contrary, seated in the chair of honour,\nhis venerable and benignant countenance was lighted up with smiles\nof pleasure from the inward gratification he felt in beholding the\nchastened happiness of all around him.\n\nHis niece, Helen Dunbar, sat in a chair by the old man's side, that is\nto say, she sat there during such intervals as she was allowed to rest\nfrom the joyous exercise in which all were participating. These indeed\nwere few and short, because she was of all others the partner most\nsought after. She danced often with Auchernach, and not unfrequently\nwith Knockando; and from that desire, natural enough to maidens, to\nveil the true object of her affections from prying eyes around her,\nshe was, if possible, even more gracious that night in her manner and\nconversation to the latter than she was to the former. The cold dark\ncountenance of John Dhu Grant was flushed and animated more than it\nhad ever been before, by the seeming preference which was thus shown\nto him. Presuming upon that which his passion magnified, he persecuted\nHelen with attentions which she now began to see the necessity of\nrepressing. She could not well do this without throwing more of her\nfavour into the scale of him whom Knockando so well knew to be his\nrival. This alteration on her part inwardly galled and irritated the\ndisappointed man beyond what his habitual self-command allowed his\ncountenance to express. Lewis Grant of Auchernach, on the other hand,\nsatisfied with his own secret convictions, went on joyfully through\nthe mazes of the dance, perfectly heedless of all those minor changes\non the face or manner of Helen which had so touched John Dhu, whose\nequanimity was not the better preserved because he perceived how\nlittle that of his rival was affected.\n\n\"These weddings are mighty merry things, Auchernach,\" observed\nKnockando with seeming coolness, as they accidentally stepped aside\ntogether at the same moment to take a cup of refreshment.\n\n\"When or where can we expect mirth, Knockando, if we find it not on\na wedding-night?\" said Auchernach, after courteously pledging to his\nhealth. \"The happy union of two devoted young hearts, as yet unscathed\nby the blasts of adversity, smiling hope dancing before them, gilding\nwith sunshine all the brighter prospects of life, whilst her friendly\nhand throws a roseate veil over all its drearier and darker changes.\"\n\n\"Thou speakest so warmly that methinks thou wouldst fain be a\nbridegroom thyself, Auchernach,\" said Knockando.\n\n\"So very fain would I so be, Knockando, that I care not if this were\nmy wedding-night,\" replied Auchernach with great animation.\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha! art thou indeed so desirous to barter thy sweet\nliberty?\" said Knockando. \"Well, then, I suppose that I may look\nfor a spice of thine envy now, should I perchance submit to my fate,\nand yield to those blandishments which have been so skilfully used\nto catch me.\"\n\n\"I envy no one,\" said Auchernach carelessly, \"and sooth to say,\nvery far indeed should I be from envying thee, Knockando; trust me,\nno one would dance more heartily at thy wedding than I should.\"\n\n\"Since thou art so fond of dancing at weddings, depend on't thou shalt\nnot lack an invitation to mine.,\" said Knockando; \"nay, out of my great\nfriendship for thee, I have half a mind to sacrifice myself and to\nhasten my fate, were it only to indulge thy frolicsome propensities.\"\n\n\"Kindly said of thee, truly,\" replied Auchernach, laughing good\nhumouredly, \"then sudden and sweet be thy fate, say I.\"\n\n\"If I mistake not greatly, my fate is in mine own hand,\" continued\nKnockando, throwing a significant glance across the room towards the\nplace where Helen Dunbar was then sitting beside her uncle.\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed Auchernach in amazement, hardly daring to trust\nhimself with the understanding of what seemed thus to be hinted at\nby his rival.\n\n\"Thou see'st how her eyes do continually rest upon me as if I were\nher loadstar,\" continued Knockando. \"Her solicitation could not be\nmore eloquently expressed by a thousand words.\"\n\n\"Whose eyes? whose solicitation?\" cried the astonished Auchernach,\nhis countenance kindling up with an ire which it was impossible for\nhim to conceal.\n\n\"Whose eyes? whose solicitation?\" repeated Knockando. \"Those\nlove-encumbered and pity-seeking eyes yonder, which are now darting\nglances of entreaty towards me from beneath the dark-arched eyebrows of\nthe beauteous Helen Dunbar. The girl loves me to distraction; and if no\nother motive could move me, feelings of compassion would of themselves\nurge me to show some mercy towards her, and to make her my wife.\"\n\n\"Villain!\" cried Auchernach, at once losing all command of himself,\n\"thou art a base traducer, and a lying knave to boot!\"\n\nThe previous part of this dialogue had been overheard by no one;\nbut these last words were thundered forth by Auchernach in a voice\nso loud that they shook the whole room, stopped music, dance and all,\nand attracted every eye towards the speaker, just in time to see him\nfell Knockando to the ground by a single blow.\n\nThe confusion that ensued was great. Knockando was raised from the\nfloor by some of his dependants who chanced to be present. Dirks might\nhave been drawn and blood might have flowed, had not the good priest\nimmediately hastened, with what speed his tottering steps enabled\nhim to exert, to interpose his sacred person, and to use his pious\ninfluence to allay the growing storm. By his authority he now put\nan abrupt termination to the festivities of the evening. Ashamed\nof his violence, Auchernach came forward to entreat a hearing\nfrom the priest, and at the same time to offer that support to his\nfeeble frame in his homeward walk which, in conjunction with his\nniece, he was not unfrequently allowed to yield him, and of which\nthe agitated and trembling Helen Dunbar had hardly strength at that\nmoment to contribute her share. But he was shocked and mortified to\nfind himself rebuffed, and his proffered services refused in a manner\nat once resolute and dignified.\n\n\"No!\" said the priest, waving him away, \"until thou shalt humble\nthyself, and make thy peace with Knockando, thou canst have no converse\nwith me; and to prevent the chance of his suffering further insult or\ninjury from thine intemperance, he shall be my guest for to-night. Give\nme thine arm, Knockando.\"\n\n\"Old man! look that thou dost not pay dear for thy favour to that\nnew guest of thine!\" cried Auchernach aloud, and gnashing his teeth\nin the vexation and bitterness of his heart.\n\n\"What! dost thou threaten?\" said Knockando coldly, as he left the\nplace. \"This way, reverend sir, lean on me, I pray thee.\"\n\n\"Villain! villain!\" muttered Auchernach, striking his breast with\na fury which now knew no bounds, and, rushing out like a madman,\nhe hurried homewards to spend a sleepless and agitated night.\n\nThe miller's guests departed to their several abodes, wondering at\nAuchernach's strange and unaccountable conduct, talking much of it,\nand no one blaming him the less that his furious and apparently\nuncalled for violence had so rudely and so provokingly put an end to\ntheir evening's merriment.\n\nJohn Dhu Grant was hospitably entertained and lodged by the priest;\nbut Helen Dunbar allowed him to mount his horse next day, to ride\nhome to Knockando, without ever permitting him to be once gladdened\nby the sunshine of her countenance. As she had wept all that night,\nso she sat all the ensuing morning in her chamber, brooding over the\ndistressing scene of the previous evening, and anxiously listening\nfor the footsteps of Auchernach, in the hope that he might come to\ngive her some explanation of the cause of the strange ungovernable\nfury to which he had given way. But he came not.\n\n\"I had hoped to have seen our friend Auchernach here in tears and\nrepentance,\" said Priest Innes mildly to his niece, when they at last\nmet: \"I fear he hath hardly yet come to a due sense of his error.\"\n\nHelen was silent and sorrowful. She still trusted, however, that he\nmight yet come. Her ears were continually fancying that she heard his\nwell-known step and voice, and they were as perpetually deceived. The\nwhole day and the whole evening passed away, and still he came\nnot. With a sad heart she accompanied her uncle to his chamber, to go\nthrough those religious duties with him in which they never failed to\njoin before they separated for the night. Her voice trembled as she\nuttered her responses to the prayers of the priest, and the old man,\nparticipating in her feelings, and fully sympathising with her, was\nlittle less affected. But her self-command altogether forsook her,\nwhen, after the prescribed formula of service was at an end, her\nuncle again kneeled down reverently on the cushion by his bed-side,\nand prayed fervently for her and for her future happiness, and that\nthe Almighty protection might be extended over her when it should\nplease Heaven to remove him from this earthly scene. And when, as\nconnected with this dearest object of his heart, he put up earnest\npetitions for him who was already destined to be her husband and\nprotector, she hid her face on the bed, and sobbed aloud. He besought\nhis Creator so to deal graciously with the erring youth, as to make\nhim deeply sensible of the wickedness of so readily yielding, as he\nhad recently done, to the violence of passion; and he implored the\nDivine Being to render his repentance sincere and enduring, so that\nhe might never again be led to sin in the same way.\n\n\"I forgive him already!\" said the good man, as he gave his niece\nhis parting embrace; \"I forgive him, and so will you, Helen. And if\nI have been too hasty in judging him, as in mine erring nature I may\nhave been, may God forgive me! Bless thee, my child! and may the holy\nVirgin and her angels hover over thy pillow! Good night!\"\n\nHelen's tears prevented her from speaking, and after partially\ncomposing herself, she arranged the simple uncanopied and uncurtained\ncouch which her uncle used, in obedience to his rigid rule, smoothed\nhis pillow, placed a carved ebony crucifix, with an ivory figure of\nthe Redeemer attached to it, on the little oaken table that stood by\nhis bed-side, and after trimming his night-lamp, she set it before\nthe little image, and having laid his breviary and his beads beside\nit, she placed the cushion so that he might the more easily perform\nthose religious rites which his duty prescribed to him, and which he\nregularly and strictly attended to at certain watches of the night,\nand having done these little offices, she again tenderly embraced him,\nand retired to her own chamber.\n\nThe good priest's mind was so filled with distress about Auchernach,\nthat he could not close an eye. For several hours he lay turning over\nand over in his thoughts those prospects which his niece had before\nher from such a marriage--a marriage the contemplation of which\nhad so recently laid every anxiety of his heart regarding her most\nsatisfactorily to rest, all of which were now again awakened afresh\nby the unfavourable view which last night's experience had given him\nof her future husband. In vain he tried to court slumber. At last\nwhen nearly worn out with watching, he arose and kneeled before the\nemblems of his faith, to perform his midnight orisons. When these were\nconcluded, he took up the crucifix with veneration, reverently kissed\nthe image of our suffering Saviour, and, laying himself again down in\nbed, he covered himself with the clothes, and, placing the crucifix\nlengthwise upon his bosom, he committed himself in thought to the\nprotection of his patron-saint, and composed himself confidently to\nrest, under the conviction that he should now be certain of enjoying\nsweet slumber.\n\nAnd the good man was not mistaken. Sleep immediately weighed down his\neyelids, and his senses were soon, steeped in the deepest and most\nperfect oblivion. If you will only fancy to yourselves his venerable\nand placid countenance, pale as the sheet which partially shrouded\nhis chin, and rendered yet paler by its contrast with the black cap\nwhich he wore, his motionless form disposed underneath the bed-clothes,\nwith the crucifix lying along over it, you will be ready to admit that\nhis whole appearance might have well suggested the idea of a saint.\n\nBut the devil was that night abroad. The priest's habitation was\nhumble, and, though partly consisting of two low stories, the roof was\ncomposed of a simple wattle, covered with heather thatch. His chamber\nwas above, and away from those of the other inmates, at one end,\nwhere a lower shed was attached to the back of the building. Suppose\nyourselves, for a moment, invisible spectators of a scene which was\nalone looked down upon by that eye which sees all things. Listen to\nthat strange deafened sound above, as if some one was crawling over the\noutside of the roof. What noise is that as of a cutting and plucking\nup of the heather? Ha! did you see that dirk-blade glisten through\nthe frail work of the wattle?--again, and again, it comes! It rapidly\ncuts its way in a large circle through the half rotten material of\nwhich the roof is composed. The fingers of a hand now appear under it,\nas if to prevent the piece which is about to be detached from falling\ndownwards, and alarming the sleeper. He hears not the noise, for he\nsweetly dreams that as he prays on his knees, the clouds are opened,\nand the beautified countenance of his patron-saint smiles upon him from\nthe skies, and beckons to him to throw off his mortality, and to join\nhim in the heavens. He awakes with the effort which he makes to obey\nhim; and, immediately over his bed he indistinctly beholds, by the\nfeeble light of his night lamp, the stern and remorseless features\nof a man,--the eyes glaring fearfully upon him. He is paralysed by\nthe sight: and, ere he can move, nay, ere he can utter one shriek of\nalarm, the murderer drops upon his bed, and, crouched across him,\nhe, with his left hand, lays bare the emaciated throat of the old\npriest, and with his right he strikes his dirk blade through it,\ntill it pierces the very pillow underneath. No sigh escapes from the\nmurdered man. If groan there be at all, it comes growling from the\nferocious heart of the fiend who does the atrocious deed; who, as he\nsits for a moment to satisfy himself that his victim is really dead,\nshudders to look upon his own bloody work. To shut it out from his\neyes, even for the instant, he replaces the bed-clothes over the chin,\nand, adjusting the crucifix as he found it, he makes a precipitate\nretreat through the orifice in the roof by which he entered.\n\nIf you have well pictured to yourselves the particulars of this most\nrevolting murder, you will be the better able to imagine the scene\nthat took place next morning when, at the hour at which she usually\nwent to awake her uncle, to receive his kiss and his blessing, to\ninquire how he had passed the night, and to administer to his little\nwants, his affectionate niece softly entered the apartment of the good\nPriest Innes. Her eyes were naturally directed at once to the bed,\nso that the hole in the roof above escaped her notice.\n\n\"How tranquilly he sleeps!\" whispered she; \"I almost grudge to awaken\nhim to the recollection of that distressing event of the evening\nbefore last, which so disturbed him, and which hath ever since so\ntortured me. I see, from the crucifix being laid on his bosom, that\nthe earlier part of his night hath not been passed with the same\ncomposure as he now enjoys. But it is late, and he may chide me if\nI allow him longer to slumber. Uncle! dear uncle! it is time for you\nto be up. Ha! still he answereth not! can he be unwell?\"\n\nSnatching up the crucifix with one hand, and gently removing the\nbed-clothes from her uncle's chin with the other, the harrowing\nspectacle that presented itself told her the fatal truth. She stood\nfor one moment petrified by the sight, uttered one piercing shriek\nthat penetrated into every part of the humble dwelling, and then she\nfell backwards on the floor in a swoon, where the old woman, Janet,\nwho waited on her, and James, the priest's man, both of whom came\nrunning to her aid at the same moment, found her lying, with the\ncrucifix firmly and spasmodically embraced over her bosom.\n\nYou all know how fast ill tidings travel. The particulars of this\nhorrible transaction, multiplied and magnified, quickly spread far\nand wide, and the whole neighbourhood was instantly in a ferment. The\nlamentations for their priest; their father and their friend, were\nloud and heartfelt, and the execrations which were poured out on\nhis murderer were deep, and were mingled with unceasing cries of\nvengeance. But, on whom were they to be avenged? Who was the person\nmost likely to have committed so foul a deed?--a murder in every\nrespect so unprovoked, and so perfectly without any apparent object,\ncommitted on an innocent and pious man, who could never have been\nsupposed to have had an enemy! It could have been the work of no common\nrobber, for the few small articles of value which the priest's chamber\ncontained were left untouched. The outrageous conduct of Lewis Grant of\nAuchernach on the evening of the previous night, at the wedding at the\nmiller's--conduct which had already been talked of and discussed with\nno inconsiderable degree of reprobation by every one who had seen or\nheard of it, now came fresh into the minds of all. The vengeful threat\nwhich he seemed to have directed against the innocent and pious Priest\nInnes, in return for his calm and fatherly rebuke, was now remembered\nby every one. The very words had been treasured up by many of them,\nand were repeated from mouth to mouth--\"Old man! look that thou dost\nnot pay dear for thy favour to that new guest of thine!\" Uttered as\nthey had been with the gnashing teeth of frantic passion, and with\nrage and revenge flashing from his eyes, they were too plain to be\nmistaken. High in favour as Auchernach was well known to have been\nwith the pure inhabitants of the priest's dwelling, his violence\nwas very easily explained by the jealousy which it was natural to\nsuppose must have been excited in him by the visible preference which\nhad been that evening given by Priest Innes to his rival, John Dhu\nof Knockando, a circumstance to which his threat had so distinctly\npointed. The grounds of suspicion against him, therefore, were too\nevident--too damning to be for one moment doubted; and he who, two\nshort days before, had been respected and beloved by all who knew him,\nwas at once condemned by every one as a cool, deliberate, sacrilegious\nmurderer. A hue and cry was immediately raised for his apprehension,\nand off ran the whole population, young and old, and of both sexes,\nto secure, or to witness his capture, leaving no one to attend to\nthe afflicted Helen Dunbar but her old woman Janet.\n\nBut strange as it may seem, after the people had been gone for some\nconsiderable time in hot search of the felon, Lewis Grant himself rode\nslowly up to the priest's house. For some reason which he best knew,\nhe came by a road quite different from that which should have brought\nhim directly from Auchernach. He seemed gloomy and thoughtful--his head\nhung down--and as he walked his horse up to the stable and dismounted,\nas he was often wont to do, to put the beast with his own hand into\nthe stall with which it was sufficiently familiar, his eyes glanced\nfurtively in all directions from under the broad bonnet that shaded\nhis brow. Having disposed of the animal, he shut the stable door,\nand, with a downcast look and chastened step, very much unlike that\nwhich had usually carried him over the same fragment of ground, and\nwith a sigh that almost amounted to a groan, he presented himself at\nthe little portal of the house. With a hesitating hand he lifted the\nlatch, and with his limbs trembling beneath him, he moved softly along\nthe passage that led to the priest's parlour. He halted for a moment\nirresolutely at the door of that little chamber where he had passed\nso many happy days and hours. At last he summoned up courage enough\nto open it, and he stood on its threshold with his eyes thrown upon\nthe ground. Silence prevailed within, till it was broken by a deep\nconvulsive sob. He looked up, and he beheld old Janet, with her back\ntowards him, kneeling beside a low couch placed against the opposite\nwall; and upon its pillow, and stretched out at length upon it in a\nstate which left him in doubt whether she was dying, or already dead,\nlay the grief-worn countenance and the form of Helen Dunbar. He was\nstruck dumb by this spectacle. He stood amazed, with the blood running\ncold to his heart. But recollection soon returned to him--his whole\nframe shook with the agitation of his feelings, and, clasping his\nhands in an agony, he rushed forward and threw himself on his knees\nbefore the couch. The humble domestic was terrified to behold him,\nand started aloof at the very sight of him.\n\n\"Helen!--my life!--my love!\" cried he in a frantic tone; \"can I--can\nI, wretch that I am--can I, murderer that I am!--can I have brought\ndeath upon my beloved! Oh, answer me!--gaze not thus silently upon me\nwith that fearful look! Am I then become in thy sight so accursed? Oh,\nmercy!--mercy!--look not so upon me!\"\n\nHe tried to take her hand. His very attempt to do so seemed\ninstantaneously to rouse her from the stupor in which she had hitherto\nlain. She recoiled from him back to the wall as if a serpent had stung\nher, whilst her fixed eyes stared, and her lips moved without sound,\nas if she could find no utterance for the horrors that possessed her.\n\n\"Is there no mercy for me?\" cried Auchernach again. \"Hast thou doomed\nme to destruction? Am I to be spurned by thee as I was by thine uncle\nPriest Innes?\"\n\nA prolonged and piercing shriek was all the reply that his frantic\nappeal received from Helen Dunbar. It was echoed by her old attendant,\nand mingled with loud cries for help. Steps were heard pattering fast\nwithout--Auchernach started up to his feet. The steps came hurrying\nalong the passage--several men burst into the chamber--they stood for\na moment in mute astonishment. Then it was that Helen Dunbar seemed to\nregain all her dormant energies. She sprang from the couch--retreated\nfrom Auchernach--and gazing fearfully at him, with, her head and body\ndrawn back, she pointed wildly towards him, with both her outstretched\narms and hands--and whilst every nerve was convulsed by the torture\nwhich her soul was enduring, she at last found words to speak.\n\n\"Seize him! Seize the murderer of mine uncle!\" she cried in a voice\nwhich rang shrilly and terribly in the ears of all who heard her;\nand altogether exhausted by this extraordinary effort, she would\nhave fallen forward senseless on the floor, had she not been caught\nby some of the bystanders, who carried her in a swoon to the couch\nfrom which she had so recently risen.\n\nAuchernach stood fixed and frozen, as if her words had suddenly\nconverted him into a pillar of ice. He was immediately laid hold of\nby some of the men, who hastily bound him, and he submitted to be\nled away, as if utterly unaware of what had befallen him. His horse\nwas taken from the stable; he was lifted powerless into the saddle,\nand strapped firmly to the animal's back. The crowd of people who had\ncollected, some on horseback, and some on foot, looked upon him with\nhorror, mingled with awe. But no one uttered a word, either of pity\nor of condemnation. He sat erect, it is true, but it was with all\nthe rigidity of a stiffened corpse, for not a feature nor a muscle\nexhibited the smallest sign of consciousness. That night found him,\nafter a wearisome journey, of the scenes or events of which he had\nno knowledge, chained, on a heap of straw, on the floor of one of\nthe deepest dungeon-vaults in the Priory of Pluscarden.\n\nThe simple and unpretending funeral of the good Priest Innes had a\nlarger following than that of any person who had been buried from that\ndistrict for many years, and the silent sorrow which was exhibited by\nall who beheld it, was not only more sincere, but it was likewise far\nmore eloquent than those louder lamentations, and those otherwise more\nobtrusive expressions of woe which had arisen around the bier of many\na departed knight and laird of Strathspey. His corpse was carried the\nsame road as they had taken the wretched man who stood charged with\nhis murder. It was met at some distance from the Priory by its monks\nand their superior, who accompanied the procession, chanting hymns\nbefore the coffin, till it was carried into the church. There the\nservices were performed for the dead, and he was laid to rest in his\nlast narrow house, within the cemetery of that religious establishment,\nwhere the requiem masses that were sung for his soul went faintly, and\nwith anything but consolation, to the ears of the wretched Auchernach\nin his subterranean prison.\n\nMost of the gentry of the neighbouring country were present at\nthese obsequies, and John Dhu Grant was there amongst others. It was\nespecially remarked, that although his house of Knockando lay directly\nin the way between Easter Duthel and the Priory, and about equidistant\nfrom the two places, his desire to show respect to the memory of the\ndeceased was so great that he appeared at the priest's house early on\nthe morning of the funeral, and rode with the procession all the way\nto the place of interment. He, moreover, took a very prominent part\nin the whole ceremonial. From these pregnant signs the good people\nnaturally argued that there had been a gross mistake in the belief\nthat had hitherto so currently prevailed as to which of the rival\nlairds had been really most favoured by Helen Dunbar and her uncle;\nand the wiser gossips now shook their heads, and looked forward to the\ntime when John Dhu Grant would probably dry up the orphan's tears,\nand establish her in the arm-chair at the comfortable fireside of\nKnockando. The laird himself never did nor said anything which might\nhave contradicted any such supposition; on the contrary, he always\nspoke and acted as if it was tolerably well-founded.\n\nA good many days passed away after the loss of her uncle, before\nthe tide of Helen's grief had gushed from her eyes in sufficient\nabundance to afford any relief to her deep affliction. Many were\nthe kind hearts that came to condole with her, but some of her more\nintimate friends of her own sex only had as yet been admitted to\nher presence to share her sorrows. John Dhu Grant had made repeated\njourneys to call at the house, but his urgent entreaties for admission\nhad been always met by courteous refusals. He came at length one day,\nand as he stated that he was the bearer of an especial message from the\nLord Prior of Pluscarden, Helen could no longer decline giving him an\naudience. She received him, however, not only in the presence of old\nJanet, whose long services in the priest's house had given her most\nof the privileges and indulgences of an old friend, but also in that\nof an elderly matron, who had kindly agreed to spend some time with\nher to cheer her loneliness. You will not be surprised when I tell\nyou that Helen was deeply affected and much agitated when the laird\nentered. After she was somewhat composed, and the first preliminary\ncivilities were interchanged,--\n\n\"I come, lady, from the Lord Prior of Pluscarden,\" said Knockando,\n\"and I am the bearer of a message to know, with all due respect and\ngodly greeting, on his part, whether thou art as yet sufficiently\nrestored to be able to undertake a journey to the Priory, that thou\nmayest give evidence against him who now lieth in a dungeon there,\ncharged with the crime of the most sacrilegious murder of thine uncle,\nPriest Innes?\"\n\n\"I beseech thee, sir,\" said Helen, much affected, and with a trembling\nand scarcely audible voice, \"I beseech thee to tell the reverend\nfather, that I do, with all humility, abide his command, and that\nwhen he shall see fit to demand my presence, I shall be ready to obey.\"\n\n\"I doubt not that thou art by this time most eager to see vengeance\nfall speedily upon the foul murderer,\" said Knockando.\n\n\"Alas! no vengeance can restore him to me whom I have lost,\" said\nHelen, bursting into a flood of tears.\n\n\"But his blood crieth out for vengeance, and it lieth with thee to\nsee it done upon the murderer,\" said Knockando.\n\n\"When the Lord Prior calleth for me, I shall speak the truth, and let\nvengeance rest with that Almighty Being who alone beheld the cruel\ndeed!\" said Helen, throwing her eyes upwards as if secretly appealing\nto Heaven. \"As for me, I can but weep for him that is gone, and pray\nto have that Christian feeling supplied to me which may enable me to\nforgive even--to forgive even his murderer.\"\n\n\"Forgive his murderer!\" cried Knockando, with a strange and wild\nexpression. \"Canst thou indeed think that thou mayest yet ever\nbe brought to forgive him? But no! no! no!\" continued he calmly,\nand with his usual cold manner and unmoved countenance, \"it cannot\nsurely be that thou couldst ever bring thyself to save the monster\nwho could allow one passing word of just reproof to wipe out so many\nyears of kind and hospitable intercourse, and who could revenge it\nby so barbarous and unheard of a murder.\"\n\n\"I said forgive, not save,\" replied Helen, in a half choked voice. \"The\nlaws of God and of man alike require that the murderer should die;\nand I shall never flinch from the dreadful but imperious duty which\nnow devolves upon me, to see that justice is done upon the guilty\nperson. But our blessed Saviour hath taught me to forgive even him;\nand ere he be called on to expiate his crime on earth, may the Holy\nVirgin yield me strength to pray sincerely for his repentance, so\nthat his unhappy soul may be assoilzied from an eternity of torment.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Knockando, with a recurrence of that wildness\nof expression which he had already exhibited, \"canst thou even\ncontemplate so much as this regarding a wretch, who, lighting down\nlike some nocturnal fiend upon the sacred person of thine uncle, and,\nreckless of the emblem of Christ which lay upon his bosom\"----\n\n\"Ha!\" exclaimed Helen, suddenly moved as the horrors of the spectacle\nshe had witnessed were thus so rashly and so rudely recalled to her\nrecollection by this ill-timed speech. \"What saidst thou?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" continued Knockando, \"I wonder not that thou shouldst start\nthus, as I stir up thy remembrance of the bloody and most inhuman\nact. Methinks thou wilt hardly now deny me that the man who could\nput aside the holy image of Christ, that he might plunge his dirk\ninto the innocent throat of his sacred servant, must not only die\nthe death of a felon, but that he can never hope for mercy from Him\nwhose blessed emblem he hath outraged.\"\n\n\"Give me air! give me air!\" cried Helen faintly, as she motioned to\nher companions to open the lattice; and then falling back into the\ncouch, she covered her face with both her hands, and was seized with\na long hysterical fit of laughter, followed by a convulsive shudder,\nfrom which she was relieved by a deluge of tears.\n\n\"This is no scene for a stranger to witness,\" said the lady who sat\nwith her, \"nor is the subject which thou hast chosen to dwell on so\ncircumstantially by any means suited to the weak state of this poor\nsufferer. I must entreat of thee to withdraw.\"\n\n\"Madam,\" said Knockando coolly, \"I am no stranger. I am here as the\nmessenger of the Lord Prior, and as the friend of the deceased. As\nthat friend to whom the good Priest Innes did manifest his last most\nopen act of confidence. I am here, as it were, by his posthumous\nauthority, as the avenger of his foul murder, and as the protector\nof his desolate orphan niece; so that hardly even might the orders\nof the lady herself induce me to quit this apartment whilst my duty\nmay tell me that I ought to remain.\"\n\n\"Thine arm, Janet,\" said Helen feebly; and, with the old woman's\nsupport, she slowly arose and moved towards the door.\n\n\"Stay, stay, I beseech thee, my beloved Helen!\" cried Knockando,\neagerly rising to follow her. \"Stay, I entreat thee, or say at least\nwhen I may return to offer thee my protection, that legitimate\nprotection which thine uncle authorised me to yield thee, that\nsubstantial protection which can alone be supplied by him who hath\nthe rights and the affection of a husband.\"\n\n\"A husband!\" cried Helen, turning suddenly round and gazing wildly\nat him,--\"Husband!\" and being again seized with the same involuntary\nlaugh, she was hurried away up stairs to her chamber by the women.\n\nKnockando then slowly left the apartment, called for his horse,\nand departed.\n\nHelen Dunbar kept her bed all next day, and no one was admitted to\nher chamber but the lady I have mentioned, and her old and faithful\nJanet. With these she had long, deep, and private talk regarding all\nthat had passed the previous day. On the ensuing morning the Laird of\nKnockando again came to the house. Janet was immediately despatched\nto refuse him admittance. He now came, he said, with a letter from\nthe Lord Prior of Pluscarden, which he trusted would be a passport\nfor him to the lady's presence. Leaving him below, Janet carried it up\nstairs to her mistress. It was tied with a piece of black silk ribbon,\nbut it had no seal. It ran in these terms:--\n\n\n\"To Helen Dunbar, these,--It being our will and pleasure that\nthe vengeance with the which it doth behoove us to visit Lewis\nGrant of Auchernach, the murderer of thine uncle, Priest Innes,\nshall no longer tarry, but descend quickly upon his guilty head,\nso that the air of our sacred precincts may cease to be poisoned by\nthe foul breath of his life, we do now, by these presents, call upon\nthee to appear before us here on Tuesday next at noon, to give thy\ntestimony against him. And as the way hither is long and lonely, we\ndo further give thee our fatherly advice to avail thyself of the kind\noffer about to be made thee by the bearer of this, our friend, that\nworthy gentleman, John Grant of Knockando, who promises to shorten\nthy travel by lodging thee in his house on the previous night, and\nto guard thee hither. And so we greet thee with our holy blessing.\n\n    \"Duncanus Prior. Plus.\"\n\n\nHelen was much agitated by the perusal of this letter, but after a\nlittle consultation, her friend took it upon herself to go down to\ntell Knockando that the Prior's summons should be obeyed; but that the\nlaird's offer of protection and hospitality were with all civility\ndeclined. After much vain solicitation on his part, Knockando left\nthe house with great unwillingness.\n\nHe had not been gone an hour when the tramping of a horse again\nsounded in their ears.\n\n\"Holy Virgin!\" exclaimed Janet, as she looked from the lattice to\nascertain who this new visitor might be. \"As I hope to be saved,\nit is the lay brother who rides on the Lord Prior's errands. What\ncan he want, I wonder?\"\n\nJanet hastened down, and soon returned.\n\n\"He came the short way over the hills with it,\" said Janet, putting\nanother letter into Helen's hands.\n\nIt bore the large seal of the priory over the black silk ribbon by\nwhich it was bound.\n\n\"What can this mean?\" said Helen, as with trembling hands she\napplied the shears to divide the ribbon. \"Again a letter from the\nLord Prior! But, as I live, in a very different, fairer, and more\nclerk-like hand, and, methinks, in better terms.\"\n\n\n\"To our much afflicted and much beloved daughter Helen Dunbar--these:\n\n\"Deeply do we and all our brethren grieve for thy cruel affliction. By\nourselves, or our sub-prior, we should have ere this visited thee\nwith heavenly comfort, had not weighty affairs hindered. But deem not\nthyself desolate; for we do hold that our brother, thy much beloved\nand greatly lamented uncle, the umquhile Priest Innes (whom God\nassoilzie!) hath left thee to our guardianship, and, as a daughter\nof the Church, thou shalt be watched with our especial care. We have\nmade it known to all, that, but further delay, we shall, God willing,\nproceed on Wednesday next, after the hour of tierce, to look earnestly\ninto the mysterious case of the good priest's wicked and sacrilegious\nslaughter. We beseech thee, therefore, to do thy best, to render\nthyself at the priory on the forecoming day, that, assured of the best\nhospitality that we can provide for thee, thou mayest rest and prepare\nthee for the trial of the following morrow. Till then we commend\nthee to the care of God, the blessed Virgin, and Holy Saint Andrew;\nand with this, our consolatory benediction, we bid thee farewell.\n\n    \"Duncanus,\n        \"Monach. Ordinis, Vallis Caulium, Plus. Prior.\"\n\n\n\"Haste thee, good Janet,\" said Helen Dunbar, after she had read the\nprior's letter; \"haste thee, and see that the honest lay-brother and\nhis beast be well looked to for this night.\"\n\nLeft to themselves, the ladies compared and canvassed the two letters,\none of which was so evidently a forgery. They had little difficulty\nin determining which was the true one. After some consultation,\nHelen proceeded to pen a proper answer to that which she had last\nreceived; and having sent orders to old James to get his steed ready,\nshe despatched him with it forthwith by that short route over the\nhills which the lay-brother had taken to bring the prior's letter\nto her. And a few lines of reply, which James brought her next day\nfrom the reverend father himself, assured her of the safe delivery\nof her communication.\n\nDuring the interval which elapsed before the day on which she was\nto set out for Pluscarden, the Laird of Knockando made two more\nineffectual attempts to gain admittance to Helen, and on both of\nthese occasions he sent her urgent messages to come to his house on\nher way, and to allow him to be her escort on the journey. To these\ncourteous but resolute refusals were given by the matron, who was\nthen her companion, and on both occasions Knockando left the house\nwith a degree of disappointment and mortification which he could not\naltogether conceal.\n\nThe day fixed for her journey at last arrived. Aware of the stern\nnecessity that existed of arming herself with fortitude to undergo all\nthat she had to encounter, she kneeled down, and fervently prayed to\nGod and to the Virgin to aid and to support her. She arose with the\nconscious conviction that her prayers had been heard, and she met\nher friend with a quiet and composed countenance. As that lady and\nJanet were to be the companions of her journey, she calmly issued\nher directions for getting ready the animals which were destined to\ncarry them. The table was already spread for their morning's meal,\nwhen suddenly a loud trampling of horses was heard, and ere they were\naware, they saw through the casements that the house was surrounded by\nabout a dozen of mounted men-at-arms. Before they had time to recover\nfrom their astonishment, their leader threw himself from his saddle,\nand entered the house and the apartment.\n\n\"Knockando!\" cried the ladies in astonishment and alarm.\n\n\"Fear nothing,\" said John Dhu Grant, advancing and bowing with his\nusual imperturbable manner. \"I have merely ridden up hither with a\nhandful of brave fellows to guard thee. Ha!--what's this?\" continued\nhe, surveying the ample table which was liberally spread with\ntrenchers, flagons, and drinking cups, and provisions of all kinds\nmuch beyond what the moderate wants of the two ladies could have\nrequired. \"It was kind, indeed, to be thus hospitably prepared for\nour coming. But think not, I pray thee, of my fellows without there,\nfor their hound-like stomachs are already provisioned for the day's\ntoil. As for myself, indeed, I shall make bold to benefit by thy\nkindness to me, for I rarely eat at so early an hour as my spearmen\ndo.\"\n\n\"John Grant of Knockando,\" said Helen Dunbar, drawing herself up\nwith an effort to summon all her resolution, and speaking with great\ndetermination, \"I lack not thine aid, and I reject it as insulting to\nme! And touching my hospitality, I tell thee that it is to be given\nsolely to such as it may please me to bestow it upon--not taken,\nas thou wouldst have it, by a masterful hand. That board was never\nspread for thee, and thou shalt never partake of it with my good will!\"\n\n\"These are strong and hard words, lady,\" said Knockando, coolly seating\nhimself; \"they are hard, yea, and sharp too--harder and sharper,\nmethinks, than anything that I have unconsciously done to offend\nthee may well have merited. Hadst thou not better unsay them? if not\nwith thy lips, at least by silently seating thyself here beside me,\nto do me the honours of the table.\"\n\n\"Again I tell thee, that table was never spread for thee!\" said Helen\nfirmly. \"Begone, then! and leave, it untouched for me, and for such\nother guests as I may judge to be most fit to seat themselves there.\"\n\n\"Tush, tush, lady!\" said Knockando frigidly. \"The good old Priest\nInnes never meant that this table should be spread for thee without\nmy sitting at it with thee. That very last night we passed together,\nthe worthy man told me that he should leave thee to me as a legacy\ntogether with all his little means. So, lady, I have e'en come to\nclaim thee, and I have brought these rough but staunch spearmen\nwith me, that we may guard thee safely to Knockando as we would a\ntreasure. There a priest waits to make thee even yet more securely\nmine own. After which we shall ride together, if it shall so please,\nthee, to Pluscarden, that we may draw down the blessing of holy\nmother Church upon our union, by seeing condign punishment swiftly\ndone on the murderer who now lieth there. Come, lady! break thy fast,\nI pray thee, with what haste thou mayest, for thy palfrey waits by\nthis time. Ha! what stir is that among my people?\"\n\n\"Thanks! thanks to Heaven, they come at last!\" cried Helen, clasping\nher hands together with fervour.\n\n\"Who comes?\" said Knockando, turning to the lattice, and growing deadly\npale as he looked out. \"What! the sub-prior of Pluscarden!--ha! and the\nbailie too with him, and a strong force of mounted men-at-arms! What\nmeans all this?\"\n\nThe small plump of men who had come with Knockando were smothered up,\nas it were, by the long train of horsemen who now filed up and crowded\nthe confined space formed by the modest front of the priest's manse,\nand the humble out-buildings which were attached to it at right\nangles. The heads of the houses of Cistertian monks, of which the\nbrethren of Vallis Caulium were but a sect, seldom travelled in later\ntimes without all those external emblems of religious pomp which their\nrules allowed them. Upon the present occasion, the sub-prior and his\npalfrey were both arrayed in all the trappings to which his official\ndignity entitled him. Before him appeared a monk bearing a tall and\nsplendidly gilded crucifix, that glittered in the morning sun, and\nsome dozen of the brotherhood came riding after him, two and two,\nwith their white cassocks and their scapularies covered by the black\ngowns in which they usually went abroad. These carried banners,\ncharged with the arms of the Priory--the figure of Saint Andrew\ntheir patron saint--and various other devices. And a strong body of\nmen-at-arms, who, as belonging to the regality attached to the Priory,\nowed service to it as vassals, preceded and followed the procession,\nunder the orders of the seneschal or bailie. A monk dismounted to\nhold the stirrup of the sub-prior as he alighted at the door, and\nsinging a cross in the air, the holy father forthwith entered.\n\n\"The blessing of Saint Andrew be upon this house!\" said he, as he\nstepped over the threshold. \"Benedicite, my child of sorrow!\" continued\nhe, as he entered the apartment. \"Soh!--the Laird of Knockando here! I\nthought as much. How earnest thou, false and lying knave, to use\nthe sacred name, and to forge the sign-manual of our most reverend\nLord Prior, to further thine own vile frauds against this innocent\ndaughter of the church? Surrender thyself forthwith into the hands\nof this our bailie, that he may take thee prisoner to Pluscarden,\nwhere thy delicts may be duly dealt with.\"\n\n\"What ho, there, men-at-arms!\" cried the bailie aloud.\n\nIn an instant the followers of Knockando were disarmed, and the\napartment being filled with the men-at-arms belonging to the Church,\nKnockando was made prisoner, led out, and bound upon his horse.\n\n\"It was well, daughter, that the blessed Virgin gave thee wit to\ndiscover and to foil the base tricks of this false man,\" said the\nsub-prior.\n\n\"Nay, reverend father, but rather let me say, thanks be to the Virgin,\nand to thy timely succour,\" replied Helen. \"One moment later, and\nmy fate had been sealed. But will it please thee to partake of our\nhumble Highland fare? and whilst thou dost condescend to taste of\nthe poor refreshment we have ventured to provide for thee, we women,\nas beseems us, will withdraw.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, fair daughter!\" replied the sub-prior, \"thou shalt by\nno means depart. Were it a meal, indeed, we might see fit rigidly\nto insist upon our rule. But we shall but taste thy viands, and put\nour lips to thy wine-cup for mere courtesy's sake. Therefore disturb\nthyself not. Marry, as we broke our fast scarcely two hours since\nbefore leaving Inverallan, where we sojourned last night, we can have\nbut small appetite now. Yet thy board looketh well, and this upland\nair of thine, in truth, is sharp and stimulating; and, moreover, we\nshould never refuse to partake--moderately I mean--of the blessings\nwhich are furnished to us by a bountiful Providence, yea, even when\nthey are set forth on a table spread, as thine may be said to be,\nin the wilderness.\"\n\nSaying so, the good sub-prior seated himself, and set an example to the\nrest by cutting off and placing on his own trencher the leg and wing\nof a large turkey, relished it with some reasonably large slices of\nbacon, and filled himself a cup of wine from a flagon on the table,\nadding as much of nature's fluid to it as might, with due safety\nto his conscience, enable him to call it wine and water. The rest\nof the holy fraternity were not slack in imitating their superior;\nand after he had thus shown how much the deeds of the Church were\nbetter than its promises, by doing much more justice to the provisions\nthan his preface had led his entertainer to hope for, Helen and her\ncompanions were mounted on their palfreys, and the sub-prior, and his\nmonks and their escort, having got into their saddles, the prisoner\nwas sent on before them well guarded, and they proceeded on their\nway. The sight of the Priory of Pluscarden, as its picturesque ruins\nnow prove, was like that of all the monasteries of the same order,\nbeautifully retired, lying at the foot of the hills that abruptly bound\nthe northern side of its broad valley. It was surrounded by a square\ninclosure of many acres, fenced in by a thick and high wall of masonry,\nthe remains of which are still visible. As the day was departing,\nthe setting sun that shed its light athwart the motionless foliage\nof those woods that hung on the face of the hills behind the Priory,\nand gilded the proud pinnacles of the building, which arose from the\ntall grove in the middle of the large area I have described, threw a\nlast ray of illumination on the glittering crucifix as the long dark\nline of the procession wound under the deep arch of the outer gate,\nand as it threaded its way among the small gardens into which the\narea was parcelled out for the several members of the fraternity. By\nthe kind and hospitable care of the Lord Prior the ladies were soon\nsafely and comfortably lodged in one of the detached buildings on\nthe outside of the wall inclosing the precincts of the Priory, whilst\nthe Laird of Knockando was thrown, a solitary prisoner, into one of\nthe subterranean dungeon vaults within.\n\nHelen Dunbar was that night blessed with sweet and refreshing rest\nafter the fatiguing journey of the previous day. As her gentle\nspirit began to return to her towards morning from that world of\nunconsciousness where it had been laid by the profoundness of her\nsleep, pleasing visions floated over her pillow. The saint-like\nfigure of her venerable uncle, surrounded by a resplendent glory,\nhovered over her, and smiled upon her from above. Saint Andrew then\nappeared beside him, and bore him slowly upwards, till both gradually\nmelted from her sight amidst a flood of light in the upper regions\nof the sky. She awaked in a transport of delight to which her bosom\nhad been for some time a stranger. She arose and attired herself in\nthe sad and simple habit of mourning which she wore, and she threw\nherself on her knees to ask again for aid from above in the trying\ncircumstances in which she was placed; and then, halving partaken of\nthe refreshment which was liberally provided for her and her companions\nby the hospitable orders of the prior, she sat patiently waiting for\nthe moment when she should be summoned to attend the chapter.\n\nThe brethren of the Priory had no sooner performed the tierce,\nas those services were called which took place at nine o'clock\nin the morning, than the convent bell rang to call the chapter to\nassemble. The chapter-house in which this convocation took place was a\nbeautiful Gothic apartment, of about thirty feet in diameter, lighted\nby four large windows, and having its groined roof supported by a\nsingle pillar. Arranged on one side were the seats of the members\nof the holy tribunal. That of the Lord Bishop of the diocese, who\nhad come from his palace at Elgin on purpose to preside over the\ninvestigation which was about to take place, was a high Gothic chair\nraised on several steps. Arrayed in his gorgeous episcopal robes, he\nsat silent and motionless, as if oppressed with the painful subject\nof the inquiry in which he was to be engaged. On the steps where his\nfeet rested, two handsome boys of his choir were seated, one of whom\nheld his mitre and the other his crosier. On his right sat the Prior,\nand on his left the Sub-Prior of Pluscarden, attired in their full\ncanonicals, and the other chairs on both sides were filled with those\ndignitaries and brethren who were members of the chapter. The area of\nthe place was crowded by the monks in their flowing white draperies,\ntogether with the lay brothers in their attire, the extreme interest\nof the case having prevented every one from being absent who was not\nin the sick-list of the infirmary, or occupied with duties from which\nthey dared not to absent themselves. A deep silence prevailed. At last\nthe sound of arms was heard echoing through the lofty aisles of the\nadjacent church, and a body of spearmen, retainers of the monastery,\nheaded by the seneschal, entered, guarding in two prisoners.\n\nOne of these was the wretched Laird of Auchernach, who appeared with\nhis arms loaded with heavy chains. The captivity which his body had\nendured in his dungeon, and the mental agony which he had undergone,\nhad manifestly done sad havoc upon him. He took up the position\nassigned to him by the seneschal with a subdued yet indifferent air, as\nif the stream of his life had been poisoned, and that he cared not how\nsoon he should now be called upon to pour out its last bitter dregs.\n\nThe black visage of the Laird of Knockando, who was the other prisoner,\nseemed also to have undergone a considerable change since the morning\nof the preceding day. It was haggard, and his eyes were bloodshot,\nas if he had had but little repose during the night. There was a\ncertain expression of mental uneasiness about it, which his habitual\nair of cold and motionless placidity could not altogether conceal. The\ntwo prisoners were placed near to each other in a position a little\nto one side, and at some distance in front of the tribunal that was\nabout to investigate their respective cases.\n\n\"John Grant of Knockando,\" said the Bishop, whilst a subdued hush\nran round among the spectators, \"thou hast been brought hither as\na prisoner, charged upon very undoubted evidence of having most\nfeloniously forged the sign-manual of the reverend superior of this\nholy priory, and this for the base purpose of wickedly circumventing\nan innocent orphan maiden, whom, for her pious uncle's sake, we have\nbeen pleased to take under the especial protection of our holy mother\nChurch. But as thy delict is one with which we as churchmen may deal\nin our own good time, we shall for the present postpone and continue\nthy case, and proceed straightway to our inquiry into the graver,\nand deeper charge touching that crime of a deeper dye, to wit,\nthe most sacrilegious murder of our pious brother the Priest Innes,\nof the which he who now stands on thy left hand is accused,--I mean\nthee, Lewis Grant of Auchernach. But as thou, John Grant of Knockando,\nwert present at the last interview which the murdered man had with his\nsuspected murderer only the night before, where that unjust cause of\noffence would seem to have been taken which whetted the cruel blade\nof the assassin for its purpose, we would first hear what evidence\nthou hast to give upon the matter.\"\n\n\"My Lord Bishop, and you most Reverend Fathers,\" said Knockando, his\neye having brightened up as the speaker had proceeded, and who had\nby this time regained all his wonted coolness and self-possession,\n\"I now stand before this holy tribunal under circumstances the most\ndistressing that can well oppress a human being. I shall at present\npass entirely by those charges which have been made against myself;\nand regarding which I trust I shall afterwards have little difficulty\nin giving ample satisfaction to my venerable accusers. I shall pass\nthese charges by, I say, because I could not, if I were willing, find\nroom in my mind for anything touching myself, filled, as it at this\nmoment is, with the awful and heavy charge made against the unhappy\nman who now stands beside me,--him whom I once called my friend, and\nfor whom, in the weakness of my nature, and in despite of the unjust\noutrage which he did me on a recent occasion, I still cannot help\nbeing agitated by the same friendly anxiety with which I was ever\nmoved on his account. Such being my feelings, I am sure that no one\nwho now heareth me but must pity me, compelled as I thus am to bear\nan unwilling testimony the which, I am aware, must grievously tend\ntowards fixing on him the guilt of one of the most unnatural, cruel,\nand deliberate murders that ever fouled the page of the history of\nman, and that done, too, on the sacred person of a servant of God,\nwith whom the murderer had for long companied in habits of the\nstrictest intimacy, and in whose hospitalities he had so long and\nso often shared. But my duty to mankind,--my duty to this venerable\ntribunal,--and my duty to Heaven, all combine to compel me to speak\nout the truth, which I shall now do as briefly as I can.\n\n\"It is already well known, most Reverend Fathers, that a merry meeting\ntook place at the mill of Duthel on the occasion of the marriage of\nthe miller's daughter. There all who were present can bear testimony,\nthat Lewis Grant of Auchernach did, without any cause of provocation on\nmy part--though it may perhaps be well enough urged in his exculpation,\nthat the violence he did me arose from jealousy because Helen Dunbar\ntook greater pleasure in my converse than in his--yet certain it is\nthat then and there he did most grievously assault me at unawares. The\ngood Priest Innes, who was my most especial friend, and who is now,\nalas! so much lamented by me, bestowed a quiet word of reproof on\nthe enraged Auchernach, such as a pastor or a father might have well\ngiven upon such an occasion. But instead of taking his rebuke with\nthat humble submission with the which it doth alway become a layman to\nreceive the admonitions of the Church, Auchernach in the ears of all\nuttered fearful denunciations against the good old man as he was in\nthe act of leaving the place, leaning, as he was often compelled by\nhis infirmities to do, upon the stay of this arm of mine. It sorely\nwounds my heart to be thus forced to repeat the very words which\nhe used, seeing that they are of themselves enow to condemn him;\nbut if I should fail of so doing, there is not a person of any age\nor sex who was present that night who could not repeat them. They\nwere these,--'Old man! look that thou dost not pay dear for thy\nfavour to that new guest of thine!' Thus carrying his bitter and\nmost unjust rage from me to the good priest, who was about to show\nme that hospitality which, for that night at least, had been denied\nto himself. He could have made no successful attempt against the\ngood man that night, for I was in the house to act, under Heaven,\nas his shield from all harm. But the very next night, when I was no\nlonger there--would I had!--to defend him, the murderer comes, and\"----\n\n\"Thou hast now gone as far as thy knowledge as an eye or ear-witness\nmay bear thee, Knockando,\" said the Bishop. \"When the subject of\nthy testimony hath been taken down, our brother the sub-prior may go\nforth to bring in the lady who is our next evidence.\"\n\nIn obedience to the Bishop's order, the sub-prior withdrew, and soon\nafterwards returned, ushering in Helen Dunbar. As she entered, she\nwas so overcome by the feelings naturally excited by her situation,\nat well as by the solemn and impressive spectacle before her, that she\ndid not very well know how she found herself seated in the chair that\nwas placed for her a little to one side, and at such an angle to those\nof the members of the chapter, so as to permit a full stream of light\nto fall upon her from a window. Her eyes were thrown on the ground,\nand she put up a secret aspiration for aid from Heaven during the\ninterval of silence which the judges charitably allowed to give her\ntime to compose herself.\n\n\"Helen Dunbar!\" said the Bishop, at length slowly addressing her in\na deep-toned voice, but with an encouraging manner; \"thou already\nknowest but too well, and to thine unutterable grief and affliction,\nthat thy uncle, Priest Innes, a godly, and now, it is to be hoped,\na sainted son of the Church, was, upon the night of the twenty-ninth\nday of the last month, most cruelly and barbarously murdered, by\nsome one at present unknown. What canst thou say touching that strong\nsuspicion which doth attach to the prisoner, Lewis Grant of Auchernach,\nwho now standeth yonder?\"\n\n\"My lord,\" said Helen Dunbar, looking fearfully round, whilst every\nfibre of her frame seemed to quiver with agitation, as she caught\nher first view of the wasted form and countenance of the unfortunate\nprisoner, and met his eye, which was now filled with a flitting fire\nof anxiety which it had not before exhibited. But she seemed yet\nmore affected by the glance of the Laird of Knockando, who stood\nbeside him. It quite overcame her for some moments. \"My lord!--my\nlord! I--I\"----\n\n\"Take thine own time, daughter!\" said the Bishop cheerily; \"and begin,\nif it so pleaseth thee, with thy recollection of what befell at the\nwedding at the mill of Duthel. The prisoner Auchernach did then and\nthere strike down John Grant of Knockando without cause of provocation,\ndid he not?\"\n\n\"My lord, he did strike down Knockando,\" said Helen; \"but as I\nchanced to watch them standing for some time, as if in talk together,\nI observed their looks; and, were I to judge from what I saw, I\nshould hold that John Grant of Knockando had by his words so chafed\nAuchernach, and worked upon his dormant ire, as to fret it into the\nsudden outburst of that flame, the which blazed forth so openly to\nthe senses of all who were then present.\"\n\n\"Was he not rebuked by the good priest, thine uncle, for the outrage\nof which he was then guilty?\" demanded the Bishop.\n\n\"He was, my lord,\" replied Helen; \"and in a sterner tone than he had\never heard the priest use before. But ere mine uncle went to bed, on\nthe evening of that very night in which he was murdered, these ears\ndid privately hear him express a doubt whether he might not have been\ntoo hasty in judging him, and he then uttered a fervent ejaculation\nto Heaven for pardon if he had so erred.\"\n\n\"Heard ye no threat from the lips of Auchernach against thine\nuncle?\" demanded the Bishop.\n\n\"I did hear words which in mine agitation at the time I could not\nwell interpret,\" said Helen. \"After the murder of mine uncle, I did,\nin my distraction, recall and connect these words with the cruel deed\nwhich had so swiftly followed them. But certain circumstances did\nafterwards occur to satisfy me that the words,--'Old man! look that\nthou dost not pay dear for thy favour to that new guest of thine!' were\nmeant by Auchernach as a friendly warning, and not as a threat.\"\n\n\"Against whom then dost thou believe that Auchernach's friendly\nwarning was given? if so thou judgest it to be,\" said the Bishop.\n\n\"Against him who now standeth beside the accused,\" said Helen Dunbar;\nand rising from her chair as she said so, she turned round, and\ndrawing herself up to her full height, she regarded the individual she\nwas addressing with a firm and resolute look, and added in a clear,\ndistinct, and solemn voice,--\"The warning of Auchernach was kindly\nmeant, and would to the holy saints that it had been taken as it\nwas intended! The warning of Auchernach was meant to guard against\nthe false arts of John Dhu Grant of Knockando there, whom I do here\nfearlessly accuse as the real murderer of mine uncle!\"\n\nThe murmurs of astonishment which ran through the assemblage at\nthis most unlooked for accusation may easily be imagined, as well\nas the change that took place on the respective countenances of the\ntwo prisoners.\n\n\"My guardian angel!\" cried Auchernach, clasping his hands fervently,\nand looking tenderly and gratefully towards Helen, his face suddenly\nflushed with joy.\n\n\"Some deep conspiracy against me,\" murmured Knockando, his countenance\nchanging alternately from the deadly white of guilty fear to the\nblack expression of fiend-like ferocity. \"A deep compact between the\nmurderer and his paramour! Where can the veriest shadow of proof be\nfound against my perfect innocence of this foul deed?\"\n\n\"Let the sacred dignity of our tribunal be respected!\" said the Bishop\nsternly; \"and let all such unseemly interruptions cease. Proceed\nmaiden! proceed to offer to us the testimony on which thou art bold\nenough to make so strange and so determined an accusation.\"\n\n\"My lord,\" said Helen, still standing, and betraying deep agitation,\nas in her modest and respectful address to the Bishop she recalled\nthe appalling circumstances; \"I was the first person who entered mine\nuncle's apartment on the morning which followed the fatal night of his\nmurder. When I did approach me to the bed I fancied that he slept;\nfor, as was not uncommon with him, he lay with the blessed crucifix\nover his bosom. I lifted the holy emblem in my left hand, whilst with\nmy right I did remove the bed-clothes from his chin--when--when--when\nbeholding, as I did, the bloody work which had been done upon him,\nI fell backwards on the floor in a swoon, and so firmly did I grasp\nthe crucifix to my bosom in mine unconscious agony, that those who\ncame to mine aid, called thither by my scream, found it so placed,\nand it was carried with me to mine own apartment, and I so found it\nwhen my senses were restored to me. That the crucifix had ever lain\nthat night upon mine uncle's breast at all, therefore, could have been\nknown only to myself alone; and to him who, during that fatal night,\nremoved it from his bosom for the purpose of doing the murder on him,\nand who replaced it there after he had wrought the cruel deed.\"\n\n\"But how can this touch the Laird of Knockando?\" demanded the Bishop\nearnestly.\n\n\"My lord,\" said Helen, \"some days after the murder, the Laird of\nKnockando did force himself into my presence, under the false pretence\nof bearing a message from the reverend lord prior. His object seemed to\nbe to whet my vengeance against the person who then lay accused of the\nmurder of mine uncle. It was then that, in the presence of my friend\nand my servant, who are both now within the call of this tribunal,\nprepared to support this my testimony, then it was, I say, that he\nused expressions, the which were, for greater security, taken down\nafter he was gone,--'The wretch,' said he, 'The wretch who, lighting\ndown like some nocturnal fiend upon the sacred person of thine uncle,\nand, reckless of the holy emblem of Christ which lay upon his bosom,\ncould put it aside, that he might plunge his dirk into the innocent\nthroat of his sacred servant, must not only die the death of a felon,\nbut he can never hope for mercy from Him whose blessed emblem he\nhath outraged.' None but the murderer could have so circumstantially\ndescribed this most barbarous deed. John Dhu Grant of Knockando\ndid so describe it. Therefore is John Dhu Grant of Knockando the\nmurderer! On his head the blood of my murdered uncle doth loudly call\nfor that justice which it doth behoove man to do upon it. And may He\nthat died for us all, grant that mercy hereafter to his guilty soul\nwhich his own relentless sentence would have denied to another.\"\n\nAs Helen Dunbar finished speaking, she fell back into her chair,\nexhausted by her exertion to fulfil that duty which she had wound up\nher mind to discharge. The murderer gasped for breath as if he was\nundergoing suffocation; and his eyes started from their sockets with\nthe terrors which now overwhelmed him. The murmurs which burst from\nthose who were present being checked by the seneschal of the court, the\nBishop ordered Helen's servants, James and Janet, and also her friend,\nto be all three severally called. Each of them were examined. The\nmembers of the chapter conferred together for a few minutes apart;\nand after they had resumed their seats on the tribunal, a death-like\nsilence prevailed, and the Bishop putting on his mitre, and leaning\non his crosier, began thus to speak:--\n\n\"After the full and patient probing which we have given to this\nmost mysterious case, it must be clear to all men who do now hear\nus, that this holy tribunal hath before it, as its bounden duty,\nto dismiss Lewis Grant of Auchernach, discharging him as free from\nall taint or suspicion of any participation whatsoever in the foul\nand barbarous murder of our pious brother, Priest Innes. And as it\nis beyond our power to shut our eyes to the miraculous proof which\nthe Almighty in his wisdom hath caused the very murderer himself to\nbear towards his own proper condemnation, we have no choice left but\nto direct our bailie, the which we now hereby do, forthwith to return\nJohn Dhu Grant of Knockando to the dungeon whence he was taken, thence\nto remove him by to-morrow's earliest sun, and to convey him, under a\nstrong guard of our men-at-arms, to Elgin, there to be delivered into\nthe hands of the king's sheriff, that he may take measures to see that\nthe prisoner be submitted to the knowledge of an assize, to be by it\nclenged or fouled of the crime laid to his charge, as the evidence\nlaid before it may determine. This we do without all prejudice to our\nown claims to the full right of pit and gallows which belongeth to us;\nbut because this crime of murder, when not fresh and redhanded, being\nto be considered as more especially one of the pleas of the Crown,\nwe do think it more seemly to leave it to the judges of the King's\nGrace to execute justice upon the murderer.\"\n\nThe Laird of Knockando's countenance was all this time working\nlike that of a fiend, especially whilst the Bishop was delivering\nthis appalling judgment against him. He had no sooner heard it to\nan end, than, putting his hand into his bosom, he plucked forth a\nconcealed dirk--that very weapon with which he had murdered the good\nPriest Innes. He raised it aloft. Helen saw it glancing in the air,\nand uttered a piercing shriek that rang in the groined roof of the\nchapter-house. It saved her lover; for, as Knockando brought it down,\naimed with a desperate plunge at the heart of his rival, his intended\nvictim threw his body back, and so he most wonderfully escaped from\nits fatal blade. But it fell not innocuous--it cleft the very skull\nof a wretched lay-brother, who sat with his tablets below noting\ndown the minutes of the procedure, and the man dropped lifeless upon\nthe pavement. The perpetrator of this second murder was seized and\npinioned, and, being instantly tried red-handed as he was--his guilt\nwas established--he was carried out for shrift--confessed that his\nfirst crime was done for the wicked purpose of revenging himself\nagainst Auchernach by fixing upon him the guilt of the murder. After\nwhich the convent-bell tolled dismally. A long procession of monks\nchanting a hymn, followed by the criminal and the bourreau, guarded\nby the seneschal and his men-at-arms was seen winding from the gate of\nthe Priory, and after a few short moments of prayer, he was forthwith\nexecuted, without further mercy, on the gallow-hill.\n\nI need not tell you that the Laird of Auchernach performed the part\nof protector to Helen Dunbar during her homeward journey, and that so\nsoon as the days of mourning for her murdered uncle were fulfilled,\nhe received from her the right to act as her protector throughout the\nlonger journey of life. And if he had ever been supposed to be apt,\nwhen provoked on certain occasions, to yield too hastily to that\nindignation which chanced to be excited within him, the recollection\nof the terrible events which I have narrated to you had the effect\nof arming him ever afterwards with a degree of control over himself\nwhich few men since his time have been known to possess.\n\n\n\n                                THE END.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNOTES\n\n\n[1] Cabar Fiadh, the head of the wild deer, the crest of the clan\nMacKenzie.\n\n[2] Fern.\n\n[3] Good people, the propitiatory name usually given by the\nsuperstitious peasants to the fairies.\n\n[4] Strength.\n\n[5] A dwelling only occupied in summer whilst feeding the cattle on\nthe highest hill-grazings. The same word as the Swiss chalet.\n\n[6] Strange.","title":"Highland Legends","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":147556}