{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_59202/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_59202","id":"gutenberg_59202","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/59202","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Adventure","Category: British Literature","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Highlands (Scotland) -- Fiction","Legends -- Scotland"],"text":"Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by The\nInternet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                               LEGENDARY\n                        TALES OF THE HIGHLANDS.\n\n                              A SEQUEL TO\n                           HIGHLAND RAMBLES.\n\n\n                                   BY\n                     Sir THOMAS DICK LAUDER, Bart.\n\n            AUTHOR OF \"LOCHANDHU,\" \"THE WOLFE OF BADENOCH,\"\n                        \"THE MORAY FLOODS,\" ETC.\n\n\n                           IN THREE VOLUMES.\n\n                              VOLUME III.\n\n\n                                LONDON:\n                       HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,\n                       GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.\n                              M.DCCC.XLI.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS OF THE THIRD VOLUME.\n\n\n                                                           PAGE\n\n    THE LEGEND OF SERJEANT JOHN SMITH'S ADVENTURES,           1\n\n    COMFORTS OF A LONDON CLUB-HOUSE,                         67\n\n    THE LEGEND, &c.--Continued,                              73\n\n    CRUELTY OF THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND AFTER THE BATTLE\n    OF CULLODEN,                                            189\n\n    ALISTER SHAW OF INCHRORY,                               193\n\n    DRUM-HEAD COURT-MARTIAL AND SENTENCE ON INCHRORY,       210\n\n    THE LEGEND OF THE VISION OF CAMPBELL OF INVERAWE,       212\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS.\n\n\n    JOHN SMITH EXHIBITS MILITARY GENIUS IN DEFENCE OF\n    THE KILLOGIE,                                            46\n\n    JOHN SMITH UNDER THE TURF,                              145\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHIGHLAND RAMBLES.\n\nTHE LEGEND OF SERJEANT JOHN SMITH'S ADVENTURES.\n\n\nTo understand my story the better, gentlemen, you must yemaygine\nto yourselves a snug well-doing Nairnshire farmer's onstead, [1]\nsituated in the parish of Auldearn, with a comfortable dwelling-house,\nof two low stories, accurately put down, so as mathematically\nto face the twelve o'clock line,--with its crow-steppit gables,\nsmall windows, little out-shot low addition behind, tall chimneys,\nand grey-slated roof--just such a house, to wit, as a man of his\ncondition required in the middle of the last century--with two lines\nof strange-looking thatched or sod-covered stables, byres, barns,\nand other out-houses, projecting from its sides at right angles to\nits front, with divers out-riders, and isolated straggling edifices,\nof similar architecture and materials, dropped down here and there, as\nthe hand of chance might have sown them--the smoke coming furth from\nsome of their lumm-heads, and partly also from their low door-ways,\nproving to you, almost against your conviction, that they actually\nare the dwelling-places of human beings.--Fancy the whole grouped\n(as Mr. Grant, the long painter lad of Grantown, would have said)\nwith sundry goodly rows of peat and turf stacks, a number of corn\nricks wonderfully formed, and bulging and hanging out of the centre\nof gravity, each in a different direction, like a parcel of drunken\nDutch dancers;--in the midst of all a large midden--(query whether the\nword midden may not be a mere corruption of the words middle-in,--the\nmidden being always in the middle of all rural premises in Scotland? so\nthat unlucky visitors not unfrequently walk up to the middle into the\nmiddle of it.)--Then picture to yourselves, behind the biggins, sundry\nkail-yards, with a few very ancient ash trees, sycamores, and rowan\ntrees, rising from among their bourtree fences, or from the sides of\ntheir dilapidated dry-stone dikes. At a little distance below, a bog,\nwith its attendant pools of dark moss-water, which shine amidst the\nblack chaotic mass around them, and look blue by their reflection of\nthe sky--with a half-ruined and roofless killogie, or kiln for drying\ncorn and malt, standing on a sloping bank at no great distance from\nthem. Then people all this with the farmer himself, a stout, hale,\nhealthy-looking man, going bustling about from door to door among\nhis folk, his muck-carts, and his horses, with a hodden-grey coat\nupon his back, a broad blue bonnet on his head, a hazle staff in his\nhand, and a colley and one or two rough terriers and greyhounds at his\nheels, shouting every now and then in Gaelic to his man, John Smith,\na tall, handsome, strong-built Highlander, whilst the gudeman's wife,\na very good-looking, round-formed, trigly-dressed Englishwoman,\nis seen appearing and disappearing from under the wooden porch,\nover which some attempts have been made to trail a plant or two of\nrose and honeysuckle, but which attempts have been rendered abortive\nby the epicurean taste of the browsing animals of the farm--her south\ncountry tongue sounding quick and sharp in the ears of Morag, or Mary,\na clever, well-made, bare-footed, and short-gowned Highland lass,\nwith pleasing countenance, largish cheek bones, black snooded hair,\nsparkling eyes, arched eyebrows, and rosy cheeks, busied in washing\nout her milk cogues, with her coats kilted up to her knees. To which\nadd the herd of cows, oxen, queys, stirks, and calves of all sorts and\nsizes, with a due mixture of sheep and lambs, and pownys, sprinkled all\nabout, feeding among the whinny pasture-hillocks and baulks, dividing\nthe queer-shaped patches of the surrounding arable land.--Above all,\nI would have you particularly to remark a vurra large sow-beast,\nwith a numerous litter of pigs, grubbing up the ground about the old\nkillogie, amid the ruins of which her progeny first saw the light. In\naddition thereto, fancy, in the words of our own Scottish pastoral\npoet, Allan Ramsay, that\n\n\n    \"Hens on the midden, ducks in dubbs are seen,\"\n\n\nand you will be in full possession of the first scene of my tale,\nas well as acquainted with some of its more important dramatis personae.\n\nMr. MacArthur, the farmer, though a Highlander, was a stanch Whig,\nwhich made him, as you may well suppose, gentlemen, rather a\n\n\n    \"Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno\"\n\n\namong his brother Celts. He had acquired his principles during his\nresidence in England, where he had fallen in with and married his wife,\nwho was a woman of good condition for her rank of life, and of superior\nyeddication. She was attached to the Hanoverian royal family, both\nby principle and interest. Her brother was an officer in the Royal\nRegiment; and as everything connected with England was dear to her,\nbecause it was her country, so every thing connected with the English\narmy was especially dear to her on her brother's account.\n\nDuring the year 1745, when the recruiting for the army of the Prince\nof the Stuarts was going on, many of Mr. MacArthur's servants, and\nJohn Smith in particular, manifested a strong disposition to enlist\nunder his banners. But so powerful were the influence and eloquence of\nthis English lady, that she succeeded in dissuading them, one by one,\nfrom following out the bent of their inclinations. This her zealous and\nactive opposition to the Prince's cause, soon began to attract public\nattention, in a district where it was so generally favoured. She became\na marked object of dislike to the Jacobites, and this all the more so,\nperhaps, that she was an Englishwoman. Oftener than once it happened,\nthat, whilst they spared some of her neighbours, whose politics were\ndubious, and therefore obnoxious in their eyes, they plundered her\ngoodman's farm on her especial account. But these depredations were\ncomparatively trifling, and protected as she was by her husband's\nfortitude, she bore these little evils with the magnanimity of a\nmartyr; nay, she even ventured to talk of them with contempt, and there\nwere many people who believed that she actually gloried in them. As\nMr. MacArthur was a Highlander, and spoke the Gaelic language fluently,\nhe might perhaps have been able, by modest behaviour, kind treatment,\nand smooth words, in some degree to have mitigated the prejudice which\nhis countrymen had against his wife as a Pensassenach, or English wife,\nas she was uniformly called by way of reproach. But husbands cannot\nalways restrain the political enthusiasm of their ladies--and so it\nwas with Mr. MacArthur. With or without his approbation she scrupled\nnot, at times, when a good opportunity offered, to set the Jacobites\nat defiance, to give them all manner of opprobrious epithets, and,\nwith all a woman's rashness, but with more than feminine intrepidity,\nshe dared them to do their worst.\n\nIt was after sunset on the evening of the 13th of April, 1745, that\nthe Pensassenach was seated in her elbow chair, by the fire in her\nlittle parlour. She was alone, for her husband had been called away\nfrom home, for some days, on very urgent business, and as she felt\nherself slightly indisposed, she was prepared to take particular care\nof herself for that night. A small tall-shaped chased silver vessel of\nmulled elderberry wine, with a close top to it to keep its contents\nwarm, together with a very tiny silver cup, were placed beside her\non a little round walnut-tree table, supported on a single spiral\npillar with three claws. She was about to pour out a little of this\nmedicinal fluid, to be taken preparatory to retiring to bed for the\nnight, when she was startled by a noise in the kitchen, and immediately\nafterwards she was alarmed by the abrupt entrance of her maid Morag.\n\n\"Mem!--Mem!\" cried the girl, breathless with the importance of her\nintelligence, \"tare's Wully Tallas, ta packman in ta kitchen!--He's\ncome a' ta way frae Speymouth sin yesterday. Ta Englishers are a'\ncomin' upon us horse and futs!--horse and futs an' mockell cannons,\nan' we'll be a' mordered, an' waur!--fat wull we do?\"\n\n\"What say you, girl?\" exclaimed the Pensassenach, starting from her\nchair, and overturning all her meditated comforts in her hurry. \"But\nget out of my way, you senseless fool, I'll speak to the man\nmyself. Dallas! Will Dallas!\" cried she, throwing her voice shrilly\nalong the passage, towards the kitchen. \"Come this way, Will Dallas,\nand let me hear your news from your own mouth!\"\n\n\"Comin' mem!\" cried the travelling merchant, as he appeared limping\nalong the passage, by no means sorry to be thus called on to unbuckle\nhis budget of news, which he was always ready to dispose of at a much\ncheaper rate than he generally sold his goods.\n\n\"Where have you come from, Will Dallas?\" cried the Pensassenach;\n\"and what news have ye got?\"\n\n\"Weel, ye see, mem, I hae come straught frae Speymooth, as fast as my\nheavy pack and this happity lamiter leg o' mine wad let me,\" replied\nDallas. \"And my pack's very heavy yee noo, for I've got a grand new\nstock o' gudes in't.\"\n\n\"Well, well! never mind your goods at present!\" cried the impatient\nPensassenach; \"quick! quick! what news have you?\"\n\n\"Od, mem, it wad at no rate do for me no to mind my goods at a' times\nand at a' saisins,\" said Dallas. \"But touching the news, mem,--the\nDuke, mem--that is, the Duke o' Cummerland, I mean, crossed the Spey\nyesterday wi' a' his airmy.\"\n\n\"Is it possible?\" cried the Pensassenach, her eyes sparkling with\ndelight.\n\n\"It's quite true, mem, for I seed the whole tott o' them yefeck the\npassage wi' my ain een,\" said Dallas.\n\n\"Ha! tell me, good Dallas, how did they cross?\" demanded the lady.\n\n\"They just fuirded through the Spey, mem, in three grand deveesions,\nat three different pairts, just for a' the warld as gin ye had been\nrollin' aff three different pieces o' red ribban, like, at yae time,\"\nreplied Dallas.\n\n\"A glorious sight!\" cried the Pensassenach.\n\n\"Aye, truly, ye wad hae said sae had ye seen't, mem,\" said Dallas;\n\"gin ye had seen them wi' the sun glancin' on their airms, and on\nthe flashin' faem o' the Spey! Every bone o' them got safe across,\nexceppin yae dragoon that had taen a wee thoughty ower muckle liquor,\nand fell fae his horse,--and four weemen fouk, wha were whamled out o'\na bit cairty, and wha were a' carried down, and a' drooned outright.\"\n\n\"Poor wretches!\" said the Pensassenach. \"But it was well they were\nnot men: their lives were comparatively but little worth.\"\n\n\"I daur swear that you're right there, mem,\" said Dallas; \"little\nworth followers of the camp they were, nae doot;--and yet the hizzies\nwere weel pit on. I followed the bodies as they soomed down the water,\nand cleekit ane o' them ashore, and although her mutch was gane, she\nhad a gude goon and a daycent rocklay on, and ither things forbye;\nbut they ware a' sae spiled wi' the water, that I selt them till a\nwoman in Elgin for an auld sang. But I'll tell ye what it is, mem,\nweemen--that is, daycent weemen--have nae business----\"\n\n\"You have no business with the women, Mr. Dallas,\" interrupted the\nPensassenach impatiently--\"it is of the men--of the troops, and\nof their noble and gallant leader that I would hear. All across,\nsaid you? and what became of the other Duke?\" continued she, in\na contemptuous tone. \"I mean the rebel Duke--the Duke of Perth,\nI mean? Where was he, and where were his heroes, that they did not\narrest the progress of the Royal army?\"\n\n\"Troth, mem, the Duke o' Perth and his men just came on their ways\nwast the country, and left the English airmy to cross at their ain\nwull,\" replied Willy.\n\n\"Bravo! bravo!\" shouted the lady, waving her hand around her head. \"The\nfalse knaves dared not to face them! Well, any more news, Dallas?\"\n\n\"I ken nae mair that I hae to tell ye,\" said Dallas, \"exceppin'\nthat I was in the English camp yestreen mysel', and that I selled\na wheen caumrick pocket-napkins, and three yairds o' black ribban,\ntill yere brither, Captain John, and I promised to ca' in by this\nway aince eerant to tell ye that he was weel, and to drink his health.\"\n\n\"Thank ye, thank ye, good Bill Dallas!\" cried the lady, clapping her\nhands in an ecstasy of joy; \"you shall not fail to do that; but why\ndid you not tell me this joyful news before? Stay, my good man--here\nis for your happy tidings!\" and, running to a corner cupboard, she\nbrought out a bottle of brandy, and filled him a tasse, that made\nhis eyes dance in his head after he had tossed it off.\n\n\"My certy, that's prime stuff indeed,\" said Dallas, panting with the\nvery strength of it. \"And noo, mem, will ye look at my pack.--I hae\nsome o' the grandest jewels, rings, chains, watches, and brooches--the\ngayest ribbans--and, aboon a', the bonniest lace,--ye never saw\nsiccan lace. The captain said he was quite sure it wad tak your ee,\nfor that you had siccan a fine taste. Troth, says I till him, you're\nno far wrang there, captain; Mistress MacArthur has the best taste and\njoodgement in lace o' a' my customers, north or sooth--north or sooth,\nsaid I. It's quite beautifou lace, mem, as ye'll say when ye see't;\nand sae cheap, too! Od, I'm sellin' it for half nothin'. Shall I\nbring the pack ben here, mem?--ye'll hae mair light here.\"\n\n\"No--no--no!--not at present, Will,\" cried the Pensassenach, her\npatience quite exhausted with his prolixity. \"Another time Will--but\nI have other fish to fry at present. Morag!--Morag, girl! run! call\nout all the men! My stars, how unfortunate it is that MacArthur is\nfrom home! How he would rejoice! Call all the men, I say!\"\n\n\"Fat vas she cryin' aboot?\" said Morag, hurrying to answer her call.\n\n\"Run and call all the men, I tell you, girl!\" cried the Pensassenach,\nbustling about, all life and activity, and her indisposition entirely\nforgotten. \"Call all the men I say; and John Smith in particular. I\nwant John Smith here immediately. What glorious news! There wont\nbe a rascally rebel knave of them left in the whole country. And my\nbrother John coming too! Who knows but we may have the honour of being\npresented to his Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland in person! How\nprovoking it is that MacArthur is from home!\"\n\n\"Fat wad ta leddy be wantin' wi' her?\" said John Smith, at that\nmoment putting his head into the room, his Kilmarnock cowl, and the\ndisordered state of the covering of so much of the upper part of his\nperson as was visible, sufficiently indicating that he had been roused\nfrom his bed. \"Fat wad ta leddy be wantin'? We wus a' beddit.\"\n\n\"Run, John!\" cried the impatient lady, \"run and make all the people\nget out of their beds directly! collect every one, man and woman,\nabout the farm. Make them yoke all the carts, and drive a whole\npeat-stack to the head of the knoll, and build up a large bonfire,\nand see that you mix your layers of peats with layers of moss-fir,\nand dry furze-bushes. I'll have a blaze that shall be seen from Forres\nto Inverness. Have we any tar-barrels left?\"\n\n\"Ou aye!\" replied John; \"a tar barrels tat was ower mockell fan we\nlast tar ta sheeps.\"\n\n\"Then put the whole tar-barrel in the midst of all,\" cried the\nPensassenach. \"Come, John, why do you stand staring so? run, man,\nand do as I bid you, without a moment's delay.\"\n\n\"Ou aye, aye, she's runnin' fast,\" replied John, slowly moving\naway. \"Fod, but she's thinks tat ta Pensassenach be gaen taft\nawtagedder.\"\n\n\"Morag! bring a basket here directly,\" cried the Pensassenach,\nas she hurried down stairs with the large key of the cellar in her\nhand. \"Now,\" said she, putting a number of bottles into the basket,\n\"take care of these; and make haste, and bring a cheese, and some\nloaves of bread, and follow me quickly out to the knoll with the\nbasket.\"\n\nIn a very little time, an enormous pile of fuel was built up on\nthe summit of the knoll, with the tar-barrel in the centre of it,\nto which an opening was at first left from the external air, which\nwas afterwards partially filled with dry furze-bushes dipped in tar,\nso as to afford the flame a ready communication inwards. When every\nthing was prepared, the Pensassenach seized a lighted candle from a\nlantern, and, as Dryden hath it, she\n\n\n    \"Like another Helen, fired another Troy!\"\n\n\nthat is to say, she set fire, not to a city, indeed, but to the\nwhin-bushes, and the flame running inwards, to the tar-barrel, the\nwhole mighty fabric of fuel was instantaneously in such a blaze, that\nany one might have thought that it was Troy itself that was burning.\n\n\"Now,\" said the Pensassenach, \"draw me one of those stone bottles of\nbrandy, and fill me a tasse of it. I drink to those to whom I have\ndedicated this bonfire--I drink, in the first place, to the health\nof my brother John, captain in the Royal Regiment, whom I hope soon\nto see here!\" and, putting the cuach to her lips, she sipped a modest\nlady's share of the contents.\n\n\"Come, Bill Dallas,\" continued she, addressing the travelling merchant,\nwho, tired as he was with his long tramp, had yet sneaked out to\nsecure his share of the liquor, as well as of the fun. \"Come, Bill,\nyou must drink next; you have the best right to do so, as the bearer\nof the good news.\"\n\n\"Weel, here's to Captain John, and wussin' him health, and muckle\nhappiness, and a gude wife till him, wi' plenty o' siller,\" said the\npackman, tossing off the full contents of the tasse. \"I'm sure there's\nno a bonnier man, nor a better man, nor a gallanter sodger--eh,\nbeg his honor's pardon, I meant offisher--in the hail land o' the\nBritish Isles, be the ither wha he may.\"\n\n\"Well spoken, Bill,\" cried the lady. \"Now, John Smith, come it is\nyour turn next.\"\n\n\"Here's helss, an' mokel o't, to her broder Captain Shon, and mokel\ngude wifes and gude sillers!\" cried John Smith, draining the cuach\nto the last drop.--\"Oich, but she's goot trinks!\" added he.\n\nThe cup and the toast went round a large and encreasing party; for the\nbonfire, sending up sharp pointed flames, as if it meditated piercing\nthe very clouds, spread wonder and speculation all over the country\nfar and wide, and brought all manner of idlers, like flies and moths,\nabout it. A considerable space of time, as well as a tolerable quantity\nof brandy, was expended, before the health had been drank by every one.\n\n\"Now,\" said the Pensassenach, filling the cuach again to the brim, \"I\ndrink health and success to his Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland,\nand confusion to all his enemies!\"--and, kissing the cup merely,\nshe handed it to the packman.\n\n\"Weel, mem, here's wussin' that same wi' a' my heart!\" cried\nMr. Dallas, and off went every drop of his brimmer.\n\n\"Now, John,\" said the Pensassenach, filling the cuach again to the lip,\n\"now, John Smith, it is your turn. Come, man, drink the toast--health\nand success to the Duke and his brave fellows.\"\n\n\"Na!\" said John, turning away as if the cup had contained vinegar or\nverjuice--\"na!--Teel be on her an she do!\"\n\n\"What do you mean, John?\" demanded the Pensassenach in a mingled tone\nof surprise and displeasure. \"Will you refuse to drink my toast?\"\n\n\"Hoot, man, dinna refuse to drink the leddy's toast,\" said the\npackman. \"That gude brandy wad wash down ony toast ava, let alane\nsiccan' a grand man, and a hero, like the Duke o' Cummerland.--Od,\nman, an ye had seen him as I hae seen him, ridin' at the head o'\nhis men, wi' as muckle gold lace and reyal Genowa velvet aboot him\nas might serve to cover a papish pupit wi', ye wad say he was the\ngrandest man that ever ye seed.--Come, man, drink success till him,\nand confusion till a' his yennemies!\"\n\n\"Surely you will not refuse to drink success to that brave army in\nwhich my brother John serves?\" said the Pensassenach,--\"and to that\nnoble and gallant Prince who commands it?\"\n\n\"She'll no grudge to trink hail bottals till ta helts o' Captain Shon,\nbecause she's her broder,\" said Smith in a positive manner.--\"But\nfint ae drops wull she tak' to wuss ony helts to ta titter man an'\nhis fouks!\"\n\n\"Tuts, nonsense man,\" said the packman; \"ye're just a reyal guse.--Come\nawa! drink the Duke's health--the brandy's just parteeklar gude.\"\n\n\"Why should you hesitate?\" said his mistress.--\"Come, drink the\nDuke's health.\"\n\n\"Tamm hersell an' she do ony siccan' a sing!\" said John Smith doggedly,\nand with powerful emphasis and action.--\"She'll as soon eat ta cuach!\"\n\n\"What! are you a loyal subject, and refuse to drink the health of\nthe Duke of Cumberland!--the King's own brother!\" exclaimed the\nPensassenach energetically.\n\n\"Ou troth--ou aye,--she be loyals eneugh till her ain Kings,\" said\nJohn, \"an' she'll no grudge to trink gallons till her. But for ta\ntitter mans, fod but she's wussin' her nasins ava but a goot clink\non ta croon,\" and with that John walked off, with a countenance\nso expressive of dissatisfaction and determination, as rendered it\nevident that it would be quite hopeless to call him back.\n\n\"He is an obstinate disloyal mule!\" cried the Pensassenach, giving\nfull way to her anger.\n\n\"A reyal dour ass as I ever cam' across,\" said the packman; \"an'\nsiccan' reyal fine speerits too. The cheild thought naething\no' hammerin' awa' and keepin' a' huss loyal fouk frae our drap\ndrink.--It's weel that he's awa. My certy, I rauken that there's nae\nither body here that'll be sae dooms foolish as to refuse that gude\nbrandy, let what toast there may be soomin' on the tap o' the brimmer.\"\n\n\"I trust that that fellow is the only disloyal man about the place,\"\nsaid the Pensassenach.--\"If it be otherwise I'll have all such Jacobite\nknaves turned off this farm. We shall have none other but good loyal\nsubjects here, I promise you, now that the Duke and his gallant army\nare coming among us.\"\n\nThis hint was not lost on the rest of the company; for whatever\ntheir private political opinions might have been, they preferred\nswallowing the good brandy in peace, let the tasse be prefaced by\nwhatsoever toast the Pensassenach pleased, rather than be martyrs,\nlike John Smith, and risk the loss of the liquor and their places,\nby any heroic and straightforward declaration of their sentiments. We\nsometimes see such folk in common life, even at the present time,\ngentlemen. Many, then, were the toasts of the same character that went\nround.--Liberally did the Pensassenach make her enlivening eau-de-vie\nto circulate. The huge bonfire was again and again supplied by the\nwilling revellers. They were wise enough to see that the endurance\nof the joviality of the night must, in all probability, be measured\nby that of the fire, and so they laboured and sweated like horses to\nkeep it going. Loud were the shouts, and many were the antic tricks\nperformed around its blazing circle, all of which were to be attributed\nto the mirth-inspiring spirit. The packman was particularly joyous\nand hilarious, and his loquacity increased as he became elevated with\nthe liquor. At last the Pensassenach, wishing gradually to wind up\nthe festivities of the night, proposed another toast.\n\n\"Now, come,\" said she, filling the cuach, \"Let us drink confusion to\nthe rebels!\"\n\n\"Hurrah! a capital toast!\" cried the packman, whilst his cheer was\nblindly echoed by the more than half-intoxicated crowd around him.\n\n\"Then here I drink it as my most cordial wish,\" said the Pensassenach,\nsipping a little of the liquor in token of her earnestness and\nsincerity.\n\n\"Tamm! but she'll rue tat wuss!\" cried a hoarse voice, which came\nfrom the shadow beyond the circle of the revellers.\n\n\"Who spoke?\" demanded the Pensassenach, in vain endeavouring to dart\nher eyes into the impenetrable darkness, by which the bright field\nof light was surrounded.\n\n\"Tamm her, but she'll ken tat soon enough!\" replied the same voice;\nbut the Pensassenach could see nothing but a pair of eyes, that,\nfor the fraction of an instant, caught a strong reflection of the red\nlight from the bonfire, glared fearfully at her, and then were gone.\n\n\"Lord hae a care o' huss! I wuss that I had had naething ado wi'\nthis matter,\" exclaimed Mr. Dallas, very much fear-stricken.\n\n\"Seize that man, whoever he may be!\" cried the Pensassenach. But he\nwas nowhere to be found. All the feeble and unsteady attempts of the\ndrunken people to catch him were thrown away. The Pensassenach was\nvexed and mortified. The voice was sterner than John Smith's. But\nshe could by no means banish the idea that it was his. She inquired\nand found that he was no where about the place, and she retired home\nto her chamber, filled with doubt regarding him, or rather more than\nhalf convinced that she nourished a traitor in her house.\n\nAppearances on the following morning were by no means such as to\novercome these suspicions.\n\n\"Is that you, Morag?\" demanded the Pensassenach, as awakened at a later\nhour than usual by her maid, she started up from that profound sleep,\nwhich the extraordinary fatigue and excitement of the previous evening\nhad thrown her into, and began to huddle on such parts of her clothes\nas lay nearest at hand.\n\n\"Aye, Memm, it's me,\" replied Morag, \"Fat wull she be doin' for\nmulks? Shon Smiss has driven awa a' ta wholl kye lang or it was\nskreichs o' tay.\"\n\n\"What said you?\" demanded the Pensassenach. \"John Smith has driven\naway all our cows! Traitorous thief and robber that he is, I thought\nas much!\"\n\n\"Toot na! Shon's nae fiefs nor rubbers neither,\" replied Morag,\nin anything but a pleased tone.\n\n\"He is a thief and a traitor to boot,\" cried the enraged Pensassenach.\n\n\"He is no fiefs!\" rejoined Morag, with great energy, both of voice\nand of action. \"Not a bonn o' him but is as honest as yoursel'.\"\n\n\"I tell you he is a thief, and a traitor; and, for aught I know,\nan assassin too!\" replied the Pensassenach; \"and you are an impudent\nbaggage for daring to contradict me.\"\n\n\"She canna stand and hear Shon Smiss misca'ed,\" exclaimed Morag,\nbursting into tears of mingled grief and rage, excited by the\nunextinguishable love for John, which had long secretly possessed\nher; \"an' war she no the mistress,\" continued Morag, with very\nviolent action, \"war she no the mistress, Fod, but she wad pu'\ntat cockernony aff her head for saying as mockell! But och mercy be\naboot huss a'!\" cried the girl, darting a look out at the window,\nand then hurrying away as she spoke; \"mercy be aboot huss a'! yonder\ncomes Shon himsel', rinnin' like ony rae-buck!\"\n\n\"God be merciful to me, can the traitor mean murder!\" cried the\nPensassenach, hastily shutting, locking, and bolting the chamber\ndoor, and, with great exertion moving a chest of drawers against it,\nwhilst her very heart almost ceased to beat, from the terror that\nfell upon her.\n\n\"Far is she, Morag? Is she oot o' her bed? cried John, in a loud and\nhurried voice, as he came flying up the stair, and began thundering\nlike a madman at the lady's bed-chamber door. \"Come, come, let her\nin direckly!\"\n\n\"No one can come here,\" said the lady trembling; \"I am not half\ndressed.\"\n\n\"Dress be tamm!\" cried John, furiously; \"Come away fast--open ta toor\nor she be killed!\"\n\n\"You shall find no entrance here, you murdering blood-thirsty villain,\nwhilst I have power to defend my life,\" cried the Pensassenach, driven\nto desperation, and as, with immense labour, she was dragging a heavy\ntrunk of napery across the floor, which she reared on end against the\nchest of drawers. \"Oh, why did MacArthur leave me thus to be murdered?\"\n\n\"Let her in, or she see her sure murdered,\" cried John, in a voice\nof thunder, and kicking terribly at the door.\n\n\"God help me, I'm gone!\" muttered the Pensassenach, in an agony of\nfear. \"Oh, why did my husband leave me? The door never can stand such\nkicks as these. I see it yielding. Murder! murder! murder!\"\n\n\"Tamm her nane sel', but she has no more time for nonsense!\" cried\nJohn, in a voice that seemed to betoken the climax of fury, and\nwith that he drove the whole weight of his body, with the force of\na battering-ram, against the door, forcing it out from its hinges,\nand tumbling it, and the chest of drawers, and the huge trunk, into\nthe very middle of the room, with a violence that burst them open,\nand scattered their contents in all directions.\n\n\"Villain!\" cried the Pensassenach, now suddenly excited to an unnatural\nboldness by despair of life, and standing with her back to the farther\nwall, armed with her husband's broad-sword, which she had snatched\nfrom the bed-head, and drawn in her own defence, and which she now\nflourished with great activity and determined resolution, altogether\nregardless of the imperfect state of her attire. \"Villain that you\nare, come but one step nearer to me, and this sword shall drink your\nlife's blood from your heart.\"\n\n\"Ou fye! ou fye!\" cried John, standing considerably abashed at this\nspectacle; \"far got she tat terrible swoord?\"\n\n\"Villain, you tremble!\" cried the Pensassenach, roused still more,\nand, advancing towards John Smith, step by step, as she spoke;\n\"fly villain, or I will put you to instant death!\"\n\n\"Fye, fye!\" said John; \"but Fod she mauna mind it noo; tere's nae\nmair time for ceremonies. She maun e'en tak her as she is.\"\n\n\"Attack me as I am!\" cried the Pensassenach; \"if you do, death,\ninstant death, shall be your portion.\"\n\n\"We sall see tat,\" said John, lifting his hazle rung; \"we sall soon\nsee tat,\" and springing suddenly over the obstructing obstacles,\nJohn, with one blow of his stick, sent the sword spinning from the\nfeeble grasp of the delicate hand that held it.\n\n\"Oh, mercy, mercy!\" cried the Pensassenach, throwing herself on her\nknees before him, with the horrible dread of impending death upon\nher. \"You would not murder your mistress, John, and all for asking\nyou to drink an idle toast? Oh, spare me! spare me! Do not murder me\nin cold blood!\"\n\n\"Shon Smiss murder!\" cried he, with horror and astonishment on\nhis countenance. \"Foo! foo! fat could gars her sinks tat o' Shon\nSmiss?--Shon wad fichts to ta last trop o' her blots for her, futher\nshe be King Charles's man, or futher she be ta titter bid body o'\na sham king's man. Foo! foo!--hoo could she sinks tat Shon Smiss wad\ndo ony ill to ta Pensassenach tat has aye been sae kind till her, aye,\nand to Morag an a',\" and the poor fellow began blubbering and crying.\n\n\"God be praised that I am safe, then!\" cried the lady, immeasurably\nrelieved. \"But what is the meaning of all this violence, John? Are\nyou mad?\"\n\n\"Na,\" cried John, starting from the melting fit into which he had been\nthrown. \"She no mad a bit. But ta Hillantmens comin'!--Swarrants ta\nHillantmens no liket ta bonfires!\"\n\n\"The Highlanders!\" cried the Pensassenach. \"Heaven defend me, what\nshall I do without the protection of my husband? What!--what shall I\ndo?\" and she burst into a flood of tears, from the nervous excitement\nto which she had been subjected.\n\n\"Troth, she be sinkin' tat its as weel tat ta master's no at hame,\"\nsaid he. \"But fat need she fear as lang as Shon Smiss be here?\"\n\n\"Will you protect me?\" cried the Pensassenach, eagerly. \"Will you\nreally be true to me?\"\n\n\"Fat has Shon Smiss toon to mak ta Pensassenach sink tat she'll no\nbe true till her ain mistress?\" cried Smith, in a whimpering tone,\nbetokening vexation, so sincere, as, in a great measure, to restore\nthe lady's confidence in him.\n\n\"Why did you drive away the cattle this morning, and what have you\ndone with them?\" demanded she.\n\n\"Trots she was dootin', a' nicht, tat ta Hillantmen wad come after a'\nyon mockel fires,\" replied John, \"an' sae she just trave tem, coos,\ncattal, sheeps, an' staigs, an' awtegitter, a' awa' ower to ta glen,\nwhaur she's sinking tat tey'll no be gettin' tem at 'tis turn.\"\n\n\"Faithful creature, after all, then!\" cried the Pensassenach. \"How\ncan I sufficiently thank you?\"\n\n\"Did she no tell her tat Shon Smiss was nae feefs nor rubbers neither,\"\nsaid Morag, entering triumphantly at that moment. \"Is she no a prave\nponny man? But uve, uve, memm, fat way is tat to be stannin'? Fye,\nShon Smiss! hoo could ye stand glowerin' tere?--get oot, man, till\nshe gets ta leddy dressed.\"\n\n\"Fod, she has nae time, noo!\" cried John. \"Fod, but she hears ta\npipes 'tis blesset moment. Hoot, toot!--Hurry, hurry!--Fod, but\nta Hillantmens comin' noo!\" and snatching a blanket from the bed,\nhe threw it over his mistress, and whipping her up in his arms ere\nshe wist, he strode down stairs with her in a moment.\n\n\"Where are you carrying me? Where are you carrying me to, John\nSmith?\" cried the Pensassenach, much alarmed.\n\n\"Dis she no hear ta pipes?\" cried John. \"She be carrying her to hide\nher in ta auld killogie to be sure. Dinna be fear. She mak' her safe\neneugh, she swarrants her o' tat.\"\n\nJohn accordingly ran with the Pensassenach to the old kiln, as fast\nas his legs could carry him and his burden. He found it already\noccupied by the great sow and her numerous progeny, who, from their\nunwillingness to quit it, seemed to consider it, both by birthright,\nand by long possession, as their own particular castle, from which no\none could lawfully remove them. John Smith used no great ceremony with\nthem, but serving them all with an instantaneous process of ejectment,\ndelivered by divers rapid and severe blows of his hazle cudgel, he\nforthwith dislodged them from the pend, or fire-place of the kiln,\nwhere they were used to find a dry and snug lair, and from which both\nmother and children retreated with manifest dissatisfaction, and with\nall manner of sounds and signs of extreme ire. To these John Smith gave\nbut small heed, but, shoving the Pensassenach, blanket and all, with\nas much tenderness and delicacy as he could, into this their vacant\nbed-chamber, he concealed her as much as possible by covering her\nup with straw, and he had hardly accomplished all this, and made his\nretreat good from the killogie, when a large body of armed Highlanders,\nunder the command of a certain Captain M'Taggart, appeared filing over\nthe neighbouring brow, and with what intent might easily be guessed,\nfrom the numerous horses they brought with them, some harnessed\nin rude carts, and some fitted with panniers or crooked saddles,\nfor carrying off plunder. The men themselves displayed infuriated\ncountenances, and ceased not, as they drew nearer, to give vent to\nthe most horrible denunciations of vengeance against the Pensassenach.\n\n\"Ta Pensassenach! ta Pensassenach!\" cried the same stern voice that had\nspoken from amid the darkness that surrounded the blazing bonfire of\nthe preceding night. \"She sall soon ken fat it is to trink confusion\nto ta reypells! Far be ta Pensassenach?--ta Englis wife?\"\n\n\"Ta Pensassenach!--ta Pensassenach!--ta heart's blott o' ta\nPensassenach!--hang her!--purn her!--troon her!--far is she?--her\nheart's blott!--her heart's blott!\" vociferated some thirty or forty\nrough and raging voices, coming from men that thirsted revengefully\nfor her blood.\n\nThe poor woman's heart almost died within her through fear, as these\nmurderous sounds reached her, where she lay half suffocated under the\nstraw in the killogie. Most active and particular was the search which\nthe Highlanders then commenced. First of all, the captain and some\nof them proceeded to examine the dwelling-house, and there they were\nmet at the very door by Mr. Dallas the packman. This worthy having\nbeen altogether overpowered by his last night's debauch, had thrown\nhimself down in his clothes on the bed hospitably provided for him\nby his hostess in the room, contained in the little out-shot behind,\nand there he had slept, with his pack as usual under his head, until\nawaked by the noise made by John Smith and the Pensassenach. He had\nthen witnessed enough to make him aware of the place where the lady\nwas secreted. Seeing that the Highlanders came so suddenly upon them\nas to make it quite hopeless for him to attempt a retreat, with his\nlame leg, he hurried away out to the kail-yard and hid his pack under\na goosberry bush, an operation which John Smith, as he was flying\nwith his mistress on his back, chanced, with the tail of his eye, to\nobserve him performing. After having done this, Mr. Dallas returned\ninto the house, and, making a virtue of necessity, he stepped boldly\nforth to meet the leader, when the party came to the door.\n\n\"Muckle prosperity till you and your cause, noble captain,\" said he,\nmaking his reverence. \"There's a bonny mornin'.\"\n\n\"Who the devil are you, sir?\" said Captain M'Taggart, sharply.\n\n\"Troth, captain, I'm a poor travellin' chapman,\" replied Dallas. \"I\nchanced to come here last night, and the gudewife gied me ludgings\nfor charity's sake.\"\n\n\"Where's your pack, sir?\" demanded Captain M'Taggart.\n\n\"Troth, I left it yesterday at Inverness to get some fresh gudes pit\nintil't,\" replied Dallas.\n\n\"You are rather a suspicious character, methinks,\"  said the\ncaptain. \"See that you search every corner of the main house for\nthis woman,\" continued he, turning to his men, \"and if you find this\nfellow's pack bring it forth to me.\"\n\n\"There's nae pack o' mine there, captain, an' that's as fack as death,\"\nsaid Dallas. \"But ye need hae nae jealousy o' me, for I'm a reyal\ntrue and loyal subject o' the Prince.\"\n\n\"Ta Prince!\" cried the same man who had watched the last night's\nproceedings at the bonfire. \"Ta Prince!--ta Teevil;--tat is ta\nvera chield tat wanted to mak' honest Shon Smiss trink ta helss o'\ntat teevil ta Tuke o' Cummerlant. He's a reyal and blotty whugg,\nand weel deserves till hae his craig raxit.\"\n\n\"Hang up the villain directly, then,\" cried M'Taggart, carelessly.\n\n\"Oh! spare my life, good captain, and I'll tell ye whaur the\nP--p--p----.\" Pensassenach is hid, were the words that the villain\nwould have uttered, but they were arrested by the ready hand of John\nSmith, who sprang upon him with the pounce of an eagle, and clutched\nhim up as that noble bird might clutch up a rat, his left arm being\nhalf round his middle, and his right hand griping his throat, in such\na manner as to stop all utterance, and nearly to choke him.\n\n\"Ta tamm scounrel would fain puy her life for tellin' her fare her\npack is,\" said John, laughing heartily. \"But she need na mak' nae\nsiccan pargains wi' her, for her nane sell saw her hide it under\na perry-puss in ta kail-yaird, and a rich pack it is, she kens tat\nweel eneugh. See, captain, tats ta way till ta yaird, an' Shon Smiss\n'ill tak cair o' tis chiel, and pit her past tooin' ony mair harms,\nshe'll swarrants tat.\"\n\nOff went the captain and those about him, greedy upon the scent of\nthe pack, and caring little what became of its owner. John called to\nMorag to bring him a sack and some bits of rope, and he had no sooner\ngot them under one arm than he ran off with the sprawling Mr. Dallas\nunder the other, who, having his wind-pipe still tightened by the\nfearful grasp of him who bore him, was now kicking in the agonies\nof death. John dived through among some peat-stalks, and so managed\nto get clear off without observation, to the side of a deep pond or\npool, in a retired spot, where the Pensassenach was wont to steep\nher flax.--There laying his, by this time, semianimate burden at\nlength upon the brink, he put some heavy stones into the bottom of\nthe sack, and then began to draw it on, like an under-garment, over\nthe limbs of the unfortunate Mr. Dallas, inserting his arms therein,\nand tying the mouth of it tight round his neck, just as if he had been\npreparing him for running in a sack race, though it must be premised,\nthat for such a purpose the heavy stones might have been well eneugh\nleft out of the bottom of the sack.\n\n\"Hae mercy on my sowl, Maister Smith,--ye're no gawin' till droon\nme!\" groaned out Mr. Dallas, in a faint, hollow, and semi-suffocated\nvoice. \"Oh, mercy! mercy! what a horrible death! I'm no fit till dee,\nMaister Smith. I've been a horrible sinner. God forgee me for cheating\nthe puir fowk! Oh, hae mercy, Maister Smith--mercy!--mercy!--for I'm\nno fit till dee.\"\n\n\"She no be gawn till mak' her dee,\" said John, coolly, \"though she\nwad pe weel wordy o't. But she only be gawn ta hide her in ta watter\ntat ta Hillantmen mayna hangit her.\"\n\n\"Hide me in the water? and is na that droonin'?\" cried the terrified\nwretch. \"Oh, mercy! mercy!\"\n\n\"Foots, na, man!\" said John. \"Hidin's no troonin' ava, ava. She'll\ncome back an tak' her oot again fan a' is dune, an' she'll no be a\nhair ta waur o't. But she maun stop her gab frae speakin' about ta\nPensassenach; an' trots an' she had been hangit or droonit either,\naye, or baith tagedder, she had been weel wordy o't a', for fat she\nwas gaein' to hae tell't on ta puir Pensassenach.\"\n\nBy this time John had prepared an effectual gag for his patient's\nmouth, which he made him gape and receive between his jaws, and then\nhe secured it firmly by tying it behind his neck. He then lifted him\nup bodily, and whilst the poor man \"aw awed\" and \"yaw yawed,\" from the\ndreadful fear that still possessed him that John's intention, after\nall, was certainly to drown him, he gradually let down Mr. Dallas's\nfeet into a part of the water, the exact depth of which he perfectly\nknew would just admit of his immersion up to the neck, he left him,\nwith his head resting safely against the bank on the side of the pool,\nwith some dry rushes and sedges and flax scattered carelessly both over\nthe bank and the water where he was, so as perfectly to conceal him.\n\nGreat as was the time that all this occupied, John found, on his\nreturn to the farm-house, that it had not been more than sufficient\nto satisfy Captain M'Taggart and his friends, in their examination\nof Mr. Dallas's pack, and in the division of the rich booty it\ncontained. Meanwhile, the search for the Pensassenach was going on\nkeenly and most unremittingly, and John was relieved to find that\nit was so, since he was thereby satisfied that, as yet at least,\nher place of concealment had not been discovered. They opened\nevery door, and looked into every corner, for the unfortunate lady,\nstill swearing all the time the bloodiest oaths of vengeance against\nher. Not a house upon the premises, not a hole nor crevice about the\nwhole place did they pass unexamined, save and except only the eye of\nthe ruined killogie itself, where the object of their search was in\nreality concealed. Frequently, to the almost complete annihilation of\nthe action of the pulses of her heart, did she hear the footsteps of\nsome of them passing close beside the place where she lay, as well as\ntheir curses, as they went. But so completely were they deceived by\nthe ruined appearance of the roofless killogie, that they never once\nthought of the possibility of any one being concealed there. Wearied\nat length with their ineffectual search, and believing that the\nPensassenach had fled, they began to wreak their rage, and to glut\ntheir rapacity, by plundering her effects. Meal, butter, cheese, beef,\nand bacon, were crammed indiscriminately into sacks, with articles\nof wearing apparel, and the blankets, and the webs of cloth and linen\nwhich the thrifty housewife had prepared for her household. Articles\nof silver plate were not forgotten, as well as all other valuables\nupon which they could lay their rapacious hands. The cellar was broken\nopen and ransacked, and its contents, as well as many other pieces\nof plunder of a bulky nature, were stowed away to be carried off in\nthe carts belonging to the farm. A general assault then commenced\nupon the live-stock. John Smith's zealous precaution had secured the\ngreater part of the larger animals from their clutches, but the attack\non the poultry was simultaneous and terrific. Loud was the cackling,\ngobbling, and quacking of the fowls, turkeys, ducks, and geese, as\nthey were caught, one after another; and fearful was it to hear their\nmusic suddenly silenced, by their necks being drawn, and melancholy to\nbehold their exanimate bodies thrown into the hampers that hung on the\ncrook-saddled horses. The good Morag's heart was rent, as she beheld\nthese ruthless murders committed upon the innocent creatures whom\nshe had delighted to rear. But honest John Smith comforted himself\nwith the reflection, that he had saved all the weightier and more\nvaluable stock, and therefore he witnessed all these ravages among the\nfeathered folk with tolerable composure, until a circumstance occurred\nwhich renewed all his apprehensions for the safety of his mistress,\nand again excited him to the full exertion of all his energies.\n\nWar had not been long commenced against the poultry, when the large\nsow, alarmed by the murders she beheld going on around her, and\nterrified by the loud hurrahs of the plunderers, as well as scared\nby the sudden striking up of the bagpipes, took to flight in good\ntime, and made straight for the eye of the killogie, at the head of\nher troop. The quick-sighted John Smith at once perceived the risk\nwhich his mistress, the Pensassenach, ran, of being discovered, by\nthe animals making this attempt to find shelter there. Off he flew\nlike the wind to intercept them; and cutting in before them with great\nadroitness, he turned them right away towards the fragment of meadow,\nwhich lay in the close vicinity of the black bog. John played his part\nso well, that this manoeuvre of his had all the appearance as if he\nhad been merely making a dash at them for the purpose of catching some\nof them, and that the creatures had for the present foiled him. There\nthey were accordingly left at peace for a time, during which John's\nmind also remained in some degree tranquil and at ease.\n\nBut the sow and her inviting family were not long in being descried\nby the Highlanders, after every other living thing had been sacked by\nthem, and a most eventful, hazardous, and very ludicrous chase after\nthem immediately took place. Full of the most anxious apprehensions\nas to the result, John planted himself in front of the killogie, and\nbetween it and the scene of action; and as all the old sow's efforts\nwere directed towards her stronghold in the kiln, it was with the\ngreatest difficulty that he repeatedly succeeded in driving her from\nthe dangerous post. At length, by one exertion, greater than the rest,\nhe had the good fortune to force the sow once more fairly a-field\nagain, with all her grunting young ones running scattering after her,\nwhilst the Highlanders, deceived by his shouting to them in Gaelic,\nand encouraging them to the pursuit, believed that he had no other\nobject in view than honestly to aid them in catching her. To blind\nthem still more, he now started off full tilt at the head of them,\nand soon outran the swiftest of them. With amazing dexterity, he first\nclutched up one pig, and then another, until he had one in each hand,\nswinging by the tail, and squeaking so fearfully, as to excite the\nmaternal anxiety and rage of the sow mother, to so great an extent,\nthat she followed him, fast and furiously grunting, wheresoever he\nturned. John inwardly chuckled at the thought of having thus got\nso easily and so perfectly the command of her motions. But a sudden\nonset from the Highlanders speedily dispersed the remainder of her\nprogeny; and the pursuers naturally scattered themselves to follow\nafter individual grunters, so that the race was seen to rage over all\nparts of the field. This distracted the attention of the old sow, and\nshe went cantering about, hither and thither, like a frantic creature,\nuntil, by degrees, she found herself at the very farthest end of\nthe bog. There, seized by a panic, she suddenly turned, and bolted\ndesperately back again, with her snout pointed directly towards the\nkiln. Winged by terror, she pushed wildly on at a bickering pace,\nand running her head right between John's legs, ere ever he wist,\nshe carried him off for several yards, horsed upon her back, with his\nface to the tail; and in the blindness of her alarm, she ran headlong\nwith him into a great peat-pot, where he was instantly launched all\nhis length among the black chaotic fluid which it contained. John\nscrambled out of the hole with some difficulty, and, starting to his\nlegs, and shaking his ears like a water-spaniel, and clearing the dirt\nfrom his eyes, he, to his great horror, beheld the sow scouring away\nas hard as she could gallop, in a direct course for that chamber in\nthe killogie, which prescriptive right had so long made her believe to\nbe her own. John saw her hurrying thither, pursued by one or two of\nthe Highlanders. It was evident that she must soon reach it; and he\nfelt certain that she would instantly dart in among the straw where\nthe Pensassenach was lying, and that so the lady must be exposed to\ncertain discovery, and consequently to instant death. What was to\nbe done? Not a moment was to be lost. Taking advantage of a double\nwhich the sow was compelled to make, in consequence of some one having\nheaded her course, and which forced her to swerve considerably from\nthe straight line of the chase, John seized a gun from the hand of a\nHighlander near him, and aiming at the animal as she thus presented\nher great broadside to him, he fired at her, and rolled her over and\nover, by a bullet that passed through her very heart. There she lay\ndead before her pursuers, within some thirty or forty yards of her\nperilous place of refuge. A shout of applause at so wonderful a shot\narose from all who witnessed it.\n\n\"Tat's ta learn her, mockel fusome beast tat she is, for tummelin\nShon Smiss inta ta peat-hole!\" cried John, infinitely relieved from\nall his terrors.\n\nThe pigs were now very speedily secured in detail, and the great sow\nwas dragged up to the farm-house, and quietly deposited, with her\nslaughtered family, in one of the carts.\n\n\"My brave fellow!\" said Captain M'Taggart, the leader of the party,\nnow advancing towards John, and shaking him heartily by the hand,\n\"you must come along with us. A young man, so handsome, so active,\nso spirited, and so soldierly-looking,--and, above all, so capital a\nshot as you are,--was never intended by nature to hold the stilts of a\nplough, or to fill dung-carts. You were born to be an officer at the\nvery least, and, for aught I know, to be a colonel or a general. We\nare already aware that you are stanch to the righteous cause of the\ntrue Prince. Now is the time for you to raise yourself in the world,\nby joining his royal standard. Come, then, and lend us your powerful\naid in placing our lawful King upon the throne of his ancestors!--Come\nalong with us, and I shall forthwith introduce you to Prince Charles,\nwho may yet make a lord of you before you die.\"\n\nJohn Smith was, in truth, all that M'Taggart had called him,\nbeing a handsome, good looking man, as brave as a lion, and not\naltogether devoid of a certain natural ambition. But he was ignorant,\nthoughtless, and credulous, owing to his having been, up to that\nday, entirely without experience. He had never before seen anything\nlike military array, and irregular and deficient, in many respects,\nas that was which he now beheld, still it was enough to captivate\nhis unpractised eye. John had a strong attachment to his master and\nmistress, who had always been very kind to him. But his devotion\nto the Prince, whom he had never seen, was of a higher and holier\norder. Bestowing a few moments of reflection on the ceaseless and\nprofitless plodding, and slavish drudgery of his present duties,\nall, in themselves, absolutely repugnant to the very nature of a\nHighlander, and comparing them with the ideal picture he had drawn to\nhimself, of the gallant, gentlemanlike service of the Prince, whose\nsoldiers, he believed, had not only daily opportunities of enriching\nthemselves with honourable plunder,--a small specimen of which he\nhad just witnessed--but who had the prospect opened to them of one\nday becoming great men, the contrast was by far too flattering in\nfavour of the latter not to dazzle him. But if it had not had that\neffect, the promise which M'Taggart made him of introducing him to\nPrince Charles, the son of the true and legitimate King of Scotland,\nwas enough of itself to have gained John's consent in a moment.\n\n\"Ou, troth, she'll no be lang o' gangin' wi' her,\" said John,\n\"an she'll but stop till she clean hersel' a wee frae ta durt o' ta\nfulthy bog, tat ta soo beast pat her intill,--and syne bids fereweel\nto ta leddy.\"\n\n\"Whoo!\" exclaimed M'Taggart.--\"The lady! What, then, the Pensassenach\nis somewhere about the place after all, and you know where she\nis?--By holy St. Mary, but I will burn every house here, and force\nthe rancorous whig she-devil to unkennel out of her hiding place!\"\n\n\"Teel purn her nane sell's fooliss tongue for namin' ta leddy ava\nava!\" said John bitterly. \"But she may e'en purn ta hale toon gin\nshe likes--fint a bit o' ta leddy can she purn.\"\n\n\"Ha, my good fellow,\" said M'Taggart, \"since you have the secret\nknowledge of her place of concealment locked up in your bosom, what\nis to hinder me to use a thumbikin as a key to unlock it.--I have a\ngreat mind to try.\"\n\n\"She may e'en puts ta toomkin on her nanesell's neck, and she'll no\ntell after a',\" said John resolutely. \"And ponny pounties tat wad be\nsurely for Shon Smiss to serve ta Prince.\"\n\n\"Nay, my good fellow, I was only joking,\" said M'Taggart, afraid to\nlose so good a volunteer; \"trust me I meant you no harm.\"\n\n\"Gin she purns ta toon, or gin she do ony mair ill aboot ta place,\nfouk wull be sayin' tat Shon Smiss bid her do it,\" continued John--\"an\ntat wad be doin' Shon mockell harm. Teevil ae stap wull Shon be gangin'\nwi' her at a' at a', an she do ony mair bad sings here.\"\n\n\"Well well,\" said M'Taggart, soothing him, \"go in and dress yourself,\nand make your mind easy; and the sooner we are away from here the\nbetter.\"\n\nJohn thought so too. He ran to the stable for his breachcan; [2]\nput on his best coat, kilt, and hose; tied up his only two shirts,\nand a spare pair of hose, in a napkin, and placed the bundle into the\nfold of his plaid; and then seizing a trusty old broad-sword, he put on\nhis new Sunday's bonnet, smartly cocked up,--and he strode so erectly\nforth to M'Taggart, and with so martial an air, that, added to the\nwonderful change created in his personal appearance by his dress, made\nthe captain hesitate for a moment in believing him to be the same man.\n\n\"She be ready noo,\" said John; \"put fare be ta rest o' ta men,\nCaptain!\"\n\n\"They are hunting the Pensassenach,\" replied M'Taggart with a\ncareless laugh.\n\n\"She pe verra idle loons tan,\" said John, \"for gin she wad seek a'\ntay she wad na' find her.\" And then, by way of diverting the Captain's\nattention from the search by a joke, he pointed to Morag, who stood\nat the door, weeping bitterly at the prospect of his departure,\nand added,--\"see, tat pe ta Pensassenach.\"\n\n\"That the Pensassenach!\" said M'Taggart.--\"That's a good joke truly. I\nknow well enough that's not the Pensassenach that we are after.\"\n\n\"She pe a verra ponny Pensassenach,\" said John, going up to Morag,\nand hastily delivering to her, in a Gaelic whisper, directions how\nand when she should relieve her mistress from her confinement, and\nalso where she was to look for the packman, that she might get him\ntaken out of the water.\n\n\"That Pensassenach seems to be a favourite of yours, John,\" said\nthe Captain.\n\n\"She wunna say put she is,\" replied John, his heart filling a\nlittle with sympathy for Morag's tears, and at the prospect of\nleaving her.--\"Petter tak tiss Pensassenach wi' huss,\"--and then,\nrather as a parting word of kindness than anything else, he added,\n\"will she go, Morag?\"\n\nThis was too much for poor Morag. Her heart was too full for her to\ncommand words to reply. She rushed forward, and threw her arms around\nJohn. She fixed her hands into the folds of that breachcan, in which,\nin their days of herding, when she was but a lassie, and he but a boy,\nshe had been so often wrapped by her lover as a shelter from the stormy\nelements, and she gave way to a burst of grief that at length enabled\nher to find utterance for her feelings. She implored him, in all the\nanguish of despair, not to leave her. John's heart was softened by\nher words, and her tears, and he blubbered like a child. M'Taggart,\nfearing that the martial influence in John's soul might be overpowered\nand extinguished by that of love, and setting a much greater value on\nhim as a recruit, than on the capture of the Pensassenach, he thought\nit advisable to put an end to this tender interview as speedily as\nmight be. He ordered the piper to play up therefore, and the men,\nabandoning their fruitless search after the English wife, were speedily\ngathered around him. The train of carts and horses, with the plunder,\nwere driven on--the order of march was formed. John, after a severe\nstruggle with his heart, rent himself away from the arms of Morag,\nand followed M'Taggart, without daring to speak, or to look behind him;\nwhilst the poor girl, bereft of her support, fell upon the green--where\nshe lay beating her breast and tearing her hair in utter despair,\ntill the sound of the distant pipe died away, and the presence of\nsome of her fellow-servants brought her back to her reason.\n\nMorag was no sooner sufficiently calm and collected, than she hastened\nto execute John Smith's last injunctions. The poor Pensassenach was\ntaken from the killogie more dead than alive. Morag would have had\nher to go to bed, but, having recovered herself a little, she became\ntoo much excited to rest; and, having arranged her dress, she began to\nbustle about her affairs, and to take a full note of her loss. It was,\nindeed, severe. But she felt that she endured it for a glorious cause,\nand that reflection made her bear it with wonderful philosophy. She\nwas grieved, and even angry to learn that John Smith had enlisted\nwith the Prince's men, but she felt deeply grateful to him for having\nsaved her life; and especially so, when she heard from Morag the story\nof the packman's treachery, and John's ingenuity in defeating it,\nas well as of the whole of his exertions for her preservation.\n\n\"Where has John bestowed the villain?\" demanded the Pensassenach.\n\n\"Toon in ta lint pot, memm,\" replied Morag; \"I maun gang toon an get\nhim oot o' ta holl noo.\"\n\n\"I'll go with you, Morag,\" said the Pensassenach; and so mistress and\nmaid proceeded together towards the pond. \"What noise is that?\" cried\nthe Pensassenach, as they drew near to it.\n\n\"Aw--yaw!--yaw--aw!\" cried the packman from the pool.\n\n\"Where are you, wretched man?\" cried the Pensassenach.\n\n\"Yaw--aw!--yaw--aw!\" replied Mr. Dallas.\n\n\"Why don't you speak distinctly?\" demanded the lady.\n\n\"Aw--aw!--yaw--aw!\" replied Dallas again.\n\n\"The sound would seem to come from under that loose heap of rushes\nat the margin of the pool yonder,\" said the Pensassenach.\n\n\"Oich aye, she's here memm,\" cried Morag, removing the covering from\nthe packman's head.\n\n\"Ya--aw!--aw--aw!\" cried Dallas, raising his eyes with an expression\nof intense agony.\n\n\"Ah, I see how it is,\" said the Pensassenach; \"John has gagged him,\nto prevent his vile tongue from betraying me. Loosen that string,\nMorag, and take out the gag.\"\n\n\"Oh, Heeven be praised that I hae fand freends at last,\" cried the\npackman in a hoarse voice. \"Hech, my jaws are stiff, stiff, and sair,\nsair, wi' that plaguit bit o' a rung that John Smith pat into my\nmooth. Hech me! kind souls that ye are, pu' me oot, pu' me oot o'\nthis, or I maun e'en drap awthegither owerhead into the pool, for\nI haena mair poor to stand on this ae leg o' mine, and I canna rest\nony at a' on the short ane, mind ye, without sinkin' my mooth below\nthe water. Och, memm, pu' me out!\"\n\n\"How can you ask me to assist you, base wretch that you are?\" cried\nthe Pensassenach; \"you who would have sold my life to have saved your\nown. I shall push you as gently under the water as I can, but drowned\nyou must be.\"\n\n\"Oh, for the love o' Heeven hae mair charity!\" cried the packman\nmost piteously. \"I'm a sad sinner, nae doot. But I'm a puir, wake,\nnervish craytur,--and fan that deevil incarnate, Captain M'Taggart,\nspak o' hangin' me, my brains whurled sae i' my head, that I didna\nken what I was sayin'. But I'm sure I never thocht o' doin' harm till\nyou or ony o' your hoose. Pu' me oot, memm; pu' me oot for the love o'\nHeeven, or the very life'll leave my legs wi' cauld.\"\n\n\"Pull you out,\" exclaimed the Pensassenach; \"pull you out,--you\nwho would have helped the Highlanders to my murder: pull you out,\nwho wilfully spoke treason, to aid, abet, and comfort the rebel\nCaptain. My loyalty to my King and my country forbids me to assist\nyou, and compels me to make a sacrifice of you immediately. So,\nprepare for instant death.\"\n\n\"Och, hae mercy on my puir sowl,\" cried the packman in despair;\n\"surely, surely, ye're no gawin' till droon me?\"\n\n\"What can you say in exculpation of your treason?\" demanded the\nPensassenach, laying hold of the upper part of the sack with both\nher hands, and giving Mr. Dallas a gentle shake.\n\n\"Och, naething--naething ava,\" cried Mr. Dallas. \"Oh, I'm a dead man--a\ndead man: hae mercy--hae mercy upon me. I'm a great sinner--a wicked,\nand hardened sinner.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it were well to allow you a few moments, wretch that you are,\nto confess your sins and repent, before you are sent into the other\nworld,\" said the Pensassenach. \"So make haste--lose not the fleeting\nspace of time which I thus mercifully grant to you, and lighten your\nsoul of as much load as you can.\"\n\n\"Oh, hae mercy--hae mercy on me!\" cried Dallas.\n\n\"I'll have no mercy on you, more than this,\" cried the Pensassenach,\nin a terrible voice. \"If you will not confess yourself, your last\nmoment is at hand;\" and so saying, she ducked Mr. Dallas's head under\nthe water.\n\n\"O! O! O! Oh!--hech! ech!\" cried Mr. Dallas, panting for breath;\n\"I'm a dead man! I'm a dead man! Oh, Lord forgie me for sellin'\npastes for precious stanes.\"\n\n\"Come! is that all?\" cried the Pensassenach, shaking him again.\n\n\"Hae mercy on me for sellin' rock crystal for diamunts,\" cried Dallas.\n\n\"Come! out with it all!\" said the Pensassenach.\n\n\"Oh! Och! Forgie me for sellin' bits o' ayster shells for pearls,\"\ncried Dallas again, \"and pinchbeck for gold; and watches wi' worn\nout auld warks for new anes.\"\n\n\"Come! nothing else to confess?\" said the Pensassenach.\n\n\"Oh, yes. Heaven help me, and hae mercy on me, for keepin' fause\nweights and a fause ell-wand,\" cried Dallas.\n\n\"Are these all your sins, villain?\" exclaimed the Pensassenach.\n\n\"Oh, hey, aye, aye,\" said Dallas piteously, \"and ower muckle,\ngude kens.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said the Pensassenach, taking a more determined grasp\nof the sack; \"now, that you have duly confessed, here goes.\"\n\n\"Oh, stop, stop!\" cried Dallas, in great fear. \"Stop, stop! no yet! no\nyet! I hae mair to tell o' yet. I hae noo an' than picked up an odd\nsilver spoon, or sae, or ony siccan wee article whan it cam in my way,\njust tempin' me like, in ony o' the hooses whaur I had quarters. But\nI never was a great fief--no, no.\"\n\n\"'Twas you belike who stole my silver punch-ladle,\" said the\nPensassenach. \"I missed it immediately after you were last here.\"\n\n\"I canna just charge my memory wi' the punch-ladle,\" said Mr. Dallas,\nunwilling to admit that he had in any way wronged the Pensassenach.\n\n\"Nay, then, your thefts must have been too numerous for you to note\nsuch a trifling item as that,\" said the Pensassenach; \"but it is\nclear you did steal my punch-ladle, so now you shall die for not\nconfessing. Now!\"\n\n\"Oh, stop, stop, for mercy's sake!\" cried Dallas, in livid\napprehension. \"I mind noo! I mind noo! I did tak' it--I did tak'\nthe ladle! It shined sae tempin' through the glass door o' the bit\ncorner cupboard, and the door was open, sae that I may amaist say\nthat the deevil himsel' handed it oot till me, and pat it intil my\nvery pack. But I'll never wrang you ony mair.\"\n\n\"I'll take good care you shall not,\" said the lady; \"you shall never\nwrong me, nor any one else more. So now, prepare, for this is your\nlast moment.\"\n\n\"Oh, mercy, mercy,\" cried the packman again. \"I hae mair yet to\nconfess! Oh, dinna droun me just yet!\"\n\n\"Well, be quick,\" said the Pensassenach; \"what more have ye to tell?\"\n\n\"Oh, mercy, mercy!\" cried Dallas. \"That woman that I telled ye o'\nyestreen; that woman that I clippit out o' the Spey, was na just\nawthegither dead--\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed the Pensassenach, in horror; \"wretch that you are,\ndid you murder the woman?\"\n\n\"Eh, na, na!\" cried Dallas; \"ill as I am, I didna do that. I just\ntook her roklay and her gown, an some ither wee things aperteenin'\ntill her, and syne I gade aff wi' mysel', leaving her to come roond\nto life at her nain leisure and convenience.\"\n\n\"Leaving her to die without help you mean, you murdering thief!\" said\nthe Pensassenach, shrinking back with horror from the very touch\nof him. \"Wretch, you are unworthy of life! But I shall not be your\nexecutioner. You will grace a gallows yet, I'll warrant you. I shall\nnow leave Morag to pull you out of the water. But hark ye, Mr. Dallas,\nbefore I leave you, I may as well tell you, that though I have spared\nyour life, as indeed I never had the least intention of taking it,\nI advise you never to darken my door again; for, if you do, I promise\nyou that you shall have another and a deeper taste of this lint-pot.\"\n\n\"Oh, bless you, memm!\" cried Mr. Dallas, with an earnestness which\nshowed how much he was relieved by her words; \"I'll never come\nwithin five miles o' your farm. Noo, Morag, my dawty,\" continued he,\naddressing the maid after the mistress was gone; \"gudesake, woman, be\nquick an' pu' me oot; or, as sure as death, I'll dee o't awthegither.\"\n\n\"Fawse loons tat she is,\" said Morag, looking terribly at him. \"She\nwill no pu' her oot; she wull pit her toon in ta holl, an' troon\nher! She is a wicked vullian--she wull pit her toon in ta holl an'\ntroon her wissout nae mercy at a' at a'.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried the terrified Dallas, with his eye-balls again starting\nfrom his head with apprehension. \"Oh, dinna droon me, noo that your\nmistress has spared me! I wus ragin' fu' wi' brandy last nicht, and\nI didna ken what I wus doin'; and maybe I wus a wee unceevil till ye,\nor the like. But oh, hae mercy, hae mercy on me!\"\n\n\"She'll no be ta waur o' a gude tooky tan,\" said Morag, seizing\nthe sack, and plunging the gasping Mr. Dallas two or three times\nsuccessively under the water; \"tat'll cool ta hot speerits in her\nstamick, or she pe far mistane.\"\n\n\"Oh! O! O! Och! hech! och! oh!--O!\" cried Dallas, gasping and\npanting. \"O, mercy, mercy! an' I hadna drucken a' yon oceans o' brandy\nyester nicht, I had assuredly been a dead man this day, just frae very\ncauld itsel'. But the brandy o' yestreen has saved me frae a' the water\nthat my body has imbibit frae this nasty lint-pot, by actuwully makin'\na kind o' wake punch o' me. Oh, gude lassie that ye are, pu' me oot,\npu me oot!\"\n\n\"Its mair nor she's weel deservan',\" said Morag, now putting forth all\nher strength to pull the sack and its contents up out of the water;\n\"but Morag canna let a man be trooned an she can help it, pad man so\nshe pe.\"\n\nHaving hauled up the sack, she laid it upon the grass, undid the\nfastenings of its mouth, and, with some difficulty, extricated\nMr. Dallas from its durance vile. The worthy packman arose to his feet,\nand, shaking himself heartily, and stretching out first his short,\nand then his long leg, two or three times alternately, to relieve\nthat killing cold cramp which possessed them, he hobbled off without\nuttering a word of thanks, and shivering so, that his teeth were\nrattling in his head, as if his jaws had contained a corps of drummers,\nbeating the rogue's march. Morag looked after him with a hearty laugh,\nand then picking up the wet sack, she hastened to join her mistress.\n\nLet us now follow the march of John Smith.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCOMFORTS OF A LONDON CLUB-HOUSE.\n\n\nAuthor.--Pray, stop for one moment, Mr. Macpherson, if you please. Let\nme throw a few more peats on the fire. With the rain still beating\nthus without, and the picture of the half-drowned shivering chapman\nbrought so vividly before our mind's eyes by your description,\nwe shall have our teeth rattling in our jaws from very sympathy,\nif we don't keep up the caloric we have already generated.\n\nGrant.--It is right not to allow it to be too much reduced,\ncertainly. But I declare I am as comfortable here in Inchrory, as if\nI were in my club-house in London.\n\nClifford.--Much more so, my good fellow, take my word for it. Where\nis the London club-house in which we could have been so quiet as we\nare here, especially in such weather as this. Think of the noise in\nthe streets; think, I say, of the eternal thunder of the carriages of\nall kinds, the hackney-coaches, stage-coaches, omnibusses, and cabs,\nwith the Cherokee yelling, and whooping of the drivers, uttering\nstrange and horrible oaths; and, to complete the instrumental part of\nthis mechanical concert, to have it grounded with the grating double\nbass of the huge carts, drays, and waggons. The mellow roar of the\nAven is like the soft music of a flute, compared to so terrific a\ncombination of ear-rending sounds. Then think of the crowd of dull\nand damp fellows, dry to talk to, but wet enough to the touch, who are\ncontinually coming in and going out, restless and unhappy--miserable\nwhen condemned to the house, and yet more wretched when out in the\nrain--giving you hopes of enjoying a glimpse of the fire at one moment,\nand then shutting you out entirely from it at the next, with persons\nso steeped, as to make the very evaporation from their bodies, by the\nheat, fill the room with clouds of steam,--talking, and chattering,\nand recognizing each other--disputing about politics, or the merits\nof the last opera, or opera singer, or ballet, or dancer. In vain\nyou try to have some rational talk with some sensible man, or to\nlisten to something of the greatest possible interest, which he has\nto tell you--for you have hardly begun so to do, when up comes some\nfool of a fellow, who, at some unfortunate time or another, has sworn\neternal friendship to you, and who now, to your great discomfiture,\nas well as to the imminent peril of your good temper and manners,\nbreaks boisterously in upon your tete-a-tete, to prove to you how\nwell he keeps his oath, by nearly shaking your hand off, or perhaps\ndislocating your shoulder, by loudly protesting how rejoiced he is\nto see you, and by most heroically sacrificing himself, and his own\nvaluable time, in kindly bestowing his fullest tediousness upon you,\nthat he may give you the whole history of his life since he last saw\nyou. Then, suppose you sit down to read some important speech, or\nleading article, in your favourite newspaper, or something which you\nwish to devour out of some much-talked-of pamphlet or review of the\nday, it is ten to one but you experience a similar interruption from\nsome such kind and much attached friend. But the height of your misery\nis only attained, when you come to take refuge in the writing-room,\nin order to write a letter of more than ordinary importance, and\nrequiring great care in the arrangement of its subject, as well\nas in the choice of its expressions. Then it is, that among those\nemployed at the different tables, you are certain to find some two\nor more idle scribblers, who go not there really to write, but who,\nnotwithstanding, waste more of the writing materials belonging to\nthe club, than all the rest of its members put together, in order\nto give themselves importance, by an affectation of much business,\nand high correspondence. Amongst these there is probably one, who,\nafter allowing you to get down to the bottom of your first page, and\nfairly into your subject, suddenly, and as if accidentally descries\nyou, and rushing across to salute you, rivets himself on the floor\nclose to your chair, and goes on ear-wigging you with his important\nsecrets, whilst he is all the time curiously drinking in your's,\nfrom your half-written letter, which lies open before him. Or, if you\nshould have the good fortune to escape from such a jackal as this,\nthen you will find the other men of his kidney, who may be sitting\nat the different tables with the affectation of writing, carrying\non such a battery of loud talk across the room, as altogether to\ndistract your attention. In vain do you try to control your thoughts\nwithin their proper current. They are continually jostled aside by\nsome half-caught sentence, which sets your mind working in some wrong\ndirection, merely to have it again driven off at a tangent into some\nother, which is equally foreign to that subject to which you would\nconfine it. In vain do you rub your brow, cover your eyes, and gnaw\nyour pen; every thought but the right thought is forced upon you,\nuntil at last, in utter despair, you start to your feet, snatch up\nyour blotted and often corrected letter, tear it into shreds, commit\nit to the flames, and, seizing your hat, you abruptly hurry homewards,\nduly execrating, as you go, all club-houses, and those many men of\nannoyance with which clubs are so universally afflicted.\n\nGrant.--Your picture is a lively one, Clifford, and in its general\nfeatures most just. Though our London clubs have many advantages, this\nlonely house of Inchrory is certainly better for our present purpose.\n\nAuthor.--Gentlemen, unless you mean to enact here the part of some\nof those London club-annoyance-givers, which you, Clifford, have\nso well described, I think you had better drop your conversation,\nand allow Mr. Macpherson to proceed with his story.\n\nClifford.--I stand corrected;--then allow me to light a fresh cigar;\nand now, Mr. Macpherson, pray go on with Serjeant John Smith.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF SERJEANT JOHN SMITH'S ADVENTURES CONTINUED.\n\n\nYou will remember, gentlemen, that when I was interrupted, I was about\nto follow John Smith on his march with Captain M'Taggart. Well, you\nsee, Prince Charles Edward chanced to be at this time at Kilravock\nCastle, the ancient seat of the Roses. Thither the sagacious captain\nthought it good policy to present himself, with the motley company,\nthe greater number of the individuals of which he had himself\ncollected. There he received his due meed of praise for his zeal,\nwith large promises of future preferment for his energetic exertions\nin the Prince's cause. But although the Captain thus took especial\ncare to serve himself in the first place, he made a point of strictly\nkeeping his own promise to John Smith, for he did present him to\nthe Prince, along with some five or six other recruits, whom he had\ncajoled to follow him, somewhat in the way he had cajoled John. But\nthis their presentation was more with a view of enhancing the value\nof his own zeal and services, for his own private ends, than for the\npurpose, or with the hope of benefiting them in any way. The Prince\ncame out to the lawn with M'Taggart, and some of his own immediate\nattendants. The men were presented to him by name; and John Smith was\nespecially noticed by him. He spoke to each of them in succession;\nand then, clapping John familiarly on the shoulder,--\n\n\"My brave fellows,\" said he, \"you have a glorious career before\nyou. The enemy advances into our very hands. I trust we shall soon\nhave an opportunity of fighting together, side by side. Meanwhile, go,\njoin the gallant army which I have so lately left at Culloden, eagerly\nwaiting the approach of our foes. I shall see you very soon, and I\nshall not forget you.\" So saying, he took off his Highland bonnet;\nand, whilst a gentle zephyr sported and played with his fair curls,\nhe bowed gracefully to the men, and then retired into the house.\n\n\"She's fichts to ta last trap o' her bluids for ta ponny\nPrincey!\" cried John, with an enthusiasm which was cordially responded\nto by shouts from all present.\n\nM'Taggart then gave the word, and the party wheeled off on their\nmarch in the direction of Inverness, in the vicinity of which town\nthe Prince's army was encamped. Their way lay down through the parish\nof Petty, and past Castle-Stuart. As they moved on, they were every\nwhere loudly cheered by the populace--men, women, and children, who\nturned out to meet them, and showered praises and blessings upon them;\nand this friendly welcome seemed to await them all along their route,\ntill they joined the main body of their forces, which lay about and\nabove the mansion house of Culloden.\n\nJohn Smith would have much preferred to have placed himself under the\nstandard of the Mackintosh, whom the Smiths or Gowe, the descendants of\nthe celebrated Gowin Cromb, who fought on the Inch of Perth, held to be\ntheir chief, as head of the Clan-Chattan. But M'Taggart was unwilling\nto lose the personal support of so promising a soldier. Perhaps\nalso he began to feel a certain interest in the young man; and he\naccordingly advised him to stick close to him at all times.\n\n\"Stick you by me, John,\" said he--\"stick close by my side; I shall\nthen be able to see what you do, as well as to give a fair and\nhonest, and I trust not unfavourable report of the gallant deeds\nwhich your brave spirit may prompt you to perform. Depend upon it,\nwith my frequent opportunities of obtaining access to the Prince,\nI can do as much good for you, at least, as any Mackintosh.\"\n\nOn the night of the 14th of April then, John Smith lay with M'Taggart\nand his company, among the whin and juniper bushes in the wood of\nCulloden, where the greater part of the Jacobite army that night\ndisposed of themselves. Whatever might have been the ill-provided\nstate of the other portions of the Prince's troops, that with which\nJohn was now consorted, had no reason to complain of any want of those\nrefreshments which human nature requires, and which are so important\nto soldiers. Large fires were speedily kindled; and the Pensassenach's\ngreat sow, with all her little pigs, and the poor woman's poultry\nof all kinds, together with some few similar delicacies which had\nelsewhere been picked up here and there, were soon divided, and\nprepared to undergo such rude cookery as each individual could command;\nand these, with the bread and cheese, and other such provisions,\nwhich they had carried off from the Pensassenach, as well as from\nsome other houses, enabled them to spread for themselves what might\nbe called a vurra liberal table in the wilderness. But the savoury\nodour which their culinary operations diffused around, brought hungry\nHighlanders from every quarter of the wood, like wolves upon them,\nso that each man of their party was fain to gobble up as much as\nhe could swallow in haste, lest he should fail to secure to himself\nenough to satisfy his hunger, ere the whole feast should disappear\nunder the active jaws of those intruders. The liquor was more under\ntheir own control. The flask was allowed to circulate through the\nhands of those only to whom it most properly belonged by the right of\ncapture. John, for his part, had a good tasse of the Pensassenach's\nbrandy; and the smack did not seem to savour the worse within his lips,\nbecause it was prefaced with the toast of--\"Success to the Prince,\nand confusion to the Duke of Cumberland!\"\n\nAfter this their refreshment, the men and officers disposed themselves\nto sleep around the fires of their bivouac, each in a natural bed\nof his own selection, John Smith, being a pious young man, retired\nunder the shelter of a large juniper bush, and having there offered\nup his evening prayer to God, he wrapped himself up in his plaid,\nand consigned himself to sleep. How long he had slept he knew not;\nwhen, as he turned in his lair to change his position, his eye caught\na dim human figure, which floated, as it were, in the air, stiff\nand erect, immediately under the high projecting limb of a great fir\ntree, that grew at some twenty paces distant from the spot where he\nlay. The figure seemed to have a preternatural power of supporting\nitself; and as the breeze wailed and moaned through the boughs,\nit appeared alternately to advance and to recede again with a slow\ntremulous motion. John's heart, stout as it was against every thing\nof earthly mould, began to beat quick, and finally to thump against\nhis very ribs, with all manner of superstitious fears. He gazed and\ntrembled, without the power of rising, which he would have fain done,\nnot for the purpose of investigating the mystery, but to take the\nwiser course of looking out for some other place of repose, where\nhe might hope to escape from the appalling contemplation of this\nstrange and most unaccountable apparition. He lay staring then at it\nin a cold sweat of fright, whilst the faint glimmering light from the\nnearest fire, as it rose or fell, now made it somewhat more visible,\nand now again somewhat more dim. At length, an accidental fall of\nsome of the half burnt fuel, sent up a transient gleam that fully\nilluminated the ghastly countenance of the spectre, when, to John's\nhorror, he recognised the pale and corpse-like features of Mr. William\nDallas, the packman, whom he had left so ingeniously inserted into\nthe sack, and deposited in the Pensassenach's lint-pot. Though the\ngag was gone, the mouth was wide open, and the large, protruded,\nand glazed eye-balls, glared fearfully upon him. Though the light\nwas not sufficient to display the figure correctly, John's fancy\nmade him vividly behold the sack. He would have spoken if he could;\nbut he felt that the apparition of a murdered man was floating before\nhim. His throat grew dry of a sudden. He gasped--but could not utter a\nword. He doubted not that the packman had been forgotten by Morag, and\nthat, having fallen down into the water through cold and exhaustion,\nthe wretch had at last miserably perished; and he came very naturally\nto the conclusion, that he who had put the unfortunate man there, was\nnow doomed to be henceforth continually haunted by his ghost. Fain\nwould he have shut out this horrible sight, by closing his eyes, or\nby drawing his plaid over them; but this he was afraid to do, lest\nthe object of his dread should swim towards him through the air, and\ncongeal his very life's-blood by its freezing touch. Much as he loved\nMorag, he had some difficulty in refraining from inwardly cursing\nher, for her supposed neglect of his express injunctions to relieve\nthe packman from the pool. As he stared on this dreadful apparition,\nthe flickering gleam from the faggot sunk again, and the countenance\nagain grew dim; but John seemed still to see it in all its intensity\nof illumination. No more rest had he that night. Still, as he gazed\non the figure, he again and again fancied that he saw it gradually\nand silently gliding nearer and nearer to him. The only relief he had\nwas in fervent and earnest prayers, which he confusedly murmured,\nfrom time to time, in Gaelic. He eagerly petitioned for daylight,\nhoping that the morning air might remove all such unrealities from\nthe earth. At length, the eastern horizon began to give forth the\npartial glimmer of dawn; but John was somewhat surprised to find,\nthat, instead of the apparition fading away before it, the outlines\nof its horrible figure became gradually more and more distinct as it\nadvanced, until even the features were by degrees rendered visible. But\nalthough John, by this time, began to discover that his fancy had\nsupplied the sack, he now perceived something which he had not been\nable to see before, and that was, a thin rope which hung down from the\nhorizontal limb of the fir tree, and suspended, by its lower extremity,\nthe body of the poor packman by the neck. John was much shocked by\nthis discovery. But he could not help thanking God that he was thus\nacquitted of the wretched man's death; and after the misery that he\nhad suffered from the supposed presence of the apparition of a man who\nhad been drowned through his means, however innocently, the relief\nhe now experienced was immense. He called up some of his comrades\nto explain the mystery; and from them he learned, that Mr. Dallas\nhad been caught in the early part of the night, in the very act of\nattempting to carry off Captain M'Taggart's horse from its piquet,\nand that he had been instantly tucked up to the bough of the fir tree,\nwithout even the ceremony of a trial.\n\nThe young Prince Charley was in the field by an early hour on the\nmorning of the 15th, and being all alive to the critical nature of\nhis circumstances, and by no means certain as yet how near the enemy\nmight by this time be to him, he judged it important to collect,\nand to draw up his army on the most favourable ground he could find\nin the neighbourhood. He therefore marched them up the high, partly\nflattish, and partly sloping ridge, which, though commonly called\nCulloden Moor, from its being situated immediately above the house and\ngrounds of that place, has in reality the name of Drummossie. He led\nthem to a part of this ground, a little to the south eastward of their\nprevious position in the wood of Culloden, and there he drew them up\nin order of battle. There they were most injudiciously kept lying on\ntheir arms the whole day, and if Captain M'Taggart's men had feasted\ntolerably well the previous night, their commons were any thing but\nplentiful during the time they occupied that position. It was not in\nthe nature of things, that subordination could be so strictly preserved\nin the Prince's army, as it was in that of the Duke of Cumberland. I,\nwho am well practeesed in the discipline of boys, gentlemen, know\nvery well that it would be impossible to bring a regiment of them\nunder immediate command, if the individuals composing it were to\nbe collected together all at once, raw and untaught, from different\nparts of the district. It is only by bringing one or two at a time,\ninto the already great disciplined mass, that either a schoolmaster,\nor a field-marischal can promise to have his troops always well\nunder control. By the time evening came, the officers, as well as\nthe men of the Prince's army, began to suffer under the resistless\norders of a commander to whom no human being can say nay. Hunger,\nI may say, was rugging at their vurra hearts, and as they all saw,\nor supposed that they saw, reason to believe that there was no chance\nof the enemy coming upon them that night, many of them went off to\nInverness and elsewhere, in search of food. M'Taggart himself could\nnot resist those internal admonitions, which his stomach was so\nurgently giving him from time to time, and accordingly, John Smith\nconceived he was guilty of no great dereliction of duty, in strictly\nfollowing the first order which his captain had given him, viz., to\n\"stick by his side,\" which he at once resolved to do, as he saw him\ngo off to look for something to support nature.\n\nBut the captain and his man had hardly got a quarter of a mile on\nthe road to Inverness, when they, with other stragglers, were called\nback by a mounted officer, who was sent, with all speed, after them,\nto tell them that they must return, in order to march immediately. The\nobject of their march was that ill-conceived, worse managed, and most\nunlucky expedition for a night attack on the Duke of Cumberland's\ncamp at Nairn, which had that evening been so hastily planned. Hungry\nas they were they had no choice but to obey, and accordingly they\nhurried to their standards. The word was given, and after having been\nharassed by marching all night, without food or refreshment of any\nkind, they at last got only near enough to Nairn just to enable them\nto discover that day must infallibly break before they could reach\nthe enemy's camp, and that consequently no surprise could possibly\ntake place. Disheartened by this failure, they were led back to their\nground, where they arrived in so very faint and jaded a condition,\nthat even to go in search of food was beyond their strength, so that\nthey sank down in irregular groups over the field, and fell asleep for\na time. Awakened by hunger after a very brief slumber, they arose to\nforage. M'Taggart, and some of his party, and John Smith amongst the\nrest, went prowling across the river Nairn, which ran to the south of\ntheir position, and there they caught and killed a sheep. They soon\nmanaged to kindle a fire, and to subdivide the animal into fragments,\nbut ere each man had time to broil his morsel, an alarm was given\nfrom their camp. Like ravenous savages they tore up and devoured\nas much of the half raw flesh as haste would allow them to swallow,\nand hurrying back, they reached their post about eight o'clock in the\nmorning, when they found that the Duke of Cumberland was approaching\nwith his army in full march.\n\nThe position chosen by the Prince as that where he was to make his\nstand on that memorable day, the 16th of April, was by no means very\nwisely or very well selected. It was a little way to the westward\nof that which his army had occupied on the previous day. Somewhat\nin advance, and to the right of his ground, there stood the walls\nof an enclosure, which the experienced eye of Lord George Murray\nsoon enabled him to perceive, and he was at once so convinced that\nthey presented too advantageous a cover to the assailing enemy,\nto be neglected by them, that he would fain have moved forward with\na party to have broken them down, had time remained to have enabled\nhim to have effected his purpose. But the Duke of Cumberland's army\nwas already in sight, advancing in three columns, steadily over the\nheath, from Dalcross Castle, the tower of which was seen rising\ntowards its eastern extremity. The Highlanders were at this time\ndwindled to a mere handful, and some of the best friends of the cause\nof the Stewarts who were present, and perhaps even the young Prince\nhimself, began to believe that he had been traitorously deserted. But\nthe alarm had no sooner been fully spread by the clang of the pipes,\nand the shrill notes of the bugles, than small and irregular streams\nof armed men, in various coloured tartans, were seen rushing towards\ntheir common position, like mountain rills towards some Highland lake,\nand filling up the vacant ranks with all manner of expedition. Many a\nbrave fellow, who had gone to look for something to satisfy the craving\nof an empty stomach, came hurrying back with as great a void as he had\ncarried away with him, because he preferred fighting for him whom he\nconscientiously believed to be his king, to remaining ingloriously\nto subdue that hunger which was absolutely consuming him. No one\nwas wilfully absent who could possibly contrive to be present, but\nyet the urgent demands of the demon of starvation, to which many of\nthem had yielded, had very considerably thinned their numbers, and,\nin addition to this source of weakness, there was another obvious one,\narising from the physical strength of those who were present being\nwofully diminished by the want they had endured, and the fatigue they\nhad undergone. But with all these disadvantages the heroic souls of\nthose who were on the field remained firm and resolute.\n\nJohn Smith's military knowledge was then too small to allow him to form\nany judgment of the state of affairs, far less to enable him to carry\noff, or to describe, any thing like the general arrangement of the\norder of battle on both sides. He could not even tell very well what\nregiments his corps was posted with: he only knew this, that according\nto the order he had received he stuck close to Captain M'Taggart. He\nalways remembered with enthusiasm, indeed, that the Prince rode through\nthe ranks with his attendants, doing all that he could to encourage\nhis men, and that when he passed by where John himself stood, he\nsmiled on him like an angel, and bid him do his duty like a man.\n\n\"Och, hoch!\" cried John, with an exultation, which arose from the\ncircumstance of his not being in the least aware that every individual\nnear him had, like him, flattered himself that he was the person\nso distinguished.--\"Fa wad hae soughts tat ta ponny Princey wad hae\nmindit on poor Shon Smiss? Fod, but she wad fichts for her till she\nwas cut to collops!\"\n\nBut John had little opportunity of fighting, though he appears to have\nborne plenty of the brunt of the battle. There were two cannons placed\nin each space between the battalions composing the first line of the\nDuke of Cumberland's army, and these were so well served as to create a\nfearful carnage among the Highland ranks. To this dreadful discharge\nJohn Smith stood exposed, with men falling by dozens around him,\nmutilated and mashed, and exhibiting death in all his most horrible\nforms, till, to use his own very expressive words,--\"She was bitin'\nher ain lips for angher tat she could not get at tem.\" But before John\ncould get at them, the English dragoons, who, under cover of the walls\nof the enclosure I have mentioned, had advanced by the right of the\nHighland army, finally broke through the fence, and getting in behind\ntheir first line, came cutting and slashing on their backs, whilst\nthe Campbells were attacking them in front, and mowing them down like\ngrass. Then, indeed, did the melee become desperate, and then was it\nthat John began to bestir himself in earnest. Throwing away his plaid,\nand the little bundle that it contained, he dealt deadly blows with\nhis broad-sword, everywhere around him. He fought with the bravery\nand the perseverance of a hero. At length his bonnet was knocked from\nhis head, and although he was still possessed with the most anxious\ndesire to obey Captain M'Taggart's order to stick to his side, he was\nsurprised on looking about him to find that there was no M'Taggart,\nno, nor any one else left near him to stick to but enemies.\n\nJohn Smith's spirit was undaunted, so that, seeing he had no one else\nto stick to, he now resolved to stick to his foes, to the last drop\nof life's blood that was within him. Furiously and fatally did he cut\nand thrust, and turn and cut and thrust again, at all who opposed him;\nbut he was so overwhelmed by opponents, that in the midst of the blood,\nand wounds, and death which he was thus dealing in all directions, he\nreceived a desperate sabre cut, which, descending on him from above,\nentirely across the crown of his bared head, felled him instantaneously\nto the ground, and stretched him senseless among the heather, whilst\na deluge of blood poured from the wound over both his eyes.\n\nWhen John began partially to recover, he rubbed the half-congealed\nblood from his eyelids with the back of his left hand, and looking up\nand seeing that the ground was somewhat clear around him, he griped his\nclaymore firmly with his right hand, and raising himself to his feet,\nhe began to run as fast as his weak state would allow him. He thought\nthat he ran in the direction of Strath Nairn, and he ran whilst he had\nthe least strength to run, or the least power remaining in him. But\nhis ideas soon became confused, and the blood from the terrible\ngash athwart his head trickled so fast into his eyes, that it was\ncontinually obscuring his vision. At length he came to a large, deep\nirregular hollow hag, or ditch, in a piece of moss ground, which had\nbeen cut out for peats, and there, his brain beginning to spin round,\nhe sank down into the moist bottom of it to die, and as the tide of\nlife flowed fast from him, he was soon lost to all consciousness of\nthe things or events of this world.\n\nWhilst John was lying in this senseless state, he was recognised by one\nof the fugitives, who, in making his own escape, chanced to pass by\nthe edge of the ditch in the moss where the poor man lay. This was a\ncertain Donald Murdoch, who had long burned with a hopeless flame for\nblack-eyed Morag. With a satisfaction that seemed to make him forget\nhis present jeopardy in the contemplation of the death of his rival,\nhe looked down from the edge of the peat hag upon the pale and bloody\ncorpse, and grinned with a fiendish joy.\n\n\"Ha! there you lie!\" cried he in bitter Gaelic soliloquy.--\"The\nfiend a bit sorry am I to see you so. You'll fling or dance no more,\nelse I'm mistaken.--Stay!--is not that the bit of blue ribbon that\nMorag tied round his neck, the last time that we had a dance in the\nbarn? I'll secure that, it may be of some use to me;\" and so saying\nhe let himself down into the peat hag, hastily undid the piece of\nribbon,--and then continued his flight with all manner of expedition.\n\nFollowing the downward course of the river Nairn, running at one time,\nand ducking and diving into bushes, and behind walls at another, to\navoid the stragglers who were in pursuit, he by degrees gained some\nmiles of distance from the fatal field, and coming to a little brook,\nhe ventured to halt for a moment, to quench his raging thirst. As he\nlay gulping down the crystal fluid, he was startled by hearing his\nown name, and by being addressed in Gaelic.\n\n\"Donald Murdoch!--Oh, Donald Murdoch, can you tell me is John Smith\nsafe? Oh, those fearful cannons how they thundered!--Oh, tell me,\nis John Smith safe?--Oh, tell me! tell me!\"\n\n\"Morag!\" cried Donald, much surprised, but very much relieved\nto find that it was no one whom he had any cause to be afraid\nof,--\"Morag!--What brought you so far from home on such a day as this?\"\n\n\"Oh Donald!\" replied Morag, \"I came to look after John Smith;--oh,\ngrant that he be safe!\"\n\n\"Safe enough, Morag,\" replied Donald, galled by jealousy. \"I'll\nwarrant nothing in this world will harm him now.\"\n\n\"What say you?\" cried Morag. \"Oh, tell me! tell me truly if he\nbe safe?\"\n\n\"I saw John Smith lying dead in a moss hole, his skull cleft by a\ndragoon's sword,\" replied Donald with malicious coolness.\n\n\"What?\" cried Morag, wringing her hands, \"John Smith dead! But no! it\nis impossible!--and you are a lying loon, that would try to deceive me,\nby telling me what I well enough know you would wish to be true. God\nforgive you, Donald, for such cruel knavery!\"\n\n\"Thanks to ye, Morag, for your civility,\" replied Donald Murdoch\ncalmly; \"but if you wont believe me, believe that bit of ribbon--see,\nthe very bit of blue ribbon you tied round John Smith's neck, the\nnight you last so slighted me at the dance in the barn. See, it is\npartly died red in his life's blood.\"\n\n\"It is the ribbon!\" cried Morag, snatching it from his hand with\nexcessive agitation, and kissing it over and over again, and then\nbursting into tears. \"Alas! alas! it must be too true! What will become\nof poor Morag!--why did I not go with him! What is this world to poor\ndesolate Morag now?--And yet--he may be but wounded after all. It\nmust be so--he cannot be killed. Where did you leave him?--quick,\ntell me!--oh, tell me, Donald. Why do we tarry here? let us forward\nand seek him!--there may be life in him yet, and whilst there is life\nthere is hope. Let me pass, Donald; I will fly to seek him!\"\n\n\"I love you too well to let you pass on so foolish and dangerous an\nerrand,\" said Donald, endeavouring to detain her. \"I tell you that\nJohn Smith is dead; but you know, Morag, you will always find a friend\nand a lover in me. So think no more----\"\n\n\"I will pass, Donald,\" cried Morag, interrupting him, and making a\ndetermined attempt to rush past him.\n\n\"That you shall not,\" replied Donald, catching her in his arms.\n\n\"Help, help!\" cried Morag, struggling with all her might, and with\ngreat vigour too, against his exertions to hold her.\n\nAt this moment the trampling of a horse was heard, and a mounted\ndragoon came cantering down into the hollow. His sabre gleamed in the\nair--and Donald Murdoch fell headlong down the bank into the little\nrill, his skull nearly cleft in two, and perfectly bereft of life.\n\n\"A plague on the lousy Scot!\" said the trooper, scanning the corpse\nof his victim with a searching eye. \"His life was not worth the\ntaking, had it not been, that the more of the rascally race that\nare put out of this world, the better for the honest men that are\nto remain in it, and therefore it was in the way of my duty to cut\nhim down. There is nought on his beggarly carcase to benefit any one\nbut the crows.--And so the knave would have kissed thee against thy\nwill, my bonny black-eyed wench. Well, 'tis no wonder thou shouldst\nhave scorned that carotty-pated fellow; you showed your taste in so\ndoing, my dear: and now you shall be rewarded by having a somewhat\nbetter sweetheart.--Come!\" continued he, alighting from his charger,\nand approaching the agitated and panting girl--\"Come, a kiss from\nthe lips of beauty is the best reward for brave deeds; and no one\ndeserves this reward better than I do, for brave deeds have I this\nday performed. Why do you not speak, my dear? Have you no Christian\nlanguage to give me? Can it be possible that these pretty pouting\nlips have no language but that of the savages of this country?--Come,\nthen, we must try the kissing language; I have always found that to\nbe well understood in all parts of the world.\"\n\n\"Petter tak' Tonald's pig puss o' money first,\" said Morag, pointing\ndown to the corpse in the hollow.\n\n\"Ha! money saidst thou, my gay girl?\" cried the trooper. \"Who would\nhave thought of a purse of money being in the pouch of such a miserable\nrascally savage as that? But the best apple may sometimes have the\ncoarsest and most unpromising rhind; and so that fellow, unseemly and\nwretched as he appears, may perchance have a well-lined purse after\nall. If it be so, girl, I shall say that thy language is like the talk\nof an angel. Then do you hold the rein of this bridle, do you see,\ntill I make sure of the coin in the first place--best secure that,\nfor no one can say what mischance may come; or whether some comrade\nmay not appear with a claim to go snacks with me. So lay hold of the\nbridle, do you hear, and dont be afraid of old Canterbury, for the\nbrute is as quiet as a lamb.\"\n\nMorag took the bridle. The trooper descended the bank, and he had\nscarcely stooped over the body to commence his search for the dead\nman's supposed purse, when the active girl, well accustomed to ride\nhorses in all manner of ways, vaulted into the saddle, and kicking\nher heels into Canterbury's side, she was out of the hollow in a\nmoment. Looking over her shoulder, after she had gone some distance,\nshe beheld the raging dragoon puffing, storming, and swearing, and\nstriding after her, with, what might be called, that dignified sort\nof agility, to which he was enforced by the weighty thraldom of his\nimmense jack-boots. Bewildered by the terror and the anxiety of her\nescape, she flew over the country, for some time, without knowing\nwhich way she fled. At length she began to recover her recollection,\nso far as to enable her to recur to the object which had prompted her\nto leave home. On the summit of a knoll she checked her steed--surveyed\nthe country,--and the whole tide of her feelings returning upon her;\nshe urged the animal furiously forward in the direction of the fatal\nfield of Culloden.\n\nShe had not proceeded far, when, on coming suddenly to the edge of a\nrough little stoney ravine, she discovered five troopers refreshing\nthemselves and their horses from the little brook that had its course\nthrough the bottom. She reined back her horse, with the intention of\nstealing round to some other point of passage; but as she did so, a\nshout arose from the hollow of the dell.--She had been perceived. In\nan instant the mounted riders rushed, one after another, out of the\nravine, and she had no chance of escape left her, but to ride as\nhard as the beast that carried her could fly, in the very opposite\ndirection to that which she had hitherto pursued, for there was no\nother course of flight left open to her.\n\nThe five troopers were now in full chase after Morag, shouting out as\nthey rode, and urging on their horses to the top of their speed. The\nground, though rough, stony, and furzy, was for the most part firm\nenough, and the poor girl, now driven from that purpose to which her\nstrong attachment to John Smith had so powerfully impelled her, and\nbeing distracted by her griefs and her fears, spared not the animal\nshe rode, but forced him, by every means she could employ, either by\nhands, limbs, or voice, to the utmost exertion of every muscle.\n\n\"Lord, how she does ride!\" said one trooper to the others; \"I wish\nthat she beant some of them witches, as, they say, be bred in this\nhere uncanny country of Scotland.\"\n\n\"Bless you no, man,\" said another; \"them devils as you speak of ride\non broomsticks. Now, I'se much mistaken an' that be not Tom Dickenson's\nhorse Canterbury.\"\n\n\"Zounds, I believe you are right, Hall,\" said another man; \"but that\nbeant no proof that she aint a witch, for nothing but a she-devil,\nwot can ride on a broom, could ride ould Canterbury in that 'ere\nfashion, I say.\"\n\n\"Witch or devil, my boys, let us ketch her if we can,\" shouted\nanother.--\"Hurrah! hurrah!\"\n\n\"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!\" re-echoed the others, burying their spurs\nin their horses' sides, and bending forward, and grinning with very\neagerness.\n\nFor several miles Morag kept the full distance she had at first\ngained on her pursuers, but having got into a road, fenced by a\nrough stone wall upon one side, and a broad and very deep ditch on\nthe other, the troopers, if possible, doubled their speed, in the\nfull conviction that they must now very soon come up with her, and\ncapture her. Still Morag flew,--but as she every moment cast her eyes\nover one or other of her shoulders, she was terrified to see that the\ntroopers were visibly gaining upon her. The road before her turned\nsuddenly at an angle,--and she had no sooner doubled it, than, there,\nto her unspeakable horror--in the very midst of the way--stood Tom\nDickenson, the dismounted dragoon from whom she had taken the very\ncharger, called Canterbury, which she then rode. The time of the\naction of what followed was very brief. For an instant she reined up\nher horse till he was thrown back on his haunches.--Tom Dickenson's\nsword-blade glittered in the sun.\n\n\"By the god of war, but I have you now!\" cried he in a fury.\n\nThe triumphant shouts of Morag's pursuers increased, as they neared\nher, and beheld the position in which she was now placed. No weapon\nhad she, but the large pair of scissors that hung dangling from her\nside, in company with her pincushion. In desperation she grasped the\nsharp-pointed implement dagger fashion, and directed old Canterbury's\nhead towards the ditch. Dickenson saw her intention, and wishing\nto counteract it, he rushed to the edge of the ditch. The hand of\nMorag which held the scissors descended on the flank of the horse,\nand in defiance of his master, who stood in his way, and the gleaming\nweapon with which he threatened him, old Canterbury, goaded by the\npain of the sharp wound inflicted on him, sprang towards the leap\nwith a wild energy, and despite of the cut, which deprived him of an\near, and sheared a large slice of the skin off one side of his neck,\nhe plunged the unlucky Tom Dickenson backwards, swash into the water,\nand carried his burden fairly over the ditch.\n\nMorag tarried not to look behind her, until she had scoured across\na piece of moorish pasture land, and then casting her eyes over one\nshoulder, she perceived that only two of the troopers had cleared\nthe ditch, and that the others had either failed in doing so, or\nwere engaged in hauling their half-drowned comrade out of it. The\ntwo men who had taken the leap, however, were again hard after her,\nshouting as before, and evidently gaining upon her. The moment she\nperceived this, she dashed into a wide piece of mossy, boggy ground,\na description of soil with which she was well acquainted. There the\nchase became intricate and complicated. Now her pursuers were so near\nto her, as to believe that they were on the very point of seizing her,\nand again some impassable obstacle would throw them quite out, and give\nher the advantage of them. Various were the slips and plunges which\nthe horses made; but ere she had threaded through three-fourths of the\nsnares which she met with, she had the satisfaction of beholding one\nof the riders who followed her, fairly unhorsed, and hauling at the\nbridle of his beast, the head and neck of which alone appeared from\nthe slough, in which the rest of the poor animal was engulfed. The\nman called loudly to his comrade, but he was too keenly intent on the\npursuit, to give heed to him. The hard ground was near at hand, and\nhe pushed on after Morag, who was now making towards it. She reached\nit, and again she plied the points of her scissors on the heaving\nflanks of old Canterbury. But she became sensible that his pace was\nfast flagging,--and that the trooper was rapidly gaining on her. In\ndespair she made towards a small patch of natural wood.--She was\nalready within a short distance of it. But the blowing and snorting\nof the horse behind her, and the blaspheming of his rider, came\nevery instant more distinctly upon her ear. Some fifty or an hundred\nyards only now lay between her and the wood. Again, in desperation,\nshe gave the point of the scissors to her steed--when, all at once\nhe stopped--staggered--and, faint with fatigue and loss of blood,\nold Canterbury fell forward headlong on the grass.\n\n\"Hurrah!\" cried the trooper, who was close at his heels, \"witch or\nno witch, I think I'll grapple with thee now.\"\n\nHe threw himself from his heaving horse, and rushed towards Morag. But\nshe was already on her legs, and scouring away like a hare for the\ncovert. Jack-booted, and otherwise encumbered as he was, the bulky\ntrooper strode after her like a second Goliah of Gath, devouring the\nway with as much expedition as he could possibly use. But Morag's\nspeed was like that of the wind, and he beheld her dive in among the\nunderwood before he had covered half the distance.\n\n\"A very witch in rayal arnest!\" exclaimed the trooper, slackening\nhis pace in dismay and disappointment. And then turning towards\nhis comrade, who, having by this time succeeded in extricating his\nhorse from the slough, was now coming cantering towards him, \"Hollo,\nBill!\" shouted he, \"I've run the blasted witch home here.--Come away,\nman, do; for if so be that she dont arth like a badger, or furnish\nherself with a new horse to her own fancy out of one of 'em 'ere\nbroom bushes, this covert aint so large but we must sartinly find\nher. So come along, man, and be active.\"\n\nBut we must now return to poor John Smith, whom we have too long\nleft for dead in the bottom of a peat-hag. The cold and astringent\nmoss-water flowing about his head, by degrees checked the effusion\nof his blood, and at length he began to revive.\n\nWhen his senses returned to him, he gathered himself up, and leaning\nhis back against the perpendicular face of the peat bank above him,\nhe drank a little water from the hollow of his hand, and then washed\naway the clotted blood from his eyes. The first object that broke upon\nhis newly recovered vision was an English trooper riding furiously\nup to him, with his brandished sword. John was immediately persuaded\nthat he was a doomed man, for he felt that, in his case, resistance\nwas altogether out of the question. He threw himself on his back in\nthe bottom of the broad deep cut in the peat-hag. The trooper came\nup, and having no time to dismount, he stooped from his saddle and\nmade one or two ineffectual cuts at the poor man. The horse shyed at\nJohn's bloody head as it was raised in terror from the peat-hag, and\nthen the animal reared back as he felt the soft mossy ground sinking\nunder him. The trooper was determined,--got angry, and spurred the\nbeast forward, but the horse became obstinate and restive. At length\nthe trooper succeeded in bringing him up again to the edge of the\npeat-hag; but just as he was craning his neck over its brink, John,\nroused by desperation, pricked the creature's nose with the point of\nhis claymore. It so happened that he accidentally did this, at the\nvery instant that the irascible trooper was giving his horse a dig\nwith his spurs, and the consequence of these double, though antagonist\nstimulis, was, that the brute made a desperate spring, and carried\nhimself and his rider clean over the hag-ditch, John Smith and all,\nand then he ran off with his master through the broken moss-ground,\nscattering the heaps of drying peats to right and left, until horse\nand man were rolled over and over into the plashy bog.\n\nUninjured, except as to his gay clothes and accoutrements, which were\nspeedily dyed of a rich chocolate hue, the trooper arose in a rage,\nand could he have by any means safely left his horse so as to have\nsecured his not running away, he would have charged the dying man on\nfoot, and so he would have very speedily sacrificed him; but dreading\nto lose his charger if he should abandon him, he mounted him again,\nand was in the act of returning to the attack, with the determination\nof putting John to death, at all hazards, either by steel or by lead,\nwhen he was arrested by the voice of his officer, who was then passing\nalong a road tract, at some little distance, with a few of his troop,\nand who called out to him in a loud authoritative tone, \"Come away\nyou, Jem Barnard! Why dont you follow the living? Why waste time by\ncutting at the dying or dead?\"\n\nOn hearing this command, the trooper uttered a half-smothered curse,\nand unwillingly turned to ride after his comrades, throwing back bitter\nexecrations on John Smith as he went. John's tongue was otherwise\nemployed. He used it for the better purpose of returning thanks to\nthat Almighty Providence who had thus so wonderfully protected him.\n\nAfter this pious mental exercise, John thought that he felt himself\nsomewhat better. He made a feeble effort to rise, but it was altogether\nabortive. The blood still continued to flow from his head--he began\nto feel very faint, and a raging thirst attacked him. Turning himself\nround in the peat-hag, he contrived to lap up a considerable quantity\nof the moss water, which, however muddy and distasteful it might be,\nrefreshed him so much as to give him strength sufficient to raise\nhimself up a little, so as to enable him to extend the circuit of his\nview. He had now a moment's leisure to look about him, and to consider,\nas well as the confusion of his ideas would allow him, what he had\nbest to do. But what was his surprise and dismay to see, that although\nmany were yet flying in all directions, and many more pursuing after\nthem, whole battalions of the enemy still remained unbroken in the\nvicinity of the field of battle, and that some were marching up, in\nclose order, both to the right and left of him. There was but little\ntime left him for farther consideration, as one of these battalions\nwas so near to him, that he saw, from the course it was holding, that\nit must soon march directly over the spot where he was. The first\nthought that struck him was that his best plan would be to lie down\nand feign that he was dead. But it immediately afterwards occurred to\nhim that a thrust from some curious or malicious person, who might be\nthe bearer of one of those bayonets, which already glittered in his\neyes, might do his business even more effectually than the sword of\nthe trooper might have done. He became convinced that he had nothing\nleft for it but to run. But although he was now somewhat revived, and\nthat the dread of death gave new strength to exhausted nature, he felt\npersuaded of the truth, that if his wound should continue to bleed,\nas it had already again began to do, his race could not be a long one\nin any sense of the word, even if he should have the wonderful luck\nto escape the chance of its being shortened by the sword, bayonet,\nor bullet of an enemy. To give himself some small chance of life,\nJohn, though he was no surgeon, would have fain tried some means of\nstanching the blood, but he lacked all manner of materials for any such\noperation, and he could only try to cover the wound very ineffectually\nwith both hands, whilst the red stream continued to run down through\nhis fingers. At length, necessity, that great mother of invention,\nand wisest of all teachers, enabled him to hit off in a moment,\na remedy, which, as it was the best he could have possibly adopted in\nhis present difficult and distressing situation, might perhaps, even on\nan occasion where no such embarrassment exists, be found as valuable\nand effective as any other which the most favourable circumstances\ncould afford, or the most consummate skill devise. Stooping down,\nhe picked up a large mass of peaty turf, of nearly a foot square,\nand two or three inches thick. This had been regularly cut by the\npeat-diggers, but having tumbled by chance into the bottom of the\npeat-hag, it had been there lying soaking till the soft unctuous matter\nof which it was composed was completely saturated with water like a\nsponge. John proceeded upon no certain ratio medicandi, except this,\nthat as his life's blood was manifestly welling fast away from him,\nhe thought that the wet peat would stop the flow of it, and as his\nhead was in a burning fever, every fibre of his scalp seemed to call\nout for the immediate application of its cold and moist surface. John\nseized it then with avidity, and clapping it instantly on his head,\nwith the black soft oleaginous side of it next to the wound, and\nthe heathery top of it outwards, he pressed it down with great care\nall over his skull, and then quickly secured it fast, by tying a\ncoarse red handkerchief over it, the ends of which he fastened very\ncarefully under his chin. The outward appearance of this strange\nuncouth head-gear may be easily imagined, with the heather-bush rising\neverywhere around his head over the red tier that bound it on, and\nsurmounting a countenance so rueful and bloody; but the effect within\nwas so wonderfully refreshing and invigorating, that he felt himself\nalmost immediately restored to comparative strength. He started to\nhis feet; and, being yet uncertain as to which way he should run,\nhe raised his head slowly over the peat-hag to reconnoitre.\n\nNow, it happened, that, at this very moment, a couple of English\nfoot soldiers came straggling along, thirsting for more slaughter,\nand prowling about for prey and plunder. Ere John was aware of their\nproximity to him, they were within a few yards of the peat-hag. As\nhe raised his head, he beheld them approaching with their muskets\nand their bayonets reeking with gore. Believing himself to be now\nutterly lost, a deep groan of despair escaped from him. The soldiers\nhad halted suddenly on beholding the bloody face and neck of what\nscarcely seemed to be a human being, with a huge overgrown forest of\nheather on the head instead of hair, appearing, as it were by magic,\nout of the very earth. They started back, and stood for an instant\ntransfixed to the spot by superstitious fear.\n\n\"Waunds, Gilbert, wot is that?\" cried one, his eyes staring at John\nwith horror.\n\nSeeing, that as he was now discovered, his only chance lay in working\nupon that dread which he saw that he had already excited, John first\ngradually drew down his head below the bank, and then again raised\nit slowly and portentously, and uttered another groan more deep and\nghostly and prolonged than the first. The effect was instantaneous.\n\n\"Oh Lord! oh Lord! one of them Highland warlocks of the bog, wot\ndewours men, women, and children!\" cried Gilbert. \"Fly--fly, Warner,\nfor dear life!\"\n\nOff he ran, and his comrade staid not to question farther, but darted\naway after him, and John had the satisfaction to see the two heroes,\nfrom whom he had looked for nothing but sudden death, scouring away\nover the field, and hardly daring to look behind them.\n\nJohn Smith was considerably emboldened by the discovery that his\nappearance was so formidable to his foes. He again applied himself\nto the consideration of the question as to which way it was best for\nhim to fly. He cast his eyes all over the field of action around him;\nand, much to his satisfaction, he perceived that the officer at the\nhead of the red regiment of Englishmen, which had previously given\nhim so much alarm, had been so very obliging as to determine this\ndifficult question for him. Some movement of the flying clans, who\nhad retreated on Strath Nairn, had induced the officer to alter his\nline of march; and, in a very short time, John had the happiness of\nseeing himself very much in the rear of the red battalion, instead of\nbeing immediately in its front, as he had formerly been. Looking to\nthe north-eastward, he perceived that all was comparatively clear and\nquiet, so far as he could see. There were now no longer any regular\nmasses of men on the field, neither were there any signs of flight or\npursuit in that direction. A few stragglers were to be seen, it is\ntrue, moving about, like evil spirits among the killed, and perhaps\nperforming the office of messengers of death to the wounded. Strange,\nindeed, was the change that had taken place, upon that which had\nbeen so lately a scene of stormy and desperate conflict. A few large\nbirds of prey were soaring high in air, in eager contemplation of that\nbanquet which had been so liberally spread for them on the plain by\nferocious man. But, in the immediate neighbourhood of the spot where\nJohn Smith was, the terrified pewit had already settled down again\nwith confidence on her nest, the robin had again begun to chirp,\nand to direct his sharp eye towards the earth in search of worms;\nand the lark was again heaving herself up into the sky, giving forth\nher innocent song as she rose,--all apparently utterly unconscious\nthat any such terrible and bloody turmoil had taken place between\ndifferent sections of the human race. John therefore made up his mind\nat once; and, scrambling out of the peat-hag, he darted away over\nthe moor, and flying like a ghost across the very middle of the field\nof battle, through the heaps of dead and dying, to the utter terror\nand discomfiture of those wolves and hyenas in the shape of men--aye,\nand of women too--who were preying, as well upon those who had life,\nas upon those who were lifeless, he scattered them to right and left\nin terror at his appalling appearance, and dived amid the thick woods\nof Culloden.\n\nHaving once found shelter among the trees, John stopped to breathe\nawhile, and then he again set forward to unravel his way. It so\nhappened, that, as he proceeded, he chanced to come upon the very spot\nwhere he had feasted with MacTaggart and his comrades on his mistress\nthe Pensassenach's sow, and the other good things which the Highlanders\nhad taken from her. The gnawing demon of hunger that possessed him,\ninserted his fell fangs more furiously into his stomach, from very\nassociation with the scene. What would he not have now given for\nthe smallest morsel of that goodly beast, the long and ample side of\nwhich arose upon his mind's eyes, as he had beheld her carcase hanging\nfrom the bough of a tree, previous to the rapid subdivision which it\nunderwent. Alas! the very thought of it was now an unreal mockery. Yet\nhe could not help looking anxiously around, though in vain, among the\nextinguished remains of the fires of the bivouacs; and he figured to\nhimself the joy and comfort and refreshment he would have experienced,\nif his eyes could have lighted even on a half-broiled fragment of one\nof the pettitoes, which he might have picked at as he fled. John's eyes\nwere so intently turned to the ground, that he saw not the unfortunate\nMr. Dallas, who still dangled from the bough of the fir tree above him.\n\nWhilst John was poking about in this manner, earnestly turning over the\nashes, and looking amongst them as if he had been in search of a pin,\nhe suddenly heard the tramp of horses at some little distance. The\nsound was evidently coming towards him; and he could distinguish\nmen's voices. He cast his eyes eagerly around him, to discover\nsome ready place of concealment; and now, for the first time, he\ncaught sight of the wasted figure of Mr. Dallas, swinging at some\ndistance above him, with the dull glassy eyeballs apparently fixed\nupon him. His heart sank within him; for the corpse of the wretched\nman seemed to typify his own immediate fate. He was paralyzed for a\nmoment. But the sound drew nearer; and, spying a holly-tree with a\nreasonably tall stem, and a very thick and bushy head, which happened\nto grow most fortunately near him, he ran towards it, reached up his\nhands, seized hold of its lower branches, and, weak though he was,\nthe energy of self-preservation enabled him very quickly to coil\nhimself up amongst its dense foliage, where he sat as still as death,\nand scarcely allowing himself to breathe. The holly-tree stood by the\nside of a horse-track that led through the wood, and which crossed the\nsmall open space where most of the fires of Captain M'Taggart's bivouac\nhad been kindled. Two troopers came riding leisurely up through the\nwood along it, their horses considerably jaded by the work of the day.\n\n\"Ha!\" said one of them to the other, reining up his steed as he spoke,\njust on entering the open space,--\"What have we here, Jack?\"\n\n\"I should not wonder now if 'em 'ere should be the remains of the\nfires of some of them rebel rascals,\" said Jack, with wonderful\nacuteness. \"Them is a proper set of waggabones, to be sure. How we\ndid lick the rascals! Didn't we, Bob?\"\n\n\"To be sure we did, Jack,\" replied Bob.\n\n\"But you and I aint made much on it, arter all. I wish the captain\nat the devil--so I do--for sendin' us a unting arter that officer he\nwas a wanting to ketch.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" said Jack; \"so do I, from the bottom of my soul. But if we\nhad ketcht him, I think we should 'a gained a prize, seeing that he\nwur walued at twenty golden pieces by his Highness the Duke. Whoy,\nwho the plague could he be? Not the chap they calls Prince Charles\nStuart himself surelye? I should think that his carcase would fetch\na deal more money.\"\n\n\"A deal more money indeed!\" said Bob.\n\n\"Lord bless thee, I would not sell my share of him for an underd. But\nwhy may we not ketch him yet, Jack? Look sharp; do--and see if you\ncan spy ere an oak in this wood, with a head so royal as to hide this\nPrince Charles Stuart in it, as that 'ere one did King Charley the\nSecond arter the great battle of Worcester. Zounds! what a fortin\nyou and I should make, an' we could only ketch him!\"\n\n\"Pooh!\" replied Jack, moving so close to the little holly, that his\nhead and that of John Smith were within two yards of each other--\"Pooh\nman! there beant no oaks bigger than this here holly, in all this\nblasted, cold, and wretched country.\" And, at the same time, he gave\nits bushy head a thwack with the flat of his sword that set every\nleaf of it in motion, and John's heart, body, muscles, and nerves,\nshaking in sympathy with them.\n\n\"Beg your pardon,\" said Bob. \"I was in a great big wood yesterday--that\nsame, I mean, that spreads abroad all over the country, above that\n'ere ould castle wot they calls Cawdor Castle. And sitch oak trees\nas I seed there! My heyes, some on 'em had heads as would cover half\na troop! But, hark ye, Jack! Is there no tree, think ye, fit to have\na man in't but an oak? Dost not think that a good stout fir-tree now\nmight support a man?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" replied Jack, \"surelye, surelye. This here holly, for instance,\nmight hide a man in its head;\"--and, as he said so, he gave the holly\nanother thwack, that, for a few moments, banished every drop of blood\nfrom the heart of John Smith. \"But your oak is your only tree for\nconcealing your King or your Prince; for, as the old rhyme has it,\n\n\n    'The royal oak is not a joke.'\n\n\nAs for your firs, they may be well enough for affording a refuge to\nyour men of smaller mark.\"\n\n\"Then you don't think that 'ere feller, wot hangs from yonder fir\ntree, can be a King or a Prince, do you, Jack?\" demanded Bob, laughing\nheartily at his own joke.\n\n\"My heyes!\" exclaimed Jack, rubbing his optics, and looking\nearnestly for some time at the corpse of Mr. Dallas; \"sure I cannot\nbe mistaken? As I'm a soldier, that 'ere is the very face, figure,\nclothes, and, above all, short leg and queer shoe, of the identical\nfeller wot sould me an ould watch, wot was of no use, because you know\nit never went, and therefore it stands to reason that it could only\ntell the hour twice in the twenty-four. I say surelye, surelye, that\n'ere is the very feller as sould me this here ould useless watch,\nfor a bran new great goer. Well, if it be'ant some satisfaction to\nsee the feller hanging there, my name aint Jack Blunt!\"\n\n\"Them rascally rebels has robbed and murdered the poor wretch,\"\nsaid Bob.\n\n\"Well,\" replied Jack, \"I am a right soft arted Christine; and therefore\nmost surelye do I forgive 'em for that same hact, if they'd never ha'\ndone no worse. But come Bob, my boy; an' we would be ketching kings\nor princes, I doubt we mun be stirrin'.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, that's true--let's be joggin',\" replied Bob.\n\nYou may believe, gentlemen, that it was with no small satisfaction\nthat John Smith beheld them apply their spurs to the sides of their\nweary animals. He listened to their departing footsteps until they\nwere beyond the reach of his hearing; and then, conscious as he felt\nhimself, that he was in much too weak a state to have maintained\nan unequal combat against two fresh and vigorous men, with the\nmost distant chance of success, he put up a fervent ejaculation of\nthankfulness for their departure, and his own safety.\n\nHe was in the act of preparing himself to drop from the tree, that\nhe might continue his flight, and was just putting down his legs from\namid the thick foliage, when he met with a new alarm, that compelled\nhim to draw them up again with great expedition. Some one on foot\nnow came singing along up the path, and John had hardly more than\ntime to conceal himself again, when he beheld the person enter upon\nthe open space, near the holly tree where he was perched. And a very\nremarkable and striking personage he was. He wore an old, soiled,\ntorn, and tarnished regimental coat, which, though now divested of\nevery shred of the lace that had once adorned it, seemed to have once\nbelonged to an English officer; and this was put on over a tattered\nHighland kilt, from beneath which his raw-boned limbs and long horny\nfeet appeared uncased by any covering. A dirty canvas shirt was all\nthat showed itself where a waistcoat should have been, and that was\nall loose at the collar, fully exhibiting a thin, long, scraggy neck,\nthat supported a head of extraordinary dimensions, and of the strangest\nmalconformation, having a countenance, in which the appearance of the\ngoggle eyes alone, would have been enough to have satisfied the most\ntransient observer of the insanity of the individual to whom they\nbelonged. An old worn-out drummer's cap completed his costume. He\ncame dancing along, with a large piece of cheese held up before him\nwith both hands, and he went on, singing, hoarsely and vehemently,--\n\n\n   \"Troll de roll loll--troll de loll lay;\n    If I could catch a reybell, I would him flay--\n    Troll de roll lay--troll de roll lum--\n    And out of his skin I wud make a big drum.\n\n\nHo! ho; ho; that wud be foine. But stay; I mun halt here, and sit\ndoon, and munch up mye cheese that I took so cleverly from that ould\nwoman.--Ho! ho! ho! ho!--How nice it is to follow the sodgers! Take\nwhat we like--take what we like!--Ho! ho!--This is livin' like\na man! They ca'ed me daft Jock in the streets o' Perth; but our\nsarjeant says as hoo that I'm to be made a captain noo.--Ho! ho!--A\ncaptain! and to have a lang swurd by my side!--Ho! ho! ho!--I'll\nbe grand, very grand--and I'll fecht, and cut off the heads o' the\nreybel loons!--Ho! ho! ho!\n\n\n    Troll de roll loll--troll de roll lay--\n    If I could catch a reybell I wud him----\"\n\n\n\"Hoch!\"--roared out John Smith, his patience being now quite\nexhausted, by the thought that his chance of escaping with life was\nthus to be rendered doubly precarious, by the provoking delay of this\nidiot.--\"Hoch!\" roared he again, in a yet more tremendous voice, whilst\nat the same time he thrust his head--and nothing but his turf-covered\nhead--with his bloody countenance, partially streaked with the tiny\nstreams of the inky liquid that had oozed from the peat, and run down\nhere and there over his face;--this horrible head, I say, John thrust\nforth from the foliage, and glared fearfully at the appalled songster,\nwho stopped dead in the midst of his stave.\n\n\"Ah--a-ach--ha--a-ah--ha!\" cried the poor idiot, in a prolonged scream\nof terror that echoed through the wood, and off he flew, and was out\nof sight in a moment.\n\nJohn Smith lost not another instant of time. Dropping down from the\ntree, he hastily picked up a small fragment of the cheese which\nthe idiot had let fall in his terror and confusion, and this he\ndevoured with inconceivable rapacity. But although this refreshed\nhim a little, it stirred up his hunger to a most agonizing degree,\nso that if he had had no other cause for running, he would have run\nfrom the very internal torment he was enduring. Dashing down through\nthe thickest of the brakes of the wood, so as to avoid observation\nas much as possible, he at last traversed the whole extent of it in\na north-easterly direction, and gained the low open country beyond\nit, whence he urged on his way, until he fell into that very line of\nroad, in the parish of Petty, which he had so lately marched over in\nan opposite direction, and under circumstances so different, with\nCaptain M'Taggart and his company, on the afternoon of the 14th,\njust two days before.\n\nRemembering the whole particulars of that march, and the cheers\nand the benedictions with which they had been every where greeted,\nJohn Smith flattered himself that he had now got into a country of\nfriends, and that he had only to show himself at any of their doors,\nwounded, weary, an' hungered and athirst, as he was, to ensure the\nmost charitable, compassionate, and hospitable reception. But, in so\ncalculating, John was ignorant of the versatility and worthlessness\nof popular applause. He forgot that when he was passing to Culloden,\nwith the bold Captain M'Taggart and his company, they had been looked\nupon as heroes marching to conquest; whilst he was now to be viewed\nas a wretched runaway from a lost field. But he still more forgot,\nthat the same bloody, haggard countenance, and horrible head-gear,\nwhich had been already so great a protection to him by terrifying\nhis enemies, could not have much chance of favourably recommending\nhim to his friends.\n\nJohn stumped on along the road, therefore, with comparative\ncheerfulness, arising from the prospect which he now had of speedy\nrelief. At some little distance before him, he observed a nice,\ntrig-looking country girl, trudging away barefoot, in the same\ndirection he was travelling. He hurried on to overtake her, in order\nto learn from her where he was most likely to have his raging hunger\nrelieved. The girl heard his footstep coming up behind her, whilst\nshe was yet some twenty paces a-head of him;--she turned suddenly\nround to see who the person was that was about to join her, and\nbeholding the terrible spectre-looking figure which John presented,\nshe uttered a piercing shriek, and darted off along the highway, with\na speed that nothing but intense dread could have produced. Altogether\nforgetful of the probable cause of her alarm, John imagined that it\nmust proceed from fear of the Duke of Cumberland's men, and, with\nthis idea in his head, he ran after her as fast as his weak state\nof body would allow him, earnestly vociferating to her to stop. But\nthe more he ran, and the more he shouted, just so much the more ran\nand screamed the terrified young woman. Another girl was seated,\nwith a boy, on the grassy slope of a broomy hillock, immediately\nover the road, tending three cows and a few sheep. Seeing the first\ngirl running in the way she was doing, they hurried to the road side\nto enquire the cause of her alarm, but ere they had time to ask, or\nshe to answer, she shot past them, and the hideous figure of John\nSmith appeared. Horror-struck, and so bewildered that they hardly\nknew what they were doing, both girl and boy leaped into the road,\nand fled along it. A little farther on, two labourers were engaged\ndigging a ditch, in a mossy hollow below the road. Curiosity to know\nwhat was the cause of all this shrieking and running, induced these\nmen to hasten up to the road-side. But ere they had half reached\nit, they beheld John coming, and turning with sudden dismay, they\nscampered off across the fields, never stopping to draw breath till\nthey reached their own homes. John minded them not,--but fancying\nthat he was gaining on the three fugitives before him, and perceiving\na small hamlet of cottages a little way on, he redoubled his exertions.\n\nSome dozen of persons, men, women, and children, were assembled about\na well, at what we in Scotland would call the town-end. They were\ntalking earnestly over the many, and most contradictory rumours, that\nhad reached them of the events of that day's battle, their rustic and\nunwarlike souls having been so sunk, with the trepidation occasioned\nby the distant sound of the heavy cannonade, that they as yet hardly\ndared to speak but in whispers. Suddenly the shrieking of the three\nyoung persons came upon their ears. They pricked them up in alarm,\nand turned every eye along the road. The shrieking increased, and\nthe two girls and the boy appeared, with the formidable figure of\nJohn Smith in pursuit of them.\n\n\"The Duke's men! the Duke's men! with the devil at their head!\" cried\nthe wise man of the hamlet in Gaelic. \"Run! or we're all dead and\nmurdered!\"\n\nIn an instant every human head of them had disappeared, each having\nburrowed under its own proper earthen hovel, with as much expedition\nas would be displayed by the rabbits of a warren, when scared by a\nHighland terrier. So instantaneously, and so securely, was every\nlittle door fastened, that it was with some difficulty that the\nthree fugitives found places of shelter, and that too, not until\ntheir shrieks had been multiplied ten-fold. When John Smith came up,\npanting and blowing like a stranded porpus, all was snug, and the\nlittle hamlet so silent, that if he had not caught a glimpse of the\npeople alive, he might have supposed that they were all dead.\n\nJohn knocked at the first door he came to.--Not a sound was returned\nbut the angry barking of a cur. He tried the next--and the next--and\nthe next--all with like success;--at last he knocked at one, whence\ncame a low, tremulous voice, more of ejaculation than intended for\nthe ear of any one without, and speaking in Gaelic.\n\n\"Lord be about us!--Defend us from Satan, and from all his evil\nspirits and works!\"\n\n\"Give me a morsel of bread, and a cup of water, for mercy's sake!\" said\nJohn, poking his head close against a small pane of dirty glass in\nthe mud wall, that served for a window.\n\n\"Avoid thee, evil spirit!\" said the same voice.--\"Avoid thee, Satan!--O\ndeliver us from Satan!--Deliver us from the Prince of Darkness and\nall his wicked angels!\"\n\n\"Have mercy upon me, and give me but a bit of bread, and a drop of\nwater, for the sake of Christ your Saviour!\" cried John earnestly\nagain.\n\n\"Avoid, I say, blasphemer!\" replied the voice, with more energy than\nbefore. \"Name not vainly the name of my Saviour, enemy as thou art\nto him and his. Begone, and tempt us not!\"\n\nJohn Smith was preparing to answer and to explain, and to defend\nhimself from these absurd and unjust imputations against him, when\nhe heard the sound of a bolt drawn in the hovel immediately behind\nhim. Full of hope that some good and charitable Christian within,\nmelted by his pitiful petitions, had come to the resolution of opening\nhis door to relieve him, he turned hastily round. But what was his\nmortification, when, instead of seeing the door opened, he beheld\nthe small wooden shutter of an unglazed hole in the wall, slowly and\nsilently pushed outwards on its hinges, until it fell aside, and then\nthe muzzle of a rusty fowling-piece was gradually projected, levelled,\nand pointed at him. John waited not to allow him who held it to perfect\nhis aim. He sprang instantly aside towards the wall, and fortunately,\nthe tardy performance of the old and ill constructed lock enabled him\nto do so, just in time to clear the way for the shower of swan-shot\nwhich the gun discharged in a diagonal line across the way. Luckily\nfor John, he had thus no opportunity of judging of the weight of the\ncharge in his own person, but he was made sufficiently aware that it\nwas quite potent enough, by its effects on an unfortunate sheep-dog,\nthat happened to be at that moment lying peaceably gnawing a bone on\nthe top of a dunghill, some fifty yards down the road, on the opposite\nside of the way to that where the hovel stood from which the shot had\nbeen fired. The poor animal sprang up, and gave a loud and sharp yelp,\nwhen he received the shot, and then followed a long and dismal howl,\nafter which he rolled over on his back and died. After such a hint as\nthis, John staid not to make farther experiments on the hospitality\nof the little place, but, getting out at the farther end of its street\nwith all manner of expedition, he slowly proceeded on his way, weary,\nfaint, and heart-sunken.\n\nJust as sunset was approaching, he came to the door of a small single\ncottage, hard by the way-side. There he knocked gently, without saying\na word.\n\n\"Who is there?\" asked a soft woman's voice in Gaelic, from within.\n\n\"A poor man like to die with hunger and thirst,\" replied John in\nthe same language. \"For the love of God give me a piece of bread,\nand a drink of water.\"\n\n\"You shant want that,\" said the good Samaritan woman within, who\npromptly came to undo the door.\n\n\"Heaven reward you!\" said John fervently, as she was fumbling with the\nkey in the key-hole, and with an astonishing rapidity of movement in\nhis ideas, he felt, by anticipation, as if he was already devouring\nthe food he had asked for.\n\n\"Preserve us, what's that?\" cried the woman, the moment the half-opened\ndoor had enabled her to catch a glimpse of his fearful head and\nbloody features.\n\nThe door was shut and locked in an instant; and whether it was that\nthe poor young lonely widow, for such she was, had fainted or not, or\nwhether she had felt so frightened for herself and her young child,\nthat she dared not to speak, all John's farther attempts to procure\nan answer from her were fruitless. It was probably from the cruel\nand unexpected disappointment that he here had met with, just at the\ntime when his hopes of relief had been highest, that his faintness\ncame more overpoweringly upon him. He tottered away from the widow's\ndoor, with his head swimming strangely round, and he had not proceeded\nabove two or three dozen of steps, when he sank down on a green bank\nby the side of the road, where he lay almost unconscious as to what\nhad befallen him.\n\nHe had not lain long there, when the tender hearted widow, who\nhad reconnoitred him well through a single pane of glass in the\ngable end of her house, began to have her fears overcome by her\ncompassion. Seeing that he was now at some distance from her dwelling,\nshe ventured again to open her door, and perceiving that he did not\nstir, she retired for a minute, and then reappeared with a bottle\nof milk and two barley cakes, with which she crept timorously, and\ntherefore slowly and cautiously, along the road. Her step became\nslower and slower, as, with fear and trembling, she drew near to\nJohn. At last, when within three or four yards of him, she halted,\nand, looking back, as if to measure the distance that divided her\nfrom her own door, she turned towards him, and ventured to address him.\n\n\"Here, poor man,\" said she, setting down the cakes and the bottle of\nmilk on the bank. \"Here is some refreshment for you.\"\n\nJohn Smith raised his eyes languidly as her words reached him, and\nspying the food she had brought him, he started up and proceeded to\nseize upon it with an energy which no one could have believed was\nyet left in him; and, as the benevolent widow was flying back with a\nbeating heart to her cottage, she heard his thanks and benedictions\ncoming thickly and loudly after her. John devoured the barley cakes,\nand drank the milk, and felt wonderfully refreshed, and then, placing\nthe bottle on the bank in view of the cottage, he knelt down and\noffered up his thanks to God for his mercy, and prayed for blessings\non the head of her who had relieved him. He then arose, and having\nwaved his hand two or three times towards the cottage in token of his\ngratitude, he proceeded with some degree of spirit on his journey. I\nmay here remark, gentlemen, that however those worthies who denied\nJohn admittance to their houses may have passed the night, I may\nventure to pronounce, and that with some probability of truth too,\nthat the sleep of that virtuous young widow, with her innocent child\nin her arms, was as sweet and refreshing as the purity and balminess\nof her previous reflections could make it.\n\nJohn Smith had not gone far on his way till the sun went down;\nbut, as the moon was up, and he knew his road sufficiently well,\nhe continued to trudge on without fear, until he approached the\nold walls of an ancient church, the burying yard of which had an\nugly reputation for being haunted, and then he began to walk with\nsomewhat more circumspection. As he drew nearer to it, he halted\nunder the shadow of a bank, and stood for a time somewhat aghast,\nfor, in the open part of the grave-yard, between the church and the\nhigh-road, he beheld three figures standing in the moonlight which\nthen prevailed. At first John quaked with fear, lest they should\nprove to be some of the uncanny spirits which were said to frequent\nthe place. But he soon became reassured, by observing enough of them\nand of their motions to convince him that they were men of flesh and\nblood, yea, and Highlanders too, like himself.\n\nAs John Smith had no fear of mortal man, he would have at once\nadvanced. But there was something so suspicious in the manner in which\nthe three fellows hung over the wall, as if they were watching the\npublic road, that he became at once convinced that they were lying\nin wait for a prey; and although he had nothing to lose, he did not\nfeel quite assured as to the manner in which they might be disposed\nto accost him; and in his present weak state, he felt prudence to be\nthe better part of valour. Availing himself of the concealment of the\nbank, therefore, until he had entered a small opening in the churchyard\nwall, he crept quietly across a dark part of the churchyard itself,\nby which means he got into the deep shadow that fell with great\nbreadth all along the church wall, between the moon and the three\nfigures who were watching the road, and who consequently had their\nbacks to the old building. Having succeeded in accomplishing this,\nJohn was stealing slowly and silently along the wall, with the hope of\npassing by them, altogether unnoticed, when, as ill luck would have it,\none of them chanced to turn round, so as dimly to descry his figure.\n\n\"What the devil is that gliding along yonder?\" cried the man, in\nGaelic, and in a voice that betrayed considerable fear.\n\n\"Halt you there!\" cried another, who was somewhat bolder. \"Halt,\nI say, and give an account of yourself.\"\n\nJohn saw that there was now no mode of escaping the danger but by\nboldly bearding it. He halted therefore, but still keeping deep within\nthe shade, he drew out his claymore, and placed his back to the church\nwall to prepare for defence.\n\n\"Ha! steel!\" cried the third fellow; \"I heard it clash on the\nstones of the wall, and I saw it bring a flash of fire out of them\ntoo. Come, come, goodman, whoever you are--come out here, and give\nus your claymore.\"\n\n\"He that will have it, must come and take it by the point,\" said John,\nin Gaelic, and in a stern, hoarse, hollow voice; \"and he had better\nhave iron gloves on, or he will find it too hot for his palms.\"\n\n\"What the devil does he mean?\" said the first.\n\n\"We'll detain you as a runaway rebel,\" said the third.\n\n\"The boldest of men could not detain me,\" replied John, now recognising\nthe last speaker, by the moonlight on his face, as well as by his\nvoice. \"But for a base traitor like you, Neil MacCallum, better were\nit for you to be lying dead, like your brave brother, among the slain\non Drummosie Moor, than to encounter me here in this churchyard,\nat such an hour as this!\"\n\n\"In the name of wonder, how knows he my name?\" exclaimed MacCallum\nin a voice that quavered considerably.\n\n\"Oh, Neil! Neil!\" cried the first speaker, in great dismay, \"it is\nno man! it is something most uncanny: For the love of God, parley\nwith it no farther!\"\n\n\"Pshaw--nonsense!\" exclaimed the second speaker. \"Its a man, and\nnothing else. Let us all rush upon him at once. Surely, if he were\nthe devil himself, three of us ought to be a match for him.\"\n\n\"I am the devil himself!\" cried John Smith in a terrible voice, and at\nthe same time stalking slowly forth from the shadow, with the bloody\nblade of his claymore before him, he strode into the moonlight, which\nat once fully disclosed his hideous head-gear and ghastly features,\nto which at the same time it gave a tenfold effect of horror.\n\n\"Oh, the devil!--the devil!--the devil!\" cried the fellows, the moment\nthey thus beheld him; and, overpowered by their terror, they rushed\nforward towards the churchyard wall, and threw themselves over it\npell-mell, tumbling higgledy-piggledy into the road, and scampering\nout of sight and out of hearing in a moment, leaving John Smith sole\nmaster of the field.\n\nIn the midst of all his miseries, John could not help laughing\nheartily at the suddenness of their retreat. But gravity of mood came\nquickly over him again, when he heard his laugh re-echoed--he knew not\nhow, as it were in a tone of mockery, from the old church walls. He\nbegan to recollect where he was, and he half repented that he had so\nindiscreetly used the name of Satan in the manner he had done.\n\n\"The Lord be about us!\" ejaculated John most fervently, whilst his\nknees smote against each other violently, and his jaws were stretched\nto a fearful extent.\n\nHe felt that the shorter time he tarried in that uncanny place the\nbetter it would be for his comfort; and, accordingly, he began to\nmove forward as quickly as he could towards a wicket gate, which he\nwell knew gave exit to the footpath at the other end of the churchyard.\n\nJohn, now proceeding at what might rather be called an anxious\npace than a quick one, had very nearly reached the wicket, when his\neye caught a tall white figure, standing within a few yards of it,\nand posted close by the path which he must necessarily pursue. The\nmoonshine enabled him to see a terrible face, with a huge mouth; and,\nso far as his recollection of his own natural physiognomy went, derived\nas it was from his shavings on Saturday nights ever since his chin had\nrequired a razor, he felt persuaded that the countenance before him\nwas a fac-simile of his own. It was, moreover, very ghastly, and very\nbloody. His eyes fixed themselves upon it with unconquerable dismay,\nand he shook throughout every nerve, like the trembling poplar. But\nthat which most astonished and terrified him, as he gazed on this\napparition, was, the strange circumstance, that he could distinctly\nperceive, that it had already assumed a head-gear precisely similar\nto the very remarkable one which he had been so recently compelled\nfrom necessity to adopt. On the summit of its crown appeared a huge\nsod, with all its native plants upon it, and these waved to and fro\nbefore him with something like portentous omen. John felt as if he\nhad only fled from the battle-field of Culloden to meet both death\nand burial in this most unchancy churchyard, and if his knees smote\neach other before, they now increased their reciprocal antagonist\naction in a degree that was tenfold more striking. John felt persuaded\nbeyond a doubt, that the devil had been permitted thus to assume his\nown appearance, and to come thus personally to reprove him for the\nindiscreet use which he had made of his name. Sudden death seemed to\nbe about to fall on him. The grave appeared to be about to open to\nreceive his wounded and worn-out body. But these were evils which,\nat that dreadful moment, John hardly recognized, for the jaws of the\nEvil Spirit himself seemed to him to be slowly and terribly expanding\nthemselves to swallow up his sinful soul. Fain would John have fled,\nbut he was rivetted to the spot. No way suggested itself to his\ndistracted mind by which he could escape, and he well knew that he had\nno way that led homewards to that spot where he looked for concealment\nand safety, save that which went directly by the dreaded object before\nhim. For some time he stood trembling and staring, in a cold sweat,\nuntil at length, overpowered by his feelings, he dropped upon his\nknees, and began putting up such snatches of prayer to Heaven, for\nhelp against the powers of darkness, as his fears allowed him to utter.\n\nAs John thus sat on his knees, praying and quaking, his animal courage\nso far returned to him as to permit him to observe that the object\nof his terror remained unchanged and immovable. At length his mind\nrecovered itself to such an extent, as to enable him to revert to that\nnight of misery which he had so recently experienced, in beholding\nthat which he had believed to be the spirit of Dallas the packman,\nand remembering how that matter had been cleared up by the appearance\nof daylight, he began to reason with himself as to the possibility of\nthis being a somewhat similar case. Having thus so far reduced his\nfears within the control of his reason, he summoned up resolution\nto raise himself from his knees, and to advance one step nearer to\nthe phantom which had so long triumphed over the courage that was\nwithin him. And, seeing that, notwithstanding this movement of his,\nit still maintained its position, and uttered no sound, he ventured\nto take a second step--and then a third step, until the truth, and\nthe whole truth, began gradually to dawn upon his eyes and his mind,\nand then, at last, he discovered, to his very great relief, that the\nhorrible and much-dreaded demon whose appearance had so disturbed\nand discomposed his nervous system, was no other than a tall old\ntombstone, with a head so fearfully chisselled on the top of it, as\nmight have left it a very doubtful matter, even in the day-time, for\nany one, however learned in such pieces of art, to have determined\nwhether the rustic sculptor had intended it for a death's-head or\na cherubim. Some idle artist of the brush, in passing by that way\nwith a pot full of red paint, prepared for giving a temporary glory\nto a new cart about to be turned out from a neighbouring wright's\nshop, had paused as he passed by, and exhausted the full extent of\nhis small talents in communicating to the countenance that bloody\nappearance, the effect of which had so much appalled John Smith,\nand some waggish schoolboy had finished the figure, by tearing up a\nsod covered with plants of various kinds, and clapping it on its top,\nso as thereby very much to augment its artificial terrors. John Smith\ndrew a long breath of inconceivable relief on making this discovery,\nand then darting through the wicket, he pursued his journey with as\nmuch expedition as his weakness and fatigue permitted him to use.\n\nJohn walked on for some hour or twain with very determined resolution,\nbut at length the great loss of blood he had experienced, brought on so\nunconquerable a drowsiness, that he felt he must have a little rest,\nwere it but for a few minutes, even if his taking it should be at\nthe risk of his life. John was never wont to be very particular as\nto the place where he made his bed, but on the present occasion it\nhappened, probably from the blood-vessels of his body having been\nso much drained, that he had a most unpleasant chill upon him. He\nfelt as if ice itself was shooting and crystallizing through every\nvein and artery within him. Then the night had become somewhat raw,\nand he had left his plaid, which is a Highlander's second house,\non the fatal field of battle. Under all these circumstances, John\nwas seized with a resistless desire to enjoy the luxury of sleep for\na short time, under the shelter of a roof, and in the vicinity of a\ngood peat fire. Calling to mind that there was an humble turf-built\ncottage in a hollow a little way farther on, by the side of a small\nrushy, mossy stream, he made the best of his way towards it.\n\nThe house consisted of three small apartments, one in the middle\nof it, opposite to the outer door, and one at either end, which had\ntheir entrances from that in the centre. When John came to the brow\nof the bank that looked down upon this humble dwelling, he was by no\nmeans sorry to perceive that the middle apartment had a good blazing\nfire in it, as he could easily see through the window and outer door,\nwhich last chanced to be invitingly open. John, altogether forgetful\nof his uncouth and terrific appearance, lost not a moment in availing\nhimself of this lucky circumstance. But he had no sooner presented\nhis awful spectral form and visage within the threshold, than he\nspread instantaneous terror over the group assembled within.\n\n\"Oh, a ghost! a ghost!\" cried out in Gaelic a pale-faced girl of some\neight or nine years of age, as she dropped on her knees, shaken by\nterror in every limb and feature.\n\n\"Oh, the devil! the devil!\" roared an old man and woman, who also\nsank down before John, bellowing out like frightened cattle. \"Och,\noch! we shall all be swallowed up quick by the Evil One!\"\n\n\"Fear nothing,\" said John Smith, in a mild tone, and in the same\ntongue. \"I am but a poor wounded and wearied man. I only want to lie\ndown and rest me a little, if you will be so charitable as to grant\nme leave.\"\n\n\"Wounded!\" said the old man, rising from his knees, somewhat reassured;\n\"where were you wounded?\"\n\n\"In the head here,\" said John, with a stare that again somewhat\ndisconcerted the old man; \"and if it had not been for this peat that\nI clapped on my skull, I believe my very brains would have been all\nout of me.\"\n\n\"Mercy on us, where got ye such a mischance as that?\" exclaimed the\nold woman.\n\n\"At Culloden, I'll be sworn,\" said the old man.\n\n\"Aye, aye, it was at Culloden,\" replied John. \"But, if ye be\nChristians, give me a drink of warm milk and water, to put away this\nshivering thirst that is on me, and let me lie down in a warm bed\nfor half an hour.\"\n\n\"Och aye, poor man, ye shall not want a drop of warm milk and water,\nand such a bed as we can give you,\" said the old woman, moving about\nto prepare the drink for him.\n\n\"Thank ye--thank ye!\" said John, much refreshed and comforted by\nswallowing the thin but hot potation. And then following the old\nman into the inner apartment on the right hand, he sank down in a\ndarksome nook of it, on a pallet among straw, and covering himself up,\nturf, nightcap and all, under a coarse blanket, he was sound asleep\nbefore the old man had withdrawn the light, and shut the door of his\nclay chamber.\n\n\"Oh that our boys were back again safe and sound!\" cried the old woman,\nwringing her hands.\n\n\"Safe and sound I fear we cannot expect them to be, Janet,\" replied\nthe old man. \"But oh that we had them back again, though it was to\nsee them wounded as badly as that poor fellow! Much do I fear that\nthey are both corpses on Drummossie Moor.\"\n\n\"What will become of us!\" cried the old woman, weeping bitterly; \"what\nwill become of this poor motherless lassie now, if her father be gone?\"\n\nBut, leaving this aged couple to complain, and John Smith to enjoy his\nrepose, we must now return to poor Morag, whom, as you may recollect,\ngentlemen, we left hunted into covert by the two dragoons who had so\nclosely pursued her. The patch of natural wood into which she dived\nwas not large. It chiefly consisted of oaks and birches, which, though\nthey had grown to a considerable size in certain parts, so that their\nwide-spreading heads had kept the knolls on which their stems stood,\naltogether free from the incumbrance of any kind of brushwood,--had\nyet in most places risen up thinner and smaller, leaving ample room\nand air around them to support thickets of the tallest broom and\njuniper bushes.\n\nIt chanced that Morag was not altogether unacquainted with the\nnature of the place, having at one time, in earlier life, been hired\nto tend the cows of a farmer at no great distance from it. She was\nwell aware that a rill, which had its origin in the higher grounds\nat some distance, came wimpling into the upper part of the wood, and\nthence, during its descent over the sloping surface of the ground,\nfrom its having met with certain obstructions, or from some other\ncause, it had worn itself a channel through the soft soil, to the\ndepth of some six feet or so, but which was yet so narrow, that the\nferns and bushes growing out of the undermined sods that fringed the\nedges of it, almost entirely covered it with one continued tangled\nand matted arch. Towards this rill Morag endeavoured to make her\nway through the tall broom, and, as she was doing so, she heard the\ndismounted trooper, who had by this time entered the wood after her,\ncalling to his comrade, who sat mounted outside:\n\n\"Bill! do you padderowl round the wood, and keep a sharp look out that\nshe don't bolt without your seeing her. I'll follow arter her here,\nand try if I can't lay my hands on her; and if I do but chance to\nlight on her, be she witch or devil, I'll drag her out of her covert\nby the scruff of the neck.\"\n\nMorag heard no more than this.--She pressed forward towards the bed of\nthe rill, and having reached it, she stopped, like a chased doe, one\nmoment to listen, and hearing that the curses, as well as the crashing\nof the jack-boots of her pursuer, as yet indicated that he was still at\nsome distance behind her, and evidently much entangled in his progress,\nshe carefully shed the pendulous plants of the ferns asunder, and then\nslid herself gently down into the hollow channel. There finding her\nfeet safely planted on the bottom, she cautiously and silently groped\nher way along the downward course of the rill, through the dark and\nconfined passage which it had worn out for its tiny stream. In this\nway she soon came to the lower edge of the wood, where the hollow\nchannel became deeper, and where it assumed more of the character\nof a ravine, but where it was still skirted with occasional oaks,\nmingled with thickets of birches, hazels, and furze bushes.\n\nMorag was about to emerge from the obscurity of this subterranean\narch, into the more open light, when, as she looked out, she beheld\nthe mounted trooper standing on his stirrups on the top of the bank,\neagerly gazing around him in all directions. The furze there grew too\nthick and high for him to be able to force his way down to the bottom\nof the ravine, even if he had accidently observed her. But his eyes\nwere directed to higher and more distant objects, and seeing that she\nhad been as yet unperceived, she instantly drew so far back, as to be\nbeyond all reach of his observation,--whilst she could perfectly well\nwatch him, so long as he maintained his present position. She listened\nfor the crashing strides of him who was engaged in searching the wood\nfor her. For a time they came faint and distant to her ear, but, by\ndegrees, they began to come nearer,--and then again the sound would\nalternately diminish and increase, as he turned away in some other\ndirection, fighting through the opposing boughs, and then came beating\nhis way back again, in the same manner, with many a round oath. At\nlength she heard him raging forward in the direction of the rill, at\nsome forty yards above the place where she was, blaspheming as he went.\n\n\"Ten thousand devils!\" cried he; \"such a place as this I never se'ed\nin all my life afore. If my heyes beant nearly whipt out of my head\nwith them 'ere blasted broom shafts, my name aint Tom Wetherby! Dang\nit, there again! that whip has peeled the very skin off my cheek, and\nmade both my heyes run over with water like mill-sluices--I wonder\nat all where this she-devil can be hidden? Curse her! Do you think,\nBill, that she can raaly have ridden off through the hair, as they\ndo say they do? But for a matter of that, she may be here somewhere\nafter all, for my heyes be so dimmed, that, dang me an' I could see\nher if she were to rise up afore my very face. How they do smart\nwith pain! Oh! Lord, where am I going?\" cried he, as he went smack\ndown through the ferns and brush into the concealed bed of the rill,\nand was laid prostrate on his back in the narrow clayey bottom of it,\nin such a position that it defied him to rise.\n\n\"Hollo Bill!\" cried he, from the bowels of the earth, in a voice which\nreached his comrade as if he had spoken with a pillow on his mouth,\nbut which rang with terrible distinctness down the hollow natural\ntube to the spot where Morag was concealed. \"Hollo!--help!--help!\"\n\n\"What a murrain is the matter with ye?\" cried Bill, very much\nastonished.\n\n\"I've fallen plump into the witches' den!--into the very bottomless\npit!--Hollo!--hollo! Help!--help!\" cried the fallen trooper from\nthe abyss.\n\n\"How the plague am I to get to ye if so be the pit be\nbottomless?\" cried Bill, in a drawling tone, that did not argue\nmuch promise of any zealous exertion of effective aid on the part of\nthe speaker.\n\n\"Curse ye, come along quickly, or I shall be smothered in this here\ninfernal, dark, outlandish place,\" cried Tom Wetherby.\n\n\"Well,--well,\" replied Bill, with the same long-drawn tone of\nphilosophic indifference, \"I'm a coming--I'm a coming. But you must\nkeep chaunting out from the bottom of that bottomless pit of yours, do\nyou hear, Tom, else I shall never find you in that 'ere wilderness. And\nhow the devil I am to get into it is more than I know.\"\n\nThe dragoon turned his horse very leisurely away, to look for some\nplace where he could best quit his saddle, in order to make good his\nentrance on foot into the thicket. The moment the quick eyes of Morag\nperceived that he had disappeared from his station on the brow of the\nbank, she crept forth from her concealment, and keeping her way down\nthrough the shallow stream, that her footsteps might leave no prints\nbehind them, she stole off, until she was beyond all hearing of the\ntwo dragoons. Then it was that Morag began to ply her utmost speed,\nand, after following the ravine until it expanded into a small and\npartially wooded glen, she hurried on through it, until at length she\nfound herself emerging on the lower and more open country. Afraid of\nbeing seen, she made a long circuitous sweep through some rough broomy\nwaste ground of considerable extent, towards a distant hummock, with\nthe shape of which she was familiar, and having thus gained a part of\nthe country with which she was acquainted, though it was still very\ndistant from her present home, she hailed the descent of the shades\nof night with great satisfaction.\n\nUnder their protection she proceeded on her way with great alacrity,\nand without apprehension, though with a torn heart, that made her\nevery now and then stop to give full vent to her grief for John\nSmith, of whose death she had so little reason to doubt, from all the\ncircumstances she had heard. At length, fatigue came so powerfully upon\nher, that she was not sorry to perceive, as she was about to descend\ninto a hollow, the light of a cheerful fire, that blazed through the\nwindow of a turf-built cottage, and was reflected on the surface of\na rushy stream, that ran lazily through the bottom near to it. The\ndoor was shut, but Morag descended the path that led towards it,\nand knocked without scruple.\n\nAn old man and woman came immediately to open it, and looked out\neagerly, as if for some one whose coming they had expected, and\ndisappointment seemed to cloud their brows, when they found only her\nwho was a stranger to them. Morag, addressing them in Gaelic, entreated\nfor leave to rest herself for half an hour by their fireside. She was\nadmitted, after some hesitation and whispering between them, after\nwhich she craved a morsel of oaten cake, and a draught of water. A\nlittle girl, of some eight or nine years old, waited not to know her\ngranny's will, but ran to a cupboard for the cake; and brought it\nto her, and then hastened to fill a bowl with water from a pitcher\nthat stood in a corner. The old couple would have fain pumped out\nof Morag something of her history, and they put many questions to\nher for that purpose. But she was too shrewd for them, and all they\ncould gather from her was, that she had been away seeing her friends\na long way off, and that she had first rode, and then walked so far,\nthat she was glad of a little rest, and a morsel to allay her hunger,\nafter which she would be enabled to continue her journey, with many\nthanks to them for their hospitality.\n\nMorag had not sat there for many minutes, when there came a rap to\nthe door. The old man sprang up to open it, and immediately three\nHighlanders appeared, full armed with claymores and dirks, but very\nmuch jaded and soiled with travel. Morag retired into a corner.\n\n\"Och, Ian! Ian!\"--\"Och, Hamish! Hamish!\" cried the old couple,\nembracing two of them, who appeared to be their sons; and, \"Oh,\nfather! father!\" cried the little girl, springing into Ian's arms.\n\n\"Tuts, don't be foolish, Kirstock!\" cried Ian, in a surly tone, as\nhe shook off the little girl; \"What's the use of all this nonsense,\nfather?--Better for you to be getting something for us and our comrade\nMacCallum here to drink. We are almost famished for want;\" and with\nthat he threw himself into the old man's wooden arm-chair.\n\n\"Aye, aye, father,\" said Hamish, occupying the seat where his mother\nhad sat, and motioning to MacCallum to take that which Morag had just\nleft; \"we have had a sad tramp away from the battle. Would we had\nnever gone near it! Aye, and we got such a fright into the bargain.\"\n\n\"Fright!\" cried the old man much excited; \"Surely, surely, my sons\nare not cowards!--Much as I love you, boys, I would rather that you\nhad both died than run away.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said MacCallum, now joining in the conversation, \"we all three\nfought like lions in the battle. But it requires nerves harder than\nsteel to look upon the Devil, and if ever he was seen on earth,\nwe saw him this precious night.\"\n\n\"Preserve us all!\" said the old woman; \"what was he like?\"\n\n\"Never mind what he was like, mother,\" said Ian gruffly; \"let us have\nsome of your bread and cheese, and a drop of Uisge-beatha to put some\nheart in us.\"\n\n\"You shall have all that I have to give you, boys,\" said the old\nman; \"but that is not much. I would have fain given a sup out of the\nbottle to the poor wounded man that came in here, a little time ago;\nbut I bethought me that you might want it all, and so we sent him to\nhis bed with a cup of warm milk and water.\"\n\n\"Bed, did you say?\" cried Ian. \"What! one of Prince Charley's men?\"\n\n\"Surely, surely!\" said the old man. \"Troth, I should have been any\nthing but fond of letting in any one else but a man who had fought\non the same side with yourselves.\"\n\n\"Don't speak of our having fought on Charley's side, father,\" said\nIan; \"that's not to be boasted of now. The fruits of fighting for\nhim have been nothing but danger and starvation, so far as we have\ngathered them; and now we have no prospect before us but the risk of\nhanging. Methinks you would have shewn more wisdom if you had sent\nthis fellow away from your door. To have us three hunted men here,\nis enough to make the place too hot, without bringing in another to\nadd to the fire.\"\n\n\"Never mind, Ian,\" said MacCallum; \"why may we not make our own of\nhim? You know very well that John MacAllister told us that he could\nmake our peace, and save our lives, if we could only prove our loyalty\nto the King, by bringing in a rebel or two.\"\n\n\"Very true,\" said Hamish; \"and an excellent advice it was.\"\n\n\"Most excellent,\" said Ian; \"and if we act wisely, and as I advise,\nthis fellow shall be our first peace-offering.\"\n\n\"Oh, boys, boys!\" cried the old man; \"would you buy your own lives\nby treachery of so black a die?\"\n\n\"Oh, life is sweet!\" cried the old woman--\"and the lives of my\nbairns----\"\n\n\"Hold your foolish tongue, woman!\" interrupted the old man. \"No, no,\nboys! I'll never consent to it.\"\n\n\"Oh life is sweet! life is sweet!\" cried the old woman again; \"and\nthe lives of both my bonny boys--the life of Ian, the father of this\npoor lassie!----\"\n\n\"Oh, my father's life!\" whimpered the little girl.\n\n\"This is no place to talk of such things,\" said the old man, leading\nthe way into the apartment at the opposite end of the house, to that\nwhere John Smith was sleeping, and followed by all but Morag, who,\nhaving slipped towards the door, to listen after he had closed it,\nheard him say, \"What made you speak that way before the stranger lass?\"\n\n\"Who and what is she at all?\" demanded Ian.\n\n\"A poor tired lass, weary with the long way she has been to see her\nfriends,\" said the old woman; \"but she'll be gone very soon.\"\n\n\"If she does not go of her own accord, we must take strong measures\nwith her too,\" said Ian.\n\n\"God forgive you, boys, what would you do?\" said the old man. \"Let\nnot the Devil tempt you thus. Would you bring foul treason upon\nthis humble, but hitherto spotless shed of mine, by violating the\nsacred rights of hospitality to a woman, and by giving up a man to an\nignominious death, who, upon the faith of it, is now soundly sleeping\nunder my roof, in the other end of the house? Fye, fye, boys! I tell\nyou plainly I will be a party to no such wickedness.\"\n\n\"So you would rather be a party to assist in hanging Hamish and me,\nyour own flesh and blood?\" said Ian. \"But you need be no party to\neither; for we shall take all the guilt of this fellow's death upon\nourselves.\"\n\n\"You shall never do this foul treason, if I can prevent it,\" said\nthe old man, with determination.\n\n\"Poof!\" said Ian, \"how could you prevent us?\"\n\n\"By rousing the man to defend himself,\" said the father rather\nunguardedly.\n\n\"Ha! say you so?\" cried Ian. \"What! would you rouse up an armed man\nto fight against your own children? Then must we take means to prevent\nyour so doing.\"\n\n\"Oh, Ian!\" cried the old woman. \"Oh, Hamish! Oh, boys! boys!\"\n\n\"What! what! what boys!\" cried the old man with great excitement,\nwhilst there was a sound of feet as of a struggle. \"Would you lay\nyour impious hands upon your own father?\"\n\n\"Oh, don't hurt poor granny!\" cried the little girl, in the bitterest\ntone of grief.\n\n\"Be quiet, I tell you, Kirstock!\" cried Ian, in an angry tone. \"Hold\nout of my way, mother! We'll do him no harm! we are only going to\nbind him that he may not interfere.\"\n\n\"Boys, boys!\" cried the old man; \"you have been tempted by the\nDevil! There is no wonder that you should have seen him once to-night;\nand I should not wonder if he was to appear to you again, for you\nseem resolved to be his children, and not mine.\"\n\n\"Sit down--sit down quietly in this chair,\" said Ian; \"sit down, I\nsay quietly, and let MacCallum put the rope about you. By the great\noath you had better!\"\n\n\"Oh, boys!\" cried the old woman; \"Och, Hamish! Och, Ian.\"\n\nMorag hardly waited to hear so much of this dialogue as I have given,\nwhen she resolved to be the means, if possible, of saving the life\nof the poor wounded man, whom the wretches had thus determined\nso traitorously to give up to the tender mercies of the Duke of\nCumberland. She had her hand upon the door of the chamber where he\nslept, in order to go in and rouse him, when she remembered that,\nin this way, her own safety was almost certain to be compromised. She\ntherefore immediately adopted a plan, which she considered might be\nequally effectual for her purpose as regarded the stranger, whilst\nit would leave to herself some chance of escape. Slipping on tiptoe\nto the outer door, she quietly opened it, and, letting herself out,\nshe moved quickly round the house, towards a little window belonging\nto the room at that end of it, where she knew the wounded man was\nlying. It consisted of two small panes of glass, placed in a frame\nthat moved inwards upon hinges. She put her ear to it, but no sound\nreached her save that of deep snoring. Morag pushed gently against\nthe frame, and it yielded to the pressure. Having inserted her head,\nand looked eagerly about, in the hope of descrying the sleeper, by\nthe partial stream of moonlight that was admitted into the place,\nshe could discover nothing but the heap of straw in the bedstead in\na dark corner, where, wrapped in a blanket, he lay so buried as to be\naltogether invisible. She called to him, at first in a low voice, and\nafterwards in a somewhat louder tone, till at length she awaked him.\n\n\"Who is there?\" demanded he in Gaelic.\n\n\"Rise! rise, and escape!\" said she, in a low but distinct voice,\nand in the same language; \"Your liberty! your life is in danger! Up,\nup, and fly from this house!\" Having said this, she retreated her\nhead a little from the window, to watch the effect of her warning,\nso that the moon shone brightly upon her countenance, and completely\nilluminated every feature of it.\n\nThere was a quick rustling noise among the straw, and then she heard\nthe slow heavy step of the man within. Suddenly a head was thrust\nout of the window, and the moonbeam falling fully upon it, disclosed\nto the terrified eyes of Morag, the features of John Smith--pale,\nbloody, and death-like, with all the fearful appendages which he bore,\nthe whole combination being such as to leave not a doubt in her mind\nthat she beheld his ghost. With one shrill scream, which she could\nnot control, she vanished in a moment from before the window. John\nSmith, filled in his turn with superstitious awe, as well as with\nthe strangeness of the manner in which he had been roused from the\ndeep sleep into which he had been plunged,--and struck by the well\nknown though hollow voice in which he had been addressed--the solemn\nwarning which he had received, and, above all, the distinct, though\nmost unaccountable appearance of Morag, with whose features he was\nso perfectly acquainted--together with the wild and sudden manner in\nwhich the vision had departed--all tended to convince him that the\nwhole was a supernatural visitation. For some moments his powers of\naction were suspended; but steps and voices in the outer apartment\nspeedily recalled his presence of mind. He drew his claymore, summoned\nup his resolution, and banging up the door with one kick of his foot,\nhe took a single stride into the middle of the floor. The fire was\nstill blazing, and it threw on his terrible figure the full benefit of\nits light. The three villains having tied the old man into his chair,\nand locked him and his wife and grandchild into the place where their\nconference was held, had been at that moment preparing to steal in\nupon the sleeping stranger. Suddenly they beheld the same apparition\nwhich they had seen in the churchyard, burst from the very room which\nthey were about to enter. The threatening words of the old man recurred\nto them all.\n\n\"Oh, the devil! the devil! the devil!\" cried the terrified group,\nand bearing back upon one another, they tripped, and, in one moment,\nall their heels were dancing the strangest possible figures in the\nair, to the music of their own mingled screams and yells. You will\neasily believe, gentlemen, that John Smith tarried not a moment\nto inquire after their bruises, but pushing up the outer door, and\nslapping it to after him, he again pursued his way towards the farm\nof the Pensassenach.\n\nWinged by her fears, and in dreadful apprehension that the ghost\nof John Smith was still following her, Morag flew with an unnatural\nswiftness and impetus. She was quite unconscious of noticing any of\nthe familiar objects by the way; yet, by a species of instinct, she\nreached home, in so short a time, that she could hardly believe her\nown senses. But still in dreadful fear of the ghost, she thundered\nat the door, and roared out to her mistress for admittance. The\nkind-hearted Pensassenach had been sitting up in a state of the\ncruellest anxiety regarding Morag, of whose intended expedition she\nhad received no inkling, nor had she been informed of her departure,\nuntil long after she was gone. She no sooner heard her voice, and\nher knock, than she hastened to admit her.\n\n\"Foolish girl that you are!\" said she, \"I am thankful to see you\nalive. My stars and garters, what a draggled figure you are!--But\ncome away into this room here, and let me hear all you have to tell me\nabout the battle. The rebels were defeated, were they not?--eh?--Why,\nwhat is the matter with the girl? she pants as if she was dying. Sit\ndown, sit down, child, and compose yourself; you look for all the\nworld as if you had seen a ghost.\"\n\n\"Och, och, memm!--och, hoch!\" replied the girl very much appalled,\nthat her mistress should thus, as she thought, so immediately see\nthe truth written in her very face. \"Och, hoch! an' a ghaist Morag\nhas surely seen. Has ta ghaist put her mark upon her face?--Och,\nhoch! she'll ne'er won ower wi't!\"\n\n\"The poor girl's head has been turned by the horrible scenes of\ncarnage she has witnessed,\" said the Pensassenach.\n\n\"Och, hoch!\" said Morag, with her hands on her knees, and rocking to\nand fro with nervous agitation; \"terrible sights! terrible sights,\nsurely, surely!\"\n\n\"Here, my poor Morag,\" said the Pensassenach, after she had dropped\ninto a cup a small quantity of some liquid nostrum of her own, from\na phial, hastily taken from a little medicine chest, and added some\nwater to it, \"drink this, my good girl!\"\n\n\"Och, hoch!\" said Morag, after she had swallowed it; \"she thinks she\nsees ta ghaist yet.\"\n\n\"What ghost did you see?\" demanded the Pensassenach.\n\n\"Och, hoch! Och, hoch, memm!\" replied Morag, trembling more than ever;\n\"Shon Smiss ghaist; Shon Smiss, as sure as Morag is in life, an'\nta leddy stannin' in ta body tare afore her e'en.\"\n\n\"John Smith's ghost!\" cried the Pensassenach. \"Pooh, nonsense! But\nagain I ask you, how went the battle? The rumour is, that the rebels\nhave been signally defeated, and all cut to pieces.\"\n\n\"Och, hoch! is tat true?\" said Morag, weeping. \"Och, hoch, poor\nShon Smiss!\"\n\n\"Did you not see the rout?\" demanded the Pensassenach. \"Did you not\nwitness the battle, and behold the glorious triumph of the royal army?\"\n\n\"Och, hoch, no!\" replied the girl. \"Morag saw nae pattals, nor naesin'\nbut hearin' terrible shots o' guns, an' twa or sree red cotted sodgers\ntat pursued her for her life.\"\n\n\"Well, well!\" replied the Pensassenach; \"Come now! tell me your\nwhole history.\"\n\nMorag's nerves being now somewhat composed, she gave her mistress\nas clear an outline as she could, of all that had befallen her. The\nPensassenach dropped some tears, to mingle with those which Morag\nshed, when she recounted the evidence of John Smith's death, which\nshe felt to be but too probably true. But when she came to talk of\nthe ghost, she did all she could to laugh the girl out of her fears,\ninsisting with her that she had been deceived by terror and weakness,\nand seeing how much the poor girl was worn out, she desired her to\ntake some refreshment, and to go to bed directly; and she had no\nsooner retired, than the Pensassenach prepared to follow her example.\n\nMorag, overcome with the immense fatigue she had undergone, had not\nstrength left to undo much more than half her dress, when she dropped\ndown on her bed, and fell over into a slumber. She had been lying\nin this state for fully half an hour or more, during part of which\nshe had been dreaming of John Smith, mixed up with many a strange\nincident, with all of which his slaughter, and his pale countenance\nand bloody figure were invariably connected, when she was awaked by\na tapping at the window of her apartment, which was upon the ground\nfloor. She looked up and stared, but the moon was by this time gone\ndown, and all without was dark as pitch.\n\n\"Morag! Morag!\" cried John Smith, who knowing well where she slept,\nwent naturally to her window to get her to come round and give him\nadmission to the house, and yet at the same time half doubting,\nafter the strange visitation which he had had, from what he\nbelieved to be her wraith, that he could hardly expect to find her\nalive. \"Morag! Morag!\" cried he again in his faint hollow voice.\n\n\"Och, Lord have mercy upon me, there it is!\" cried Morag, in her native\ntongue, and shaking from head to foot with terror. \"Who is there?\"\n\n\"Its me, your own Ian,\" cried John, in a tender tone. \"Let me in,\nMorag, for the love of God!\"\n\n\"Och, Ian, Ian!\" cried Morag. \"Och, Ian, my darling dear Ian! are you\nsure that it is really yourself in real flesh and blood?--for I have\ngot such a fright already this night. But if it really and truly be\nyou, go round to the door and I'll be with you in a minute. Och, och,\nthe Lord be praised, if it really be him after all!\"\n\nTrembling, and agitated with the numerous contrary emotions of hope,\nfear, and joy, by which she was assailed, Morag sprang out of bed,\nlighted her lamp, hurried on just enough of her clothes as might make\nher decent in the eyes of her lover, and with her bosom heaving, and\nher heart beating, as if it would have burst through her side, she\nran to unlock the outer door. Her lamp flashed on the fearful figure\nwithout. She again beheld the horrible spectre which had so recently\nterrified her, and believing that it was John Smith's ghost which\nshe saw, and that it had followed her home to corroborate the fatal\ntidings she had heard regarding his death, which had been already so\nmuch strengthened by her dreams, she uttered a piercing shriek, and\nfainted away on the floor. The shriek alarmed the Pensassenach, who\nwas not yet in bed. Hastily throwing a wrapper over her deshabille,\nshe seized her candle, and proceeded down stairs with all speed, and\nwas led by John's voice of lamentation to the kitchen, whither he had\ncarried Morag in his arms, and where the lady found him tearing his\nhair, or rather the heathery turf which then appeared to be doing\nduty for it, in the very extremity of mental agony. It is strange\nhow the same things, seen under different aspects and circumstances,\nwill produce the most opposite effects. There being nothing now\nabout John Smith, or his actions, that did not savour of humanity,\nbut his extraordinary head-dress, the Pensassenach had no doubt that\nit was the real bodily man that she saw before her, she perceived\nnothing but what was powerfully ludicrous in his strange costume,\nthe absurdity of which was heightened by his agonizing motions and\nattitudes, and exclamations of intense anxiety about Morag, whose\nfainting-fit gave no uneasiness to a woman of her experience. The\nPensassenach laughed heartily, and then hurried away for a bunch\nof feathers to burn under Morag's nose, by which means she quickly\nbrought her out of her swoon, and by a little explanation she speedily\nrestored her to the full possession of her reason. This accomplished,\nthe Pensassenach entirely forgot John Smith's wretched appearance, in\nthe eagerness of her inquiries regarding the result of the engagement.\n\n\"How went the battle, John?\" demanded she. \"We heard the guns,\nbut the cannonade did not last long. The victory was soon gained,\nand it was with the right cause, was it not?\"\n\n\"Woe, woe! Oich, oich!\" cried John, in a melancholy tone, and shaking\nhis head in utter despair. \"Oich, oich, her head is sore, sore.\"\n\n\"Very true, very true!\" cried the compassionate Pensassenach. \"I had\nforgotten you altogether, shame on me! Ah! poor fellow, how bloody\nyou are about the face! You must be grievously wounded.\"\n\n\"Troth she be tat,\" said John Smith. \"She has gotten a wicked slash\non ta croon, tat maist spleeted her skull. An' she wad hae peen dead\nlang or noo an it had na peen for tiss ponny peat plaister tat she\nputten tilt. Morag tak' her awa' noo, for she has toon her turn,\nand somesing lighter may serve.\"\n\n\"Och, hoch, hoch, tat is fearsome,\" said Morag, after she had removed\nthe clod from John's head. \"She mak's Morag sick ta vera sight o't.\"\n\n\"Oich, but tat be easy noo,\" said John. \"Hech, she was joost like an\nif she had been carryin' a' ta hill o' Lethen Bar on her head.\"\n\n\"Poor fellow, poor fellow!\" cried the Pensassenach, \"that is a fearful\ncut indeed. But I don't think the skull is fractured. How and where\ndid you get this fearful wound?\"\n\n\"Fare mony a petter man's got more,\" replied John, yielding up his\nhead into the affectionate hands of Morag, who was now so far recovered\nas to be able to look more narrowly at it.\n\n\"Oich, oich, fat a head!\" cried the affectionate and feeling girl,\nshuddering and growing pale, and then bursting into an agony of tears,\nas she looked upon his gaping wound. \"Oich, oich, she'll never do\ngood more! She canna leeve ava, ava!\"\n\n\"Tut, tut!\" cried John, with a ghastly smile, that was meant to\nreassure Morag. \"Fat nonsense, tat Morag pe speak! An' she pe traivel\na' ta way hame so far, fat for wad she pe deein' noo tat she is\nat hame?\"\n\n\"Alas, poor fellow!\" said the Pensassenach, as she was directing\nMorag to bind up his head, \"I wish I may be able to make this your\nhome. After all our losses and sufferings for our loyalty by those\nmarauding rascals, three days ago, we shall next run the risk of\nbeing punished for harbouring a rebel. But no matter. Happen what may,\nyou have large claims upon me, John, and as long as Morag can conceal\nyou here you shall be safe. You have been so short a time away that\nfew people can be aware of it, and still fewer can know the cause of\nyour absence.\"\n\nWhat the Pensassenach said was true, for as most of her people had run\naway when the Highland party appeared, there were few who certainly\nknew the cause of John Smith's absence, and those few who did know\nwere not very likely to tell any thing about it. Trusting to this,\nshe gave out that she had sent him after the rebels, to keep an eye on\nher husband's horses, and to endeavour to recover them if he could,\nand that, in making this attempt, he had received his wound. To give\nthe better colour to this story, she called her people together, and\noffered a handsome reward to such of them as would go immediately and\ntry to find and bring back the horses, telling them that John Smith\ncould describe to them whereabouts they were most likely to fall in\nwith them, he having, at one time, actually got possession of most of\nthem, but that they had escaped from him, having been scared away by\nthe thundering of the artillery. But not a man of them would venture\nupon such a search among the gibbets, where, as they were told,\nso many of their murdered countrymen were still hanging, and where,\nwithout much inquiry or ceremony, any one who might go on such an\nerrand might be tucked up to swing in company with them. Every hour\nincreased this terror, by bringing accounts of fresh executions, and\nindeed the fears of the Pensassenach's men turned out to be by no means\ngroundless, for it is a truth but too well known, that many innocent\nservants who were sent to seek their master's horses never returned.\n\nThe Pensassenach did not suffer for her kindness in thus protecting\nJohn Smith; and she and her husband were ultimately no losers from the\nhavoc which the Highlanders committed on their farm. Their damage was\nreported to the Duke of Cumberland, and the lady's conduct having been\nhighly extolled, as that of a very loyal Englishwoman, who had been\nthus persecuted for the open expression of her sentiments, the most\nample remuneration was assigned to her by the government.\n\nJohn Smith, nursed as he was by Morag, soon recovered. After he was\nquite restored to health, he only waited until he could scrape a little\nmoney together to enable him to furnish a cottage, ere he should make\nher his wife. The penetration of the Pensassenach soon enabled her\nto discover how matters stood between them, and she found means to\nmake all smooth for them in the manner which was most flattering to\nJohn, that is, by presenting him with a very handsome purse of money,\nas a reward for the eminent services he had rendered her. John was\nso proud of the purse that he did not know whether most to value\nit or the gold pieces it contained, and much as he loved Morag,\nand eager as he was for their union, he had some doubt whether he\ncould ever bring himself to part, even with one of those pretty\npieces which he so respected for the Pensassenach's sake. And,\nalas, as it so happened, he was never called upon to spend them as\nit was intended they should have been spent. Fain would I have made\nmy story end happily, gentlemen; but, as I am narrating a piece of\nactual history, I must be verawcious. John had made all preparation\nfor their marriage, when, alas, Morag was seized with some acute\ncomplaint about the region of the heart and lungs, which all the\nmedical attendants that the Pensassenach could command could not\nfathom or relieve. John watched her with the tenderest and most\nunremitting solicitude. But it pleased God that his unwearied care\nof her, should not be blessed with the same happy result, which hers\nhad been with regard to him, for after a long and lingering illness,\npoor Morag died on the very day she should have been his bride. The\nprobability was, that the unheard of fatigue of body, and agitation\nof mind, which she underwent during her heroic expedition in search\nof her lover, had produced some fatal organic change within her.\n\nJohn Smith was inconsolable for the loss of Morag. For some time he\nwas more like a walking clod than a man. Even the kind attempts of\nhis master and mistress to rouse him were unavailing. When at length\nhe was able to go about his usual duties on the farm, to do which his\nhonest regard for his employer's interest stimulated him, he suffered\nso much mental agony from the painful recollections which every object\naround him suggested to his mind, that he felt he could no longer go\nrationally about his master's affairs. Being at last convinced that he\nwas in danger of falling into utter and hopeless despair, he came to\nthe resolution of enlisting in the army, and having once formed this\ndetermination, he went through a very touching scene of parting with\nthe kind Pensassenach and her husband, and shouldering his small kitt,\nhe went and joined the gallant Forty-Second, then the Black Watch. He\nserved with distinguished approbation in all the actions in which that\nbrave corps was in his time engaged. He was made a serjeant at Bunker's\nHill; and after time had in some degree assuaged his affliction, he\nmarried a very active, intelligent, and economical woman, with whose\naid he undertook to keep the regimental mess. John could neither read\nnor write, and he always spoke English imperfectly. But his clever wife\nenabled him to carry on the business for so many years, with so much\ncredit to himself, and so successfully, that he ultimately retired with\nher at an advanced period of life, with the enjoyment of his pension,\nand such an accumulation of fortune as made him perfectly comfortable.\n\nI knew John well. He was a warm-hearted man, and always remarkable\nfor his uprightness and integrity, and especially for a strict\ndetermination to keep his word, whatever it might cost him so to do. As\nan instance of this, I may mention, that having on one occasion had\na serious illness, in which he was given up by the doctor, he made\na will, in which he left many small legacies to poor people. John\nrecovered, but he thought it his duty to keep his word, and he paid\nthe legacies. To me, and to my brother, who lived in one of his\nhouses while we were at the school of Nairn, he acted the part of a\nkind friend and guardian. He was perhaps too kind and indulgent to\nus, indeed. No one dared to him to impute a fault to us, even when\nwe were guilty. I remember that he had a large garden, well stocked\nwith fruit trees, and gooseberry bushes. Often has the good old man\nsent me into it, to steal fruit for myself and brother, whilst he\nwatched at the door, lest his wife might surprise and detect me. Many\nis the time that I have listened to him, with boyish wonder, as, with\nlightning in his eye, he fought over again his battles of Culloden,\nBunker's Hill, and Ticonderoga.\n\nAs John had no children, his intended heir was a nephew. His greatest\ndesire in life was to marry him to a grand-daughter of his old\ndeparted benefactress, the Pensassenach. He offered to settle his\nwhole fortune, which was not small, on the young lady, if she would\nonly marry his nephew; and John's wife did all in her power to back\nup the proposal. But although the nephew was a good, well-doing lad,\nhe was not the man to take the young woman's fancy; and so the match\nnever took place.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCRUELTY OF THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND AFTER THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN.\n\n\nClifford.--Is it possible that the Duke of Cumberland could have\nauthorized such atrocities, as the hanging up innocent servants in\nthe way you describe, Mr. Macpherson?\n\nDominie.--I am afraid that what I have asserted is but too true, sir.\n\nAuthor.--I am sorry to say, that I am in possession of a document\nwhich but too satisfactorily proves, that he did give most cruel\norders. It is an orderly book of the thirty-seventh regiment, which\nwas called Cholmondeley's Regiment; and in that I find, in the\ngeneral orders, dated \"The Camp at Enwerness, Aprill 17th, 1746,\"\nthe following entry:--\"A captain and fifty foot to march directly,\nand vizt all the cothidges in the naberhod of the field of batall,\nand to search for rebbels, the officers and men will take notiss,\nthat the pubilick orders of the rabells yesterday was to give us no\nquarters.\" This, I think, was a pretty broad hint to the men and the\nofficer commanding them, what it was that the Duke expected of them.\n\nGrant.--Very distinct, indeed.\n\nAuthor.--Not to be mistaken, I think.\n\nClifford.--Is there anything existing to establish that any such\norder was given by the Prince, previous to the battle, as that to\nwhich the Duke here alludes?\n\nAuthor.--Not a vestige of any thing that I am aware of. But if\nsuch orders had been given by the Prince, that circumstance would\nhave afforded no apology for him to have issued the order I have\nnow repeated to you, after the battle was over, and the enemy so\neffectually cut to pieces in the field. Nothing, I think, could more\nmark a sanguinary temper than his thus letting loose a body of men,\nto visit all the neighbouring cottages, and to put to death, in cold\nblood, all whom his ignorant and bloodthirsty myrmidons might choose\nto consider as rebels. The slaughter in this way, of the innocent as\nwell as of the guilty, was said to have been immense.\n\nClifford.--The picture is horrible!\n\nGrant.--It is horrible to think of it, even at this great distance\nof time, seated comfortably, as I am at this moment, in this great\noaken arm-chair.\n\nSerjeant.--And a comfortable arm-chair that is, sir; and many a good\nday and queer night has it seen. If I am not mistaken, that was old\nAlister Shaw of Inchrory's very chair.\n\nAuthor.--Ay--who was Alister Shaw, Archy?\n\nSerjeant.--Faith, sir, he was a queer tough little fellow,\nInchrory--for by that name he was always best known in the country--as\nproud as a bantam cock on his own midden-head. The body cared not\nfor the King. I have two or three curious little anecdotes about him,\nwhich I can tell you and the gentlemen, if you have no objections.\n\nClifford.--Objections, Mr Serjeant! I, the secretary, desire that\nyou shall tell them, without another moment's delay.\n\nSerjeant.--Aweel, aweel, sir! I'll do that at your bidding. I'm not\naccustomed to disobey the adjutant.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nALISTER SHAW OF INCHRORY.\n\n\nIt happened one day, gentlemen, that the Earl of Fife was travelling\nup this glen, on his way over to his house of Mar Lodge, in Braemar,\nand having stopped at Caochan-Seirceag over by yonder, he sent one\nof his people across the meadow here, to tell Inchrory that he meant\nto honour him with a visit. The gentleman knocked at the door, was\nadmitted by the goodwife, and ushered into Inchrory's presence. He\nfound him seated in his arm-chair, in the position which he always\noccupied, that is, on the most comfortable side of the fire.\n\n\"Good day to you, Inchrory,\" said the gentleman, bowing.\n\n\"The same to you sir,\" said Inchrory, bowing his head very grandly\nand ceremoniously, but without stirring.\n\n\"My Lord the Earl of Fife, who is halting at Caochan-Seirceag, on his\nroad to Braemar, has sent me over to tell you, that he means to step\naside from his way to visit you,\" said the gentleman.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said Inchrory, proudly, \"what of that? Tell him he\nis welcome.\"\n\nThe gentleman, astonished with his reception, bowed and retired,\nas an ambassador might have done from a royal presence.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said Lord Fife to him, after he had rejoined him,\n\"is Inchrory at home?\"\n\n\"He is at home, my Lord,\" replied the gentleman; \"but he is the\nsurliest churl I ever came across.\"\n\n\"As how?\" demanded the Earl.\n\n\"Why, my Lord, the little wretch never rose from his chair,\" replied\nthe gentleman; and then he repeated the conversation he had had with\nInchrory. \"If your Lordship would take my council, you would e'en\ncontinue your journey, and leave the bear to suck his own paws in\nhis own den.\"\n\n\"Why do you not flit [3] that insolent fellow,\" said Lord Fife to\nJames MacGrigor of Pitiveach, his factor, who happened to be with him;\n\"you are tacksman of this farm, and so you have it in your power to\nturn him out.\"\n\n\"Why, my Lord,\" replied MacGrigor, \"he and his forebears [4] have been\nthere for generations; and, though he certainly is a great original,\nhe is no bad fellow for all that.\"\n\n\"So, so,\" replied the Earl, laughing, \"the fellow is an original,\nis he? Then I must see him. It is something to discover so great a\npotentate, holding his undisputed reign in wilds like these, so many\nmiles from any other human dwelling. I must visit him directly.\"\n\nThe fact was, that the Earl had but recently become possessed of\nthese Highland estates, and Inchrory looked upon him as a new man--a\nLowlander--whom it was his duty, as it was very much his inclination,\nto despise; whilst the Earl, for his part, knowing that such was a\nfeeling which naturally enough pervaded the minds of the Highlanders,\neven on his own newly acquired lands, was determined to do it away,\nby using all manner of courtesy to every one with whom he might come\ninto contact. Above all things, he felt that the opportunity which he\nnow had of overcoming the prejudice of such a man as Inchrory, was by\nno means to be lost. To Inchrory, therefore, he went without a moment's\ndelay, was admitted into the house, and ushered into the presence.\n\n\"Good day to you, Inchrory,\" said the Earl, bowing.\n\n\"Good day to you, Lord Fife,\" replied Inchrory, bowing with the\nsame formality as formerly, but still keeping his seat. \"Sit down,\nmy Lord--sit down. Here is a chair beside me; for I always keep the\nbenmost [5] seat in my own house.\"\n\n\"Very right, Inchrory,\" said the Earl, smiling, and seating himself\naccordingly beside his host; \"and a very comfortable seat it seems\nto be.\"\n\n\"Very comfortable,\" said Inchrory, setting himself more firmly into it;\n\"and I hope that one is easy for your Lordship.\"\n\n\"Very easy indeed,\" said Lord Fife; \"a long ride, such as I have had,\nwould make a hard stone feel easy, and much more this chair beneath\nyour hospitable roof of Inchrory, and before your good fire, in this\nbitter cold day.\"\n\n\"Well, well, my Lord,\" replied Inchrory, for the first time shaking\nthe Earl heartily by the hand, and very much pleased with the\nfamiliar manner in which his visitor had so unexpectedly comported\nhimself,--\"Well, all I can say is, that you are heartily welcome\nto it.--Here, gudewife! Bring out the bottle. Lord Fife must taste\nInchrory's bottle; and bestir yourself, do you hear, and see what\nyou can give his Lordship to eat.\"\n\nThe whisky bottle was brought, and Inchrory drank the Earl's health,\nwho, without any ceremony, hobernobbed with him in turn. Mutton, ham,\ncheese, broiled kipper salmon, bannocks and butter, were produced,\nand put down promiscuously. The Earl ate like a hill farmer, and\npartook moderately of the whisky, which Inchrory swallowed in large\nand repeated bumpers to his Lordship's good health. He talked loud and\njoyously, and the Earl familiarly humoured him to his full bent. They\nwere the greatest friends in the world. The Earl particularly delighted\nInchrory by praising, caressing, and feeding a great rough deer-hound,\nwhich, roused from his lair in front of the fire by the entrance of the\neatables, put his long snout and cold nose into his Lordship's hand,\nand craved his attention. But this dog had very nearly ruined all;\nfor the Earl was so much taken with the animal, that having left the\nhouse after a very warm parting with Inchrory, he sent back his factor\nto him, to offer to purchase the animal at any price.\n\n\"What!\" cried Inchrory, drawing himself up in his chair, and looking\nthunderbolts,--\"What! does Lord Fife take me for a dog-dealer? I would\nnot sell my dog to any Lord in the land. I would not sell my dog to\nthe King on the throne. Tell his Lordship, I would as soon sell him\nmy wife!\"\n\n\"What a stupid fellow I am, Inchrory!\" said the factor. \"Did I say that\nit was the Earl that sent me? If I did, I was quite wrong. No! no! his\nLordship did no such thing. He only admired the dog so much, that\nhe could speak of nothing else as he crossed the meadow to join his\npeople. It was my mistake altogether. Hearing him admire your dog so\nmuch, I thought it would be a kind act from me to you, my old friend,\njust to ride back quietly, and give you a hint of it. 'I thought I\nhad the best dogs in all Scotland,' said the Earl, 'but that dog of\nInchrory's beats them all clean. He is worth them all put together. He\nis a prince among dogs, as his master is a prince among men. Where\ncould you find a master worthy of such a dog but Inchrory himself--the\nbest fellow I have met with in all this country.'\"\n\n\"Did the Earl of Fife say that?\" cried Inchrory. \"Here, bring me a\nleash. Now,\" added he after having fastened it about the hound's neck,\n\"take hold of that, and lead the dog with you to the Earl, and tell\nhim that Inchrory begs he will accept of him as a present.\"\n\nThe Earl was delighted with the dog, as well as with the able conduct\nof his ambassador who brought him; and he was no sooner fairly\nestablished in his own house at Mar Lodge, than he sent an especial\nmessenger over the hill to Inchrory, with a letter from himself,\nthanking him for his noble present, and requesting him to come and\npay him a visit. Inchrory most graciously accepted the invitation;\nand the Earl took care to be prepared to give him a proper reception.\n\nInchrory, dressed in his best Highland costume, accoutred with sword,\ndirk, and pistols complete, mounted his long tailed garron, and\nrode over to Mar Lodge. When he arrived at the door, two grooms of\nthe Earl's were ready, one to hold his horse's head, and the other\nhis stirrup whilst he dismounted, and he was ushered into the house\nby the house-steward, and through an alley of footmen, all richly\nattired in the Earl's livery, till he was shewn into the room where\nhis Lordship was seated. Inchrory had never seen anything the least\nlike this before. But he was too proud to manifest the smallest\nsurprise--and holding up his head, he strode in with a dignified air,\nand took all this pomp as if it had belonged to him of course. The\nEarl was seated, amidst all his magnificence, in a great arm-chair\nnext the fire, with an empty one placed at his left hand.\n\n\"Good day to you, Inchrory,\" said the Earl to him as he entered,\nand at the same time nodding his head familiarly as he spoke, but\nwithout rising from his seat.\n\n\"Good day to you, my Lord,\" said Inchrory, strutting forward like a\nturkey cock.\n\n\"Come away, and sit down beside me here, Inchrory,\" said the Earl,\n\"for I always keep the benmost seat in my own house.\"\n\n\"Right!--right, my Lord!\" said Inchrory, seating himself beside\nthe Earl, and taking his hand and shaking it heartily, without any\nsort of ceremony; \"you are quite right, my Lord; that is exactly my\nrule. Every man should have the benmost seat in his own house.\"\n\n\"You see that Luath hath not forgotten you,\" said the Earl, as the\ngreat dog was manifesting his joy at seeing his old master.\n\n\"By my faith you have him in good quarters here!\" said Inchrory,\nobserving that a quadruple fold of carpet had been spread for the\nanimal close in front of the fire.\n\n\"The best I can give him, Inchrory,\" said the Earl; \"as, next to\nhis late master, he deserves the best at my hands. Here, bring the\nbottle! Inchrory must taste the Earl of Fife's bottle! And, do you\nhear, bring something for Inchrory to stay his hunger with after his\nlong ride!\"\n\nImmediately, as if by magic, several footmen entered with a table\ncovered with the richest viands and wines, which was placed close to\nInchrory's chair and that of the Earl. By especial order a bottle of\nwhisky appeared among the other liquors.\n\n\"Here's to ye, Inchrory!\" said the Earl, after filling himself a\nglass of whisky, and drinking to his guest with a hearty shake of\nhis hand. And,--\n\n\"Here's to you, my Lord,\" cried Inchrory, following his example in\na bumper of the same liquor.\n\nInchrory had no reason to complain of his entertainment during the\ntime he was at Mar Lodge. The Earl gave orders that every thing\nshould be done to please him; and the little man was highly pleased,\nand as proud as a peacock. Amongst other things, hunting parties\nwere made in all directions through the neighbouring forests; and\nalthough these were by no means expressly got up for him, yet he was\nalways brought so prominently forward on all such occasions, that,\nin his pride, he believed, like the fly on the pillar, that the very\nworld was moving for him, and for him alone.\n\nIt happened that a Tenchil, or a driving of the woods for game of all\nkinds, was one day held at Alnac. Inchrory was posted in a pass with\nFarquharson of Allargue and Grant of Burnside in Cromdale, who was\none of Lord Fife's factors. This last mentioned gentleman, having\nonly arrived at Mar Lodge that morning, knew nothing of Inchrory\npersonally, though Inchrory knew something of him. So that, whilst\nFarquharson, who was by this time well acquainted with Inchrory\nand all his peculiarities, was treating him with all that respect,\nwhich was at all times paid him by a universal agreement among Lord\nFife's friends then assembled as his guests, the little man was left\nquite unnoticed by Burnside, and treated by him as nobody. Inchrory\nwas severely nettled at this apparently marked neglect on the part\nof Burnside towards him. As usual on such occasions, the people who\nhad surrounded a large portion of the forest, gradually contracted\ntheir circle, and their shouts increasing, and the dogs beginning to\nrange through the coverts, and to give tongue, game of all kinds came\npopping singly out through the different passes where the hunters were\nstationed. A short-legged, long-bodied, rough, cabbage-worm-looking\nterrier, of the true Highland breed, came yelping along towards the\npoint where Burnside, Allargue, and Inchrory were posted near to\neach other. All was anxiety and eager anticipation. A hart of the\nfirst head was the least thing that was looked for. When,--lo, and\nbehold, out came an enormous wild-cat, the very tigger of our Highland\nwoods. Burnside had a capital chance of him, but fired at him, and\nmissed him. Inchrory immediately levelled his piece, and shot him dead.\n\n\"There's at you, clowns of Cromdale!\" cried Inchrory, leering most\ntriumphantly and provokingly over his shoulder at Burnside.\n\n\"What do you mean by that, you rascal?\" cried Burnside, firing up at\nthis insult, and at the same time striding towards Inchrory with every\npossible demonstration of active hostility. \"What do you mean by that,\nyou little shrimp?\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Inchrory, standing his ground boldly and proudly, \"what\ndo you mean? I know nothing of you; and, it appears by your insolent\nmanners, that you know nothing of me.\"\n\n\"Stop, stop, gentlemen!\" cried Allargue, running in between them;\n\"the fault is mine for having neglected to introduce you to each\nother. Burnside, this is Inchrory, the particular friend of the Earl\nof Fife;--and, Inchrory, this is Burnside, also a particular friend\nof your friend, the Earl. This, I hope, is enough to put a stop to\nany thing unpleasant between you.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Burnside, who had caught the intelligent wink of the eye\nwhich Allargue had secretly conveyed to him, whilst going through this\npompous introduction, and who had heard enough of Inchrory to enable\nhim to guess at the case and the character of the animal he had to\ndeal with, as well as to pick up his cue as to the proper way in which\nhe should treat him. \"Oh, that is altogether another affair! Had I\nonly known the person in whose company I had the good fortune to be,\nI should not have presumed to have fired a shot before him. But if I\nhave said any thing amiss, I am sure Inchrory will have the magnanimity\nto forgive me, seeing that I have been already sufficiently punished\nby the exhibition of bad gunning which I have unwittingly ventured\nto make in presence of him, who is by all acknowledged to be the best\nmarksman in Scotland.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Inchrory, rising full a couple of inches higher in his\nbrogues, and coming forward to Burnside with extended palm, and with\na manner full of dignified condescension. \"You are a gentleman of the\nfirst water! I beg you will forget and forgive any expression which\nin my ignorance I may have let fall, that may by chance have given\nyou offence.\"\n\n\"Sir, I am proud to shake hands with you,\" said Burnside, advancing\nto give him a cordial squeeze.\n\n\"Sir,\" said Inchrory with a proud air, but at the same time shaking\nhim heartily by the hand, \"any friend of my friend the Earl of Fife,\nis my friend. Henceforth, sir, I am your sworn friend.\"\n\nI daresay, gentlemen, I have given you enough of Inchrory to make you\nsufficiently well acquainted with his character. But I have yet one\nmore anecdote of him, which I think brings it out more than all the\nothers. His wife, Ealsach, was one morning occupied in tending the\ncattle at the shieling of Altanarroch. Lonely as you already know this\nplace of Inchrory to be, its loneliness was nothing when compared to\nthat of the shieling of Altanarroch, where even the cattle themselves\ncould only exist for a month or two during the finest part of the\nyear. Now, it happened that Ealsach, being in the family way, became\nextremely anxious and unhappy as her time of confinement approached,\nand her anxiety went on increasing daily, till at last she began\nto think it very expedient to go home to Inchrory. The distance was\nconsiderable, and the way rough enough in all conscience. But, having\nthe spirit of a Highland woman within her, she set out boldly on foot,\nand arrived at Inchrory at an early hour in the morning. Her husband\nmet her at the door of the house, where she looked for a kind welcome\nfrom him, and modestly signified the cause of her coming.\n\n\"Ha!\" exclaimed he proudly, and with anger in his eye. \"How is this\nthat you come on foot? How dared you to come home till I sent a horse\nfor you, that you might travel as Inchrory's wife ought to do?\"\n\n\"No one saw how I came,\" replied his wife meekly. \"I met nothing but\nthe moor-cocks and the pease-weeps on the hill.\"\n\n\"No matter,\" said Inchrory, \"even the moor-cocks and the pease-weeps\nshould not have it to say, that they saw the wife of Inchrory tramping\nhome a-foot through the heather. Get thee back this moment every foot\nof the way to Altanarroch, that I may send for thee as Inchrory's\nwife ought to be sent for.\"\n\nThe poor woman knew that argument with him was useless. Without\nentering the house, therefore, she was compelled to turn her weary\nsteps back to Altanarroch; and she was no sooner there, than a servant\nappeared, leading by the bridle a horse, having a saddle on its back\ncovered with a green cloth, on which she was compelled to mount\nforthwith, in order to ride home over the barren and desert moors\nand mosses, in such style, as might satisfy the moor-cocks and the\npease-weeps, that she was the wife of Inchrory.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nDRUM-HEAD COURT-MARTIAL AND SENTENCE ON INCHRORY.\n\n\nDominie.--What a vain windy-wallets of a body the creature must have\nbeen! My humble opinion is, that he would have been much benefited\nby a gentle tasting of my tawse.\n\nClifford.--Or the drummer's cat-o-nine-tails, Mr. Macpherson. But come,\ngentlemen, who tells the next tale? I have nothing now on my book but\nOld Stachcan, and Turfearabrad, both, as I understand, adjourned to\ntime and place more fitting. Come, I must beat up for a volunteer.\n\nAuthor.--The circumstance of Mr. Macpherson having incidentally\nmentioned Ticonderoga, towards the end of his account of the adventures\nof Serjeant John Smith, has brought to my mind a legend of the family\nof Campbell of Inverawe, which I had from a friend of mine, the story\nof which is intimately connected with that most disastrous affair. If\nyou like I shall be happy to give it to you.\n\nClifford.--Andiamo dunque, Signore mio!--let's have it without\nmore delay.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF THE VISION OF CAMPBELL OF INVERAWE.\n\n\nPerhaps you are all acquainted with the history of the Black Watch,\nwhich, as Mr. Macpherson has already told you, was afterwards\nformed into that gallant corps now immortalized by its actions as the\nForty-Second Highlanders? General Stewart of Garth, in his interesting\naccount of the Highland Regiments, tells us that it was originally\ncomposed of independent companies, which were raised about 1725 or\n1730. These were stationed in small bodies in different parts of the\ncountry, in order to preserve the peace of the Highlands. It was,\nin some sort, a great National Guard, and it was considered so great\nan honour to belong to it, that most of the privates were the sons of\ngentlemen or tenants. Most of them generally rode on horseback, and\nhad gillies to carry their arms at all times, except when they were\non parade or on duty. They were called Freiceadan Dubh, or the Black\nWatch, from the dark colour of their well-known regimental tartan,\nin opposition to the Seider-Deargg, or Red Soldiers, who were so\nnamed from the colour of their coats. You may probably remember the\ncircumstance of their having been most unfairly marched to London,\nunder the pretence that they were to be reviewed by the King,--of\ntheir having been ordered abroad,--of their refusal to go,--of their\nhaving been moved, as if by one impulse pervading every indignant bosom\namong them, to make that most extraordinary and interesting march of\nretreat which they effected to Northampton,--of their having been\nultimately brought under subjection,--and, finally, of their brave\nconduct in Flanders, from which country they returned in October 1745.\n\nAfter their return to Great Britain, the Black Watch were ordered\ninto Kent, instead of being sent into Scotland with the other\ntroops under General Hawley, to act against those who had risen\nfor Prince Charles. This arrangement probably arose entirely from\ngreat consideration and delicacy on the part of the government,\nwho, fully aware of the high honour of the individuals of the corps,\nnever entertained the smallest doubt of their loyalty, but who felt\nthe cruelty of exposing men to the dreadful alternative of fighting\nagainst their friends and relatives, many of whom were necessarily to\nbe found in the ranks of the insurgents. There were, however, three\nadditional companies raised in the Highlands, a little time before\nthe return of the regiment from abroad. These were kept in Scotland,\nand however distressing to their feelings the duty was which they were\ncalled upon to perform, on the side for which they were enlisted,\nthey did that duty most honourably. One of these was recruited and\ncommanded by Duncan Campbell, laird of Inverawe.\n\nAfter various services in their own country during the period that\nthe rest of the corps was abroad for the second time, these three\ncompanies were ordered to embark, in March 1748, to join the regiment\nin Flanders. But the preliminaries of peace having been soon afterwards\nsigned, the order was countermanded, and they were reduced.\n\nDuring the time that Campbell of Inverawe's company was occupied in the\nunpleasant duty to which I have alluded, he had been on one occasion\ncompelled to march into the district of Lorn, and to burn and destroy\nthe houses and effects of a few small gentlemen, who were of that\nresolute description that they would have sacrificed all they had,\nand even life itself, rather than yield to what they held to be the\ngovernment of an usurper. Having been thus led to pursue his route,\nin a certain direction, for many a mile, he happened, on his return,\nto be detained behind his men by some accidental circumstance, and\nhaving lost his way after night-fall, he wandered about alone for\nseveral hours, until he became considerably oppressed with hunger and\nfatigue. With the expectation of gathering some better knowledge of\nhis way, he left the lower grounds, where the darkness of night had\nsettled more deeply and decidedly down, and he climbed the side of a\nhill with the hope of benefiting, in some degree, by the half twilight\nwhich lingers longer upon these elevations, continuing to rest upon\nthem sometimes for hours after it has altogether deserted their lower\nregions. With the dogged perseverance of one who labours on because he\nhas no other alternative, he blindly pursued his hap-hazard course in\na diagonal line along the abrupt face, always rising as he proceeded,\nuntil his way became every moment more and more difficult. The side\nof the hill became steeper and steeper at every step, until he began\nto be satisfied that he had no chance of reaching its brow, except\nby retracing his steps, in order to discover some other means of\nascending to it. To any such alternative as this he could by no means\nmake up his mind. He cursed his own folly for allowing his company to\nmarch on without him. He uttered many a wish that he was with them. He\nfelt sufficiently convinced that he had acted imprudently in having\nthus exposed himself alone, in the midst of a district which was\nyet reeking with the vengeance which his duty had compelled him so\nunwillingly to pour out upon it. But his courage was indomitable, and\nhis way lay onwards, and onwards he without hesitation resolved to go.\n\nHe had not proceeded far, until high cliffs began to rear themselves\nover his head, whilst, from his very feet, perpendicular precipices\nshot down into the deep night that prevailed below. The goat or deer\ntrack that he followed became every moment more and more blocked\nup with stony fragments, until at length it offered one continuous\nseries of dangerous steps, requiring his utmost care and attention\nto preserve him from a slip or fall that might have been fatal.\n\nWhilst he was thus proceeding, with his whole attention occupied in\nself-preservation, he was suddenly challenged in Gaelic by a rough\nvoice in his front.\n\n\"Who comes there?\"\n\n\"A friend,\" replied Inverawe, in the same language in which he was\naddressed.\n\n\"I am not sure of that,\" said the same voice hoarsely and bitterly. \"Is\nhe alone?\"\n\n\"He is alone,\" said a voice a little way behind Inverawe; \"We are\nquite safe.\"\n\n\"Come on then, sir,\" said the voice in front, \"you have nothing\nto fear.\"\n\n\"Fear!\" cried Inverawe, in a tone which implied that any such feeling\nhad ever been a stranger to him; \"I fear nothing.\"\n\n\"I know you to be a brave man, Inverawe!\" said the man who now appeared\nin front of him. \"Come on then without apprehension. You need not put\nyour hand into the guard of your claymore, for no one here will harm\nyou. But what strange chance has brought you here?\"\n\n\"The loss of my way,\" replied Inverawe. \"But how do you come to know\nme so well?\"\n\n\"It is no matter how I know you,\" replied the other. \"It is sufficient\nthat I do know you, and know you to be a brave man, to whom, as such,\nI am prepared to do what kindness I can. What are your wants then,\nand what can I do for you?\"\n\n\"My wants are, simply to find my lost way, and then to procure some\nfood, of which I stand much in need,\" replied Inverawe.\n\n\"Be at ease then, for I shall help you to both,\" replied the person\nwith whom he was conversing; \"but methinks your last want requires\nto be first attended to, as the most urgent; so follow me, and look\nsharply to your footing.\" Then, speaking in a louder tone to some\nindividuals, who, though unseen, were posted somewhere in the obscurity\nto the rear of Inverawe, he said, \"Look well to your post, lads, I\nshall be with you by and bye.\" And then again turning to Inverawe,\nhe added--\"Come on, sir, you must climb up this way; the ascent is\nsteep, and you will require to use hands as well as feet. Goats were\nwont to be the only travellers here, and even they must have been\nhardy ones. But troublous times will often people the desert cliffs\nthemselves with human beings, and scare the very eagle from her aerie,\nthat she may yield her lodging to weary man.\"\n\nInverawe now began to clamber after his guide up a steep, tortuous,\nand dangerous ascent, where in some places they were compelled to pull\nup their bodies by the strength of their hands and arms. It lasted\nfor some time; and he of the Black Watch, albeit well accustomed to\nsuch work, was beginning to be very weary of it, when at length they\nlanded on a tolerably wide natural ledge, where Inverawe perceived that\nthe cliffs that arose from the inner angle of it so overhung their\nbase as to render it self-evident that all farther ascent in this\ndirection was cut off by them. Rounding a huge fallen mass of rock,\nwhich lay poised on the very edge of the precipice, they came suddenly\non a ravine, or rift, in the face of the cliff above, on climbing a\nfew paces up which, they discovered the low, arched mouth of a cave,\nwhence issued a faint gleam of light, and an odour of smoke. His\nguide stooped under the projection of the cliff that hung over it, and\nlet himself down through the narrow entrance. Inverawe followed his\nexample without fear, and found himself in a cavern of an irregular\nform, from ten to twenty feet in diameter. This he discovered partly\nby the light of a fire of peats that smouldered near the entrance,\nand partially filled the place with smoke, but more perfectly by a\ntorch of bog-fir which his guide immediately lighted. But he felt no\ncuriosity about this, in comparison with that which he experienced\nin regard to the figure and features of his guide, with which he was\nintensely anxious to make himself acquainted.\n\nHe was a tall and remarkably fine looking man, considerably below\nmiddle age. He was dressed in a grey plaid and kilt, betokening\ndisguise, but with the full complement of Highland armour about\nhim. His hair hung in long black curls around his head. His face was\nvery handsome, his nose aquiline, his mouth small and well formed,\nhaving its upper lip graced by a dark and well-trimmed moustache. His\neyes, and his whole general expression, were extremely benignant. After\nscanning his face with great attention, Inverawe was satisfied\nthat he never had seen him before, and he had ample opportunity of\nascertaining the reverse, if it had been otherwise, for the man stood\nwith the bog-fir torch blazing in his hand, as if he wished to give\nhis guest the fullest advantage of it in his scrutiny of him, and then,\nas if guessing the conclusion to which that scrutiny had brought him,\nhe at last began to speak.\n\n\"Aye,\" said he calmly, \"you are right, Inverawe. Your eyes have\nnever beheld me until this moment. But I have seen you to my cost. I\nwas looking on all the while that you and your men were burning and\ndestroying my house, goods, and gear, this blessed morning, and I\ncan never forget you.\"\n\n\"I know you not, that is certain,\" replied Inverawe; \"and the cruel\nduty we were on to-day was so extensive in its operation, that I\ncannot even guess whom you are.\"\n\n\"You shall never know it from me, Inverawe,\" replied the other.\n\n\"And why not?\" demanded Inverawe.\n\n\"From no fear for myself,\" replied the stranger; \"but because I would\nnot add to that remorse, which you must feel, from being compelled\nto execute deeds which are as unworthy of you, as I know they are\ncontrary to your generous and kindly nature. I have suffered from\nyou deeply--deeply indeed have I suffered. But I look upon you but\nas an involuntary minister of the vengeance of a cruel Government,\nand perhaps as an agent in the hand of a just God, who would punish me\nfor those sins and frailties which are inherent in my human nature. I\nblame not you, and I can have no feeling of anger against you, far\nless of revenge. Give me, then, the right hand of fellowship.\"\n\n\"Willingly, most willingly!\" said Inverawe, cordially shaking hands\nwith him. \"You are a noble high-minded man; for certainly I can\nimagine what your feelings might have very naturally been against me,\nand I know that I am now in your power.\"\n\n\"All I ask, Inverawe, is this,\" continued the stranger; \"that as I\nhave been, and will continue to be honourable towards you, you will\nbe the same to me; and in asking that, I know that I am asking what\nis sure to be granted. The confidence in your honour which I have\nshown by bringing you here, will not be betrayed.\"\n\n\"Never!\" said Inverawe, with energy. \"Never while I have life!\"\n\n\"I know I can rely upon you,\" said the stranger; \"and now let me\nhasten to give you such refreshment as I possess. Sit down, I pray\nyou, as near to the ground as possible, you will find that the smoke\nwill annoy you less.\"\n\nInverawe did as his host had recommended, and, seating himself on some\nheather which lay on the floor of the place, the stranger opened a\nwicker pannier that stood in a low recess, and speedily produced from\nit various articles of food, of no mean description, together with a\nbottle of French wine, and, spreading the viands before his guest, he\nseated himself by him, and they ate and drank together. They had little\nconversation; and the stranger no sooner saw that Inverawe's hunger\nwas satisfied, than he arose, and proposed that he should now guide\nhim on his journey. Creeping from the hole, therefore, they descended\nthe crags together, with all that care which the steepness of the\ndeclivity rendered necessary, until they came to the spot where they\nhad first encountered each other, and then the stranger began to guide\nInverawe onwards in the same direction he had been formerly pursuing.\n\nThey had not proceeded far, until they were challenged by voices among\nthe rocks, showing that his host's place of retreat was protected\nby sentinels in all quarters. His guide answered the challenge, and\nthey then went on without molestation. After about an hour's walk\nover very rugged ground, during which they wound over the mountain,\nand threaded their way through various bogs and woods, that completely\nbewildered Inverawe, his guide suddenly brought him out upon a road\nwhich he well knew, and then shaking hands with him, and bidding him\nfarewell, he dived again into the wood, and disappeared.\n\nInverawe rejoined his company at their night's quarters. They had\nspent an anxious time, regarding him, during his absence, and they\nwere clamorous in their enquiries as to what had become of him. He\ngave them an account of the circumstance of his losing his way; but he\ntold them not a syllable of his adventure with the stranger, resolving\nthat it should be for ever buried in his own bosom. There, however,\nit produced many a thought; and often did he earnestly hope, that\nchance might again bring him into contact with the man who had taken\nso noble a revenge of him--to whom he felt as an honest bankrupt might\ndo towards his generous and forgiving creditor; and whose person and\nfeatures he had engraven so deeply on his recollection, to be embalmed\nthere amidst the warmest and kindliest affections of his heart.\n\nIt was soon after the disbanding of his company, that Campbell of\nInverawe returned to his own romantic territory, and to his ancient\ncastle, standing in the midst of beautiful natural lawns, surrounded\nby wooded banks and knolls, lying at the north-western base of the\nmighty Ben-Cruachan. Speaking in a general way, the country around\nwas thickly covered with oak and birch woods, giving double value,\nboth in point of beauty and utility, to the rich, glady pastures,\nwhich were seen to spread their verdant surface to the sun, along\nthe course of the river Awe. Behind the grey towers of the building,\nbroken rocks arose here and there, in bare masses, in the direction of\nthe mountain,--whilst the blue expanse of Loch Etive stretched away\nfrom the eye towards the north-east, as well as to the west. To the\nsouth-west, the groves, and grassy slopes, were abruptly broken off\nby the perpendicular crags of the romantic ravine through which the\nriver makes its way, to pour itself across the open haughs of Bunawe,\nand into Loch Etive. To sketch out the remainder of the neighbourhood,\nso that you may be fully aware of the nature of the country, which was\nthe scene, where one of the most important circumstances of my tale\ntook place, I may add, that about a mile above the ravine, the river\nhas its origin from a long narrow arm of Loch Awe, which presents one\nof the most romantic ranges of scenery in Scotland. The lake in the\nbottom, is there every where about eighty or an hundred yards wide\nonly; and whilst a bare, rocky mountain front, furrowed by many a\nmisty cataract, rises sheer up out of the water on its western side,\nthe steep, lofty, and rugged face of Cruachan shuts it in on the\neastern side, forming the grand and wild pass of Brandera. Here the\nmountain exhibits every variety of picturesque form,--of prominent\ncrag, and half-concealed hollow, among which the grey mists are\ncontinually playing and producing magical effects; together with\ndeep torrent beds, and innumerable waterfalls, thundering downwards\nunseen, save in glimpses, amid the thick copse which, generation\nafter generation, has sprung from the stools of those giant oaks,\nwhich were once permitted to rear their spreading heads, and to throw\ntheir bold arms freely abroad, athwart the rocky steeps that rear\nthemselves so high up above, as to be softened by distance and air,\ntill they almost melt from human vision.\n\nHaving thus put you in possession of the scenery, I shall now proceed\nto tell you, that Campbell of Inverawe, after his long absence from\nhome on military duty, felt all the luxury of enjoyment which these\nhis own quiet scenes could bestow, and his mind expanding to all\nhis old friendships, he largely exercised all the hospitalities of\nlife. Frequently did he fill the hall of his fathers with gay and\nmerry feasters, and his own hilarious disposition, always made him\nthe very soul of the mirth that prevailed among them.\n\nOn one occasion, it happened that he had congregated a large party\ntogether. The wine circulated freely. The fire bickered on the hearth,\nand threw a cheerful blaze over the walls of the hall, reddening the\nvery roof, and gleaming on the warlike weapons that hung around. The\nwine was good,--the jests were merry,--and the conversation sparkling,\nso that the guests were as loath to depart as their kind host was\nunwilling to let them go. His lady had retired to her chamber--but\nstill they sat on, making the old building ring again with their jocund\nlaughter. But all things must have an end. The parting cup, to their\nhost's rooftree, was proposed by a certain young man called George\nCampbell, and it was filled to the brim. But as all were on their\nlegs to drain it, with heart and good will, to the bottom,--a rattling\npeal of thunder rolled directly over their heads. There was not a man\nof them that did not feel that the omen was appalling. Some hardy\nones tried to laugh it off, as a salvo from heaven in homologation\nof their good wishes to the house of Inverawe. But the pleasantry\nwent ill down with the rest. Servants were called for,--horses were\nordered, and out poured their owners to mount them,--when they were\nall surprised to see the heavens quite serene and tranquil. But not\na word of remark was ventured by any one on this so very strange a\ncircumstance. Their hospitable entertainer saw every man of them take\nhis stirrup cup; and they galloped away, one after the other.\n\nAfter they were all gone, Inverawe paced about in the court-yard for\nsome time, in sombre thought, which stole involuntarily upon him. He\nthen sought his way up stairs, and lifting an oaken chair towards\nthe great hearth, where the billets had by this time begun to burn\nred, and without flame, he sat down in it for a while, listlessly to\nponder over the events of the evening. The weary servants had gladly\nstolen away to bed, and the whole castle was soon as silent as the\ngrave. Not a sound was to be heard within the walls, but the dull,\ndrowsy buzzing of a large fly, which the flickering light of a solitary\nlamp, left on the table, had prevented from retiring to some cranny of\nrepose. The master of the mansion smiled for a moment, as the whimsical\nidea crossed him, that this tiny insect was perhaps the only thing\nof life, which, at that time, kept watch with him within the castle.\n\nInverawe's thoughts reverted to the last toast which had been given by\nhis young friend Campbell, and the strange circumstances by which it\nhad been accompanied. He had an only son, called Donald, a promising\nyoung man, who was the prop of his house, and to whose future career\nin life he looked forward with all a father's anxiety. He had been\nlong accustomed to weave a silken tissue of anticipated happiness,\nand honours, for the young man, and to view him, in his mind's eye, as\nthe father of many generations to come. The youth was at that time from\nhome; and this was the very first moment of his life that the notion\nof there being any chance of his being one day left childless, had ever\noccurred to him. He tried to shake off these gloomy presentiments, but\nstill they returned, and clung to him, with a force and pertinacity\nthat no reason could conquer. He would fain have risen to go to his\nchamber, but he felt as if some powerful, though unseen hand, had\nheld him down to his chair,--and he continued to sit on, absorbed in\ncontemplative musings on these gloomy and painful dreams, till the\nbillets on the hearth had consumed themselves to their red embers.\n\nSuddenly all such thoughts were put to flight from his mind. He\ndistinctly heard the great outer door of the castle creak upon its\nhinges. He remembered, that although he had not locked it, he had shut\nit behind him when he came in. It now banged against its doorway, and\nsent a hollow sound echoing up the long turnpike stair. Faint, quick,\nand stealthy footsteps, were then heard ascending. One or two other\ndoors were moved in succession. The footsteps approached with cautious\nexpedition. And as Inverawe listened with breathless attention,\nthe door of the hall was thrust open,--a human countenance appeared\nfor an instant in the dusky aperture--and then a man, with a naked\ndirk in his hand,--his clothes dripping wet--his long hair hanging\nstreaming over his shoulders, and half veiling his glaring eyes, and\npale and haggard countenance, rushed in, and made straight up to him.\n\nInverawe started to his feet, drew his dirk, and prepared to defend\nhimself from this unlooked for attempt at assassination. But ere he\nhad well plucked it forth from its sheath, the intruder assumed the\nattitude of a suppliant.\n\n\"For mercy's sake pardon my unceremonious entrance, Inverawe!\" said\nthe stranger, in a hollow, husky, and exhausted voice. \"And be\nnot alarmed, for I come with no hostile intention against you or\nyours. I am an unfortunate wretch, who, in a sudden quarrel, have\nshed the blood of a fellow-creature. He was a man of Lorn. I have been\nhotly pursued by his friends, and though I have thrown those who are\nafter me considerably out, during the long chase they have kept up,\nyet they are still pressing like blood-hounds on my track. To baffle\nthem, if possible, I threw myself into the river, and swam across it,\nand I now claim that protection, and that hospitality, which no one\never failed to find within the house of Inverawe.\"\n\n\"By Cruachan!\" cried Inverawe, sheathing his dirk, and slapping it\nsmartly with the open palm of his hand. \"By Cruachan, I swear that\nyou shall have both!\"\n\nNow, I must tell you, that this was considered as the most solemn\npledge that a Campbell of Inverawe could give. Their war-cry was,\n\"Coar-a-Cruachan,\" that is, \"Help from Cruachan.\" And this expression\nhad a double meaning, inasmuch as the word Cruachan had reference both\nto the mountain of that name, and to the hip where the dirk hung. To\nswear by Cruachan, therefore, and to strengthen the oath by slapping\nthe dirk with the open palm, was to utter an oath, which must, under\nall circumstances, be for ever held inviolable.\n\n\"But tell me,\" said Inverawe, \"how happened this unlucky affair?\"\n\n\"We were all met to make merry at a wedding,\" replied the stranger,\n\"when, as I was dancing with---- But hold!--I hear voices! They\napproach the castle! I am lost if you do not hide me immediately.\"\n\n\"This way,\" said Inverawe, leading him to a certain obscure part of\nthe hall. \"Aid me to lift this trap.--Now, down with ye and crouch\nthere.--They come.\"\n\nInverawe had barely time to drop the trap-door into its place,\nto resume his seat at the fire, and to affect to be in a deep\nsleep, when the voices and the sound of human footsteps were\nheard ascending the stairs. Three men entered the hall in reeking\nhaste--claymores in hand. They rushed towards the fire-place, where\nhe was sitting. Inverawe started up as if just awaked by the noise\nthey made, and drew his dirk, as if to defend himself from their\nmeditated attack.\n\n\"Ha!\" cried he, with well-feigned surprise. \"Assassins: Then must I\nsell my life as dearly as I can.\"\n\n\"Not assassins!\" cried they. \"We are not assassins, Inverawe. We\ncrave your pardon for this apparently rude intrusion, but we are in\npursuit of an assassin. We come to look for a man who has murdered\nanother. Have we your permission to search for him?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Inverawe, \"wherever you please.\"\n\n\"He cannot be here,\" said one of the men. \"I told you that he could\nnot be here. Don't you see plainly that he could not have come in\nhere without awaking Inverawe. We lose time here. We had better on\nafter our friends.\"\n\n\"Depend on't he has run up Loch Etive side,\" said another of them.\n\n\"What are all these wet foot-steps on the floor?\" said the first\nof them that spoke. \"He might have been here without Inverawe's\nknowledge.\"\n\n\"Don't you see that Inverawe has had a feast, and that wine, and water,\nand whisky too, have been flowing in gallons in all directions?\" said\nthe second man. \"See there is a large pool of lost liquor. I verily\nbelieve that some of these footsteps are my own, made this moment,\nby walking accidentally through it. I tell you he never could have\ncome here.\"\n\n\"It is true that I have had a feast,\" said Inverawe, carelessly,\n\"as you may see from the wrecks of it that still remain on the table.\"\n\n\"I told you so,\" said the second man. \"We only lose time here. If\nyou had only been guided by my counsel we might have been hard at\nhis heels by this time, as well as the rest.\"\n\n\"Haste, then, let us go!\" said the first man.\n\n\"Away! away!\" cried his companions, and, without waiting for farther\nparley, they rushed out of the hall, and Inverawe heard with some\nsatisfaction, their footsteps hurrying down stairs, and the shouts\nwhich they yelled forth after their companions, growing fainter\nand fainter, until they were altogether lost in the direction of\nLoch Etive.\n\nInverawe was no sooner certain that they were fairly gone, without\nall risk of returning, than he proceeded, in the first place, to\nsecure the outer door of the castle, and then returning to the hall,\nhe went to the trap-door, and calling softly to the man concealed\nbelow it, he desired him to aid him in raising it, by applying his\nstrength to force it upwards, and thus their united strength enabled\nthem speedily to open it, and to lift it up.\n\n\"Come forth now, unfortunate man,\" said Inverawe; \"your pursuers\nare gone.\"\n\n\"I come,\" said the stranger, in his husky hoarse voice, and as he\nraised himself from the trap-door, his haggard countenance, and his\nblood-shot eyes, that glared with the horror of his situation, half\nseen as they were through his long moist locks, chilled Inverawe's\nvery heart as he looked upon him.\n\n\"Now, sir,\" said Inverawe, \"you are safe for the present, your pursuers\nhave passed on.\"\n\n\"Thanks! thanks!\" replied the man; \"I know not how sufficiently to\nthank you.\"\n\n\"Aye--all is so far well for you,\" said Inverawe; \"but concealment for\nyou here is impossible. You must remove into a place of more certain\nsafety, and no time is to be lost. At present you may remove without\nobservation or suspicion; but no one can say how soon the search for\nyou hereabouts may be renewed. Here,\" continued he, setting before\nhim some of the remains of the feast, which the tired servants had\nnot removed from the sideboard; \"take what refreshment circumstances\nmay allow, whilst I go for a basket, in which to carry food enough\nto last you during to-morrow. We must go to Ben-Cruachan, with as\nmuch secrecy and expedition as we can.\"\n\nThe stranger, thus left for a few minutes by himself, hastily devoured\nsome of the viands, of which he had so much need, and having swallowed\na full cup of wine, he was rejoined by Inverawe with a basket, into\nwhich he hastily packed some provisions, and, without a moment's\ndelay, they quietly and stealthily quitted the hall, and the castle,\nand the moment they found themselves in the open air, Inverawe led\nthe way diagonally up the slope, on the western side of Ben-Cruachan.\n\nTheir way was long, and their path rough, and they moved on through\nwoods, and over rocks, without uttering a word. Many a half expressed\nexclamation, indeed, burst involuntarily from the stranger, betraying\na mind ill at ease with itself, and many a start did he give, as\nif he apprehended surprise from some lurking pursuer; and Inverawe\nshuddered to think, that the haggard appearance of the man, and\nthese his guilty-like apprehensions, were more in accordance with the\naccusation of murder, or unfair slaughter, which seemed to have been\nmade against him, by the expressions of some of those who had come\ninto the hall in search of him, than with the chance-medley killing\nof a man in an affray, which was the complexion he had himself wished\nto put on the matter. Be this as it might, however, his most solemn\npledge had been given for his security, and accordingly he determined\nhonourably to fulfil it, at all hazards to himself. His reflections,\nas he went with this man, were of any thing but a pleasing nature.\n\nAfter a long and painful walk, or rather race, for their pace had\nbeen more like that, than walking, Inverawe began to climb up the\nabrupt face of Cruachan, till he came to that part of it which hangs\nover the northern entrance of the Pass of Brandera, where the river\nAwe breaks away from the end of the narrow branch of the lake, and\nthere, after some scrambling, he led the stranger high up the face of\nthe mountain, to a cave that yawned in the perpendicular cliff. The\nconcealment here was perfect, for its mouth was masked in front by a\ncairn of large stones, which might have been accidentally accumulated\nby falling during successive ages from the rocks above, or perhaps\nartificially piled up there in memory of some person or event long\nsince forgotten. It was moreover surrounded by trees of all sorts\nof growth; indeed, the universal wooding which prevailed over the\nsurrounding features of nature, of itself rendered any object on the\nground of the mountain side difficult to be discovered by any creature\nthat did not, like an eagle, mount into the sky. In addition to this,\nthe great elevation of the position, added to the security of the\nplace, and the ravine-seamed front of the perpendicular mountain of\nrock that guarded the western side of the pass, immediately opposite\nto the face of Cruachan, precluded all chance of observation from\nthat quarter.\n\n\"This is not exactly the place where Campbell of Inverawe would\nwish to exercise his hospitality, to any one who deigns to ask for\nhis protection,\" said the Laird, whilst he was engaged in striking\na light; \"but in your circumstances it is the best retreat in which\nI can extend it towards you. Here is a lamp; and I will leave this\ntinder-box, and this flask of oil with you. The cave is dry enough,\nand there is abundance of heather to be had around you. Use your lamp\nonly when you may find it absolutely necessary so to do; for its light\nmight betray you; and take care to show yourself as little as possible\nduring the daylight of to-morrow. I have promised you protection by\nCruachan, and by Cruachan you shall have it. You must be contented\nwith this my assurance for the present, for your safety demands that\nI shall not see you again, until I can do so without observation,\nunder the veil of to-morrow-night's darkness. Till then, you must\ne'en do with such provisions as this basket contains, and you may\nreckon on my bringing a fresh supply with me when I return. Farewell,\nfor I must hurry back, so as to escape discovery.\"\n\n\"Thanks! thanks! kind Inverawe!\" said the man, in a state of extreme\nagitation and excitement,--\"a thousand thanks! But, must you--must you\nleave me thus alone? Alone, for a whole night, on this wild mountain\nside, with that yawning hole for my place of rest, and with nothing\nbut the roar of these eternal cataracts, mingled with the wild howl of\nthe wind through the pass to lull me to repose! That cairn, too!--may\nnot that be a cairn which marks the spot where--where--where some\nmurder has been done? Can you assure me that no ghosts ever haunt\nthis wild place?\"\n\n\"The soul that is free from all consciousness of guilt may hold\npatient, solitary, and fearless converse with ghost or goblin,\neven on such a wild mountain side as this,\" said Inverawe, somewhat\nimpatiently. \"But surely you cannot expect that my hospitality to\nyou should require my sharing this mountain concealment with you? If\nyou do, I must tell you, what common prudence ought to teach you,\nthat if I were disposed to do so, nothing could be more unwise,\nas nothing could more certainly lead to your detection. My absence\nfrom home would create so much surprise and anxiety, that the whole\ncountry would turn out to seek for me, and their search for me, could\nnot fail to produce your discovery. Even now, I may be risking it by\nthus delaying to return.\"\n\n\"True, true, Inverawe!\" said the stranger, in a desponding tone, and\napparently making a strong effort to command his feelings. \"There\nis too much truth in what you say. I must steel myself up to this\nnight. My safety, as you say, demands it. Yet, 'tis a terrible\ntrial! Would that the dawn were come! Is it far from day?\"\n\n\"I hope it is, indeed,\" replied Inverawe, \"else might my absence and\nall be discovered. It cannot, as yet, as I suppose, be much after\nmidnight; but even that is late enough for me. I must borrow the\nswiftness of the roebuck to carry me back. So again I say farewell\ntill to-morrow-night.\"\n\nInverawe tarried not for an answer, but, darting off through the wood,\nhe rapidly descended among the rocks, and then bounded over all the\nobstacles in his way, with a swiftness almost rivaling that of the\nanimal he had alluded to; and so he reached his own door, in a space\nof time so short, as to be almost incredible. The fire in the hall\nhad now sunk into white ashes. The lamp, which he had left burning,\nwas now flickering in its last expiring efforts. He swallowed a single\ndraught of wine to restore his exhausted strength, and then he stole to\nhis chamber, and crept into bed, happy in the conviction that his lady,\nwho was in a deep sleep, had never discovered that he had been absent.\n\nThe sleep that immediately fell upon Inverawe himself was that of the\nmost perfect unconsciousness of existence. He knew not, of course,\nhow long it had lasted, nor was he, in the least degree, sensible of\nthe cause or manner of its interruption. But he did awake, somehow\nor other; and then it was that he discovered, to his great wonder and\nastonishment, that the chamber which, on going to bed, he had left as\ndark as the most impenetrable night could make it, was now illuminated\nwith a lambent light, of a bluish cast, which shone through the very\ncurtains of his bed. A certain feeling of awe crept chillingly over\nhim; for he was at once convinced that the light was something very\ndifferent from the dawn of morning. It became gradually more and\nmore intense, till, through the thick drapery that surrounded him,\nhe distinctly beheld the shadow of a human figure approaching his\nbed. He was a brave man; but he felt that every nerve and muscle of\nhis frame was paralysed, he knew not how. He watched the slow advance\nof the figure with motionless awe. The shadowy arm was extended, and\nthe curtain was slowly and silently raised. The bluish light that so\nmiraculously pervaded the chamber, then suddenly arose to a degree\nof splendour, that was dazzling to his sight, and clearly defined\nthe appalling object that now presented itself to his eyes. The face\nand figure were those of the very man who had formerly entertained\nhim in the hole in the cliff on the mountain side, in Lorn. He was\nwrapped in the same grey plaid, too. But those handsome features,\nwhich had made so deep an impression on the recollection of Inverawe,\nwere now pale and fixed, as if all the pulses of life had ceased, and\nthe raven locks, which hung curling around them, and the moustaches\nwhich once gave so much expression to his upper lip, now only served\nto increase the ghastliness of the hue of death that overspread his\ncountenance, as well as that of the glaze of those immoveable eyes,\nwhich had then exhibited so much generous intelligence. Inverawe lay\npetrified, his expanded orbs devouring the spectacle before them. With\nnoiseless action, the figure dropped one corner of the shadowy plaid\nin which it was enveloped, and displayed a gaping wound in its bosom,\nwhich appeared to pour out rivers of blood. Its lips moved not;\nyet it spoke--slowly, and in a hollow and sepulchral tone.\n\n\"Inverawe!--blood must flow for blood! Shield not the murderer!\"\n\nSlowly did the spectre drop the curtain; and its shadow, seen through\nit, gradually faded away in the waning light, ere Inverawe could\nwell gather together his routed faculties to his aid. He rubbed his\neyes, started up in bed, leaned on his pillow, and brushed the curtain\nhastily aside. All was again dark and silent. Again he rubbed his eyes,\nand looked; but again he looked into impenetrable night.\n\n\"It was a dream,\" thought, rather than said, Inverawe; \"a horrible\ndream--but nevertheless it was a dream--curious in its coincidences,\nbut not unnatural. Nay, it was most natural, that the strangest\nadventure of my past life, should be recalled by the yet stranger\noccurrences of this night, and that both should thus link themselves\nconfusedly and irrationally together during sleep. Pshaw! It is\nabsurd for a rational man to think of this illusion more. I'll to\nsleep again.\"\n\nBut sleep is one of those blessed conditions of human nature, which\ncannot be controlled or commanded by the mere will. On the contrary,\nthe very resolution to command it, is almost certain to put it to\nflight. The vision, or whatever else it might have been, haunted his\nimagination, and kept his thoughts so busily occupied, that he could\nnot sleep. When his lady awaked in the morning, she found him lying\nfevered, restless, and unrefreshed. Her inquiries were anxious and\naffectionate; but, by carelessly attributing his indisposition to the\nprolonged revelry of the previous evening, he at last succeeded in\nridding himself of farther question, and springing from his couch, he\ntried to banish all thought of the unpleasant dilemma into which he had\nbeen brought, by occupying himself actively in the business of the day.\n\nHe was so far successful for a time; but, as night approached, his\nuncomfortable reflections and anticipations began again to crowd\ninto his mind. He must fulfil his promise of visiting his guest\nof the cave, a guest whom he now could not help looking upon with\nhorror as a foul murderer; and yet, if he disbelieved the reality of\nthe previous night's visitation, there was no reason that he should\nso regard him more now, than he had done before. The difficulty of\ncontriving the means of managing his visit, so that it should escape\nobservation or suspicion on the part of his lady, or his domestics,\nwas very considerable. His lady was that evening more than ordinarily\nsolicitous about him, from the conviction that pressed upon her,\nthat he had had little or no sleep the previous night, and remarking\nhis jaded appearance, she eagerly urged him to retire to bed at an\nearly hour.\n\n\"My dearest,\" said he affectionately, \"I shall; but before I can do so,\nI have some otter-traps to set. Perhaps I had better go and finish\nthat business now, while there is yet some twilight. Go you to your\nchamber, and retire to rest. I shall sleep all the sounder by and bye,\nafter breathing the fresh air of this balmy evening for an hour or so.\"\n\nThe lady yielded to his persuasion, and she had no sooner left\nhim, than he took an opportunity of filling his basket, with such\nprovisions as he could appropriate for the stranger, with the least\npossible chance of detection; and putting a few of his otter-traps\nover all, by way of a blind, he sallied forth in the direction of\nthe river. There he first most conscientiously made good his word,\nby planting his traps, and then, as it was by that time dark, he\nturned his steps up the side of Ben-Cruachan, and made the best of his\nway towards the cliffs where the cave was situated. As he drew near\nto its mouth, he was, in some degree, alarmed by observing a light\nproceeding from it. He approached it with caution, and, on entering\nit, he beheld the stranger sitting in the farthest corner of it, on\nthe bed of heather, with his figure drawn up and compressed together,\nand his features painfully distorted, whilst his eyes were intently\nfixed on vacancy. For a moment Inverawe doubted whether some fit had\nnot seized upon him; but he started at the noise made by the entrance\nof his protector, and sprang up to meet him.\n\n\"Oh, Inverawe,\" said he, \"what a relief it is to behold you! Oh what\na wretched weary time I have passed since you left me!\"\n\n\"I have brought you something to comfort you,\" said Inverawe, so\nshocked with his haggard appearance, and conscience-worn countenance,\nas almost to recoil from him. \"You know that I could not come\nsooner. You seem to be exhausted with watching. You had better take\nsome of this wine.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, yes, give me wine--a large cup of wine!\" cried the stranger,\nwildly seizing the vessel which Inverawe had filled, and swallowing\nits contents with avidity. \"Oh, such a time as I have spent!\"\n\n\"This place is quite secure,\" said Inverawe. \"You have no cause\nfor such anxiety, if you will only be prudent. But why do you keep\nthis light burning? Did I not tell you it was most dangerous to do\nso. Some wandering or belated shepherd or huntsman might be guided\nhither by it, and if your retreat should be once discovered, your\ncertain destruction must follow.\"\n\n\"I could not remain in darkness,\" replied the stranger, with a cold\nshudder; \"it was agonizing to do so! Horrid shapes continually haunted\nme,--horrid, horrid shapes!--Even the shutting of my eyes could not\nexclude them. Oh, such a night as last! never have I before endured\nany thing so horrible.\"\n\n\"You must take your own way then,\" said Inverawe, as he spread out the\ncontents of the basket before him; \"I am sorry that I can do nothing\nbetter for you, but this is the best fare I could provide for you,\nwithout exciting suspicion in my own house. Stay--here is a blanket\nto help to make your bed somewhat more comfortable. And now, I must\nhurry away.--Yet, before I go, let me once more caution you about\nthe light. Perhaps I had better make all secure, by taking the lamp\nwith me.\"\n\n\"Oh no! no! no! no!\" cried the stranger, his eyes glaring like those\nof a maniac, whilst he rushed towards the lamp and seized it up, and\nclasped it within his arms. \"No, nothing shall rend it from me! I\nwill sacrifice my life to preserve it. What! would you leave me to\nanother long, long, and dreadful night? Would you leave me to utter\ndarkness and despair?\"\n\n\"Leave you I must,\" replied Inverawe; \"and if you will keep the lamp,\nyou must do so at your own risk. But your thoughts must be dreadful\nthoughts indeed, so to disturb you. If conscious guilt be the cause\nof them, I can only advise you to confess yourself humbly to your\nCreator, and to pray for his forgiveness.\"\n\nWithout waiting for a reply, Inverawe left the cave, and made the best\nof his way home. On reaching his apartment, he found his lady awake.\n\n\"You have been a long time absent, Inverawe,\" said she anxiously.\n\n\"I have, my love,\" replied he carelessly; \"the delicious air of this\nnight induced me to stay out longer than I had intended; but I hope\nI shall sleep all the better for it.\"\n\nExhausted as he was by fatigue of body and mind, as well as worn out\nby want of rest, Inverawe did fall asleep immediately, and his sleep\nwas sound and deep. For aught he knew, it might have lasted for some\nhours, when again, as on the previous night, he was awaked, he could\nnot tell how. The curtains of his bed were drawn close, but the same\nuncouth blue light which pervaded the apartment on the former night,\nnow again rendered them quite transparent. To convince himself that\nhe was awake, Inverawe looked round upon his wife. Even at this early\nstage, the light was sufficiently bright to enable him distinctly to\nsee his lady's features as her head lay in calm repose on the pillow\nbeside him. He turned again towards the side of the bed, and his eyes\nwere dazzled by the sudden increase of light, produced by the curtain\nbeing raised as before, by the extended hand of the spectre. The same\nwell remembered features were there, pale, fixed, and corpse-like,\nbut the expression of the brow, and bloodless lips, was more stern\nthan it was on the previous night. Again the spectre dropped the fold\nof the filmy plaid that covered the bosom, and displayed the yawning\ngash, which continued to pour out rivers of blood. The spectacle was\nhorrible, and Inverawe's very arteries were frozen up. Again it spoke\nin a deep hollow tone, whilst its lips moved not.\n\n\"Inverawe! My first visit has been fruitless!--Once more I come\nto warn you that blood must flow for blood. No longer shield the\nmurderer! Force me not to appear again, when all warning will be vain!\"\n\nInverawe made an effort to question it. His parched mouth, and dried\nand stiffened tongue, refused to do their office. The curtain fell,\nand the light in the room, as well as the shadow of the figure,\nbegan to wane away. He struggled to spring out of bed, but his nerves\nand muscles refused to obey his will, until it was gone, and all was\nagain darkness. The moment that his powers returned to him, he dashed\nback the curtain, threw himself from the bed, and searched through\nthe room, with outstretched arms, yet, bold and desperate as he was,\nhe almost feared that they might embrace the cold and bloody figure\nwhich he had beheld. His search, however, was vain, and, utterly\nconfused and confounded, he returned to bed with his very heart as\ncold as ice. Fortunately, his lady had lain perfectly undisturbed, and\namidst his own horror, and amidst all his own agonizing agitation of\nthought, he felt thankful that she had escaped sharing in the terrors\nto which he had been subjected. As on the former night, he tried to\npersuade himself that all that had passed was nothing more than a\ndream,--but all the reasoning powers he possessed were ineffectual\nin removing from his mind the conviction that now laid hold of it,\nthat it really was a spirit that had appeared to him. Sleep was\nbanished from his eyelids for the remainder of the night; and never\nbefore had he so anxiously longed for day-break. It came at last;\nand soon afterwards his lady awaked.\n\n\"Inverawe,\" said she, tenderly and anxiously addressing him, \"you are\nill--very ill. What, in the name of all goodness, is the matter with\nyou? Your worn out looks tell me that something terrible has occurred\nto you. Your late excursion of last night has something mysterious\nabout it. You were not wont thus to have concealment from me--from\nme your affectionate wife!--What is it that preys upon your mind?--I\nmust know it.\"\n\n\"Promise me, upon the honour of Inverawe's wife,\" said he, now seeing\nthat concealment from her was no longer practicable; \"promise me\non that honour which is pure and unsullied as the snow, that you\nwill not divulge what I have to tell you, and your curiosity shall\nbe satisfied.\"\n\nWith a look of intense and apprehensive interest, the lady\npromised what he desired, and then Inverawe communicated to her\nevery circumstance that had occurred to him. She was struck dumb and\npetrified by the narration; but she had no sooner gathered sufficient\nnerve to speak, than she earnestly entreated him to have nothing to\ndo in concealing the guilty stranger.\n\n\"Let not this awful warning, now given you for the second time,\nbe neglected,\" said she. \"Send for the officers of justice without\ndelay, and give up the murderer to be tried by the offended laws\nof his country. You know not what curse may fall upon you, for thus\ntrying to arrest Heaven's judgment on the guilty man. Oh, Inverawe,\nit is dreadful to think of it!\"\n\n\"All this earnestness on your part, my love, is natural,\" said Inverawe\ncalmly. \"But think of the solemn oath I have sworn;--you would not\nhave Inverawe--you would not have your husband--break a pledge so\nsolemnly given? Whatever may befal me here, I cannot so dishonour\nmyself. Besides,\" added he, \"whilst, on the one hand, I know that\nhe to whom I am so pledged is like myself, a man of flesh and blood,\nwho, for anything I know to the contrary, may, after all, be really\nless guilty than unfortunate; I cannot even yet say with certainty,\nthat I have not been the sport of dreams, naturally enough arising\nout of the strange circumstances to which I have been exposed. But\nwere it otherwise, and that, contrary to all our accustomed rational\nbelief, I have indeed been visited by a spirit, what proof have I\nthat it is a spirit of health? What proof have I that it may not be a\nspirit wickedly commissioned by the Father of lies to take this form,\nin order to seduce me into that breach of my pledge, which would for\never blacken the high name of Campbell of Inverawe, and doom myself\nto ceaseless remorse during the rest of my days?--No, no, lady!--I\nmust keep my solemn vow, whatever may befal me.\"\n\nThe lady was silenced by these words from her husband, but her\nanxiety was not thereby allayed. It increased as night approached; and\nespecially when Inverawe told her that he must again visit the man in\nthe cave. During that day, various rumours had reached him, of people\nbeing afoot in search of a murderer, who was supposed to have found a\nplace of concealment somewhere in that neighbourhood; and it was with\nsome difficulty that he could suppress a hope that unconsciously arose\nwithin him, that he might be relieved from his pledge, and from his\npresent most distressing and embarrassing position, by the accidental\ncapture of him for whom they were searching. The duty of visiting the\nwretched man had now become oppressively painful to Inverawe,--and the\npainfulness of it was not decreased by the additional risk which he\nnow ran of being detected. But Inverawe was not a man to abandon any\nduty for any such reasons. Having again privately made up his basket\nof provisions therefore, and put his otter-traps over its contents,\nas formerly, he left the castle as twilight came on, and making\nhis circuit by the river side with yet more care and caution than\nbefore, he climbed along the side of Cruachan, and in due course of\ntime reached the mouth of the cave. The light was burning as before,\nand on entering the place, its inmate was sitting with a countenance\nand expression if possible more haggard and terrific than he had\nexhibited on the previous night.\n\n\"Welcome!--welcome!\" cried he, starting wildly up, and speaking\nin a frantic tone, as he rushed forward to seize Inverawe's cold\nhand in both of his, that felt like heated iron,--\"welcome, my\nguardian angel! All other good angels have fled from me now!--And the\nbad!--Oh!--But you will not leave me to-night?--Oh, say that you will\nnot leave me to-night!\"\n\n\"I grieve to say, that, for your own sake, I cannot gratify you,\"\nreplied Inverawe, withdrawing his hand involuntarily from the\ncontamination of his touch, and shrinking back with horror from\nthe glare of his phrenzied and blood-shot eyes, though with a heart\nalmost moved to pity for the wretch before him, whose very manhood\nseemed to have abandoned him. \"It is vain to ask me to stay with you,\nas I have already frequently explained to you; but much more so now,\nthat I have learned that there are men out searching for you in\nthis neighbourhood, brought hither by the strong conviction that\nyou are concealed somewhere hereabouts. This circumstance renders\nit imperatively necessary that you should no longer persevere in\nthe perilous practice of burning your lamp, which exposes you to\ntenfold danger.\"\n\n\"Talk not to me of danger!\" exclaimed the man, in a dreadful\nstate of excitement, and in a tone and words that seemed more like\nthose of a raving madman than anything else--\"I must have light--I\nshould go distracted if I had not light. Darkness would drive me to\nself-destruction! I tell you it is filled with horrible shapes. Even\nwhen I shut my eyes the horrible spectre appears. Have pity!--have\nmercy on me, and stay with me but this one single night!--for even\nthe light of the lamp itself cannot always banish the terrific spectre\nfrom before me!\"\n\n\"Spectre!\" cried Inverawe, shuddering with horror,--\"what spectre?\"\n\n\"Aye, the horrible spectre,\" replied the man. And then suddenly\nstarting back, with his hands stretched forth, as if to keep off some\nterrific shape that had instantaneously risen before him, and with his\neye-balls glaring towards the dark opening of the cave, he shrieked\nout--\"Hell and torments! 'tis there again,--there--there--see there!\"\n\n\"I see nothing,\" said Inverawe, with some difficulty retaining a proper\ncommand of himself. \"But this is madness--absolute insanity. See,\nhere is your food;--I must leave you immediately.\"\n\n\"Oh, do not go!\" said the stranger, following Inverawe for a few steps\ntowards the mouth of the cave, and entreating him in a subdued and\nabject tone. And then, just as his protector was about to make his\nexit, he again started back, and stood as if he had been transfixed,\nwhilst, with his hands stretched out before him, and his eyes fearfully\nstaring on the vacancy of the darkness that was beyond the cavern's\nmouth, he again yelled out--\"There! there!--see there!\"\n\nIt must be honestly confessed, that it was with no very imperturbed\nstate of nerves, that Inverawe committed himself to the obscurity of\nthat night, to hurry homewards, and though no spectre appeared before\nhis visual orbs, yet the harrowing spectacle which the guilty man had\nexhibited, and the allusion which he had made to the supposed spectre\nwhich he had seen in his imagination, kept that which he had himself\nbeheld constantly floating before his mind's eye, during the whole\nof his way home; and he was not sorry, when he reached his own hall,\nto find his lady sitting by the fire waiting for his return. She was\nlonely, and cheerless, and full of anxious thoughts regarding him;\nbut her eye brightened up at his entrance, and she filled him a goblet\nof wine. Inverawe swallowed it greedily down,--gave her a brief and\nbare account of his evening's expedition,--and then they retired to\ntheir chamber.\n\nOn this occasion Inverawe silently took the precaution of bolting the\ndoor of the apartment; and, on going to bed, the lady, with great\nresolution of mind, determined within herself to keep off sleep,\nand to watch, so that she too might behold whatever apparition might\nappear; hoping that if the spectre which had so disturbed Inverawe,\nshould, after all, prove to be nothing but a dream, she might be able,\nfrom her own observation, to disabuse him of his phantasy. But it\nso happened, that, notwithstanding all her precautions, and all her\nmental exertions to prevent it, she fell immediately into a most\nunaccountably deep sleep; and Inverawe himself, in spite of all\nhis harassing and distressing thoughts, was speedily plunged into a\nsimilar state of utter unconsciousness.\n\nAgain, for this the third night, he was awaked by the same light\nstreaming through the apartment, and rendering the curtain of his\nbed transparent by its wonderful illumination.--Again he looked round\non his wife, and beheld every feature of her face clearly displayed\nby its influence. She lay in the soundest and sweetest repose. His\nfirst impulse was to awake her,--but he instantly checked himself, and\nfelt grateful that she was thus to be saved from the contemplation of\nthe terrific spectral appearance, the shadow of which he now observed\ngliding slowly towards the bed. The curtain was again raised.--The same\nwell-remembered figure and face appeared under the usual increased\nintensity of light. Again the filmy plaid was partially dropped, and\nthe fearful gash in the bosom was exposed, as before, pouring out\nblood. Again the deep, hollow voice came from the motionless lips,\nbut it was accompanied by a yet sterner expression of the eyes,\nand of the pale countenance.\n\n\"Inverawe!--My warnings have been vain.--The time is now past.--Yet\nblood must flow for blood!--The blood of the murderer might have\nbeen offered up--now your blood must flow for his!--We meet once more\nat Ticonderoga!\"\n\nThis last visitation of the apparition, accompanied as it was by a\ndenunciation so terrible, had a yet more overwhelming effect upon\nInverawe than either of those that preceded it. Bereft of all power\nover himself, he lay, conscious of existence it is true, but utterly\nincapable of commanding thought, much less of exercising action. Ere\nhe could rally his intellect, or his nervous energy, the spectre was\ngone; and the apartment was dark. When his thoughts began to arise\nwithin him, they were of a more agonizing character than any which\nhe had formerly experienced--\"Your blood must flow for his.\"--These\ndreadful words still sounded in his ears, in the same deep, sepulchral\ntone in which they had been uttered. Do not suppose that one thought\nof himself ever crossed his mind. He thought of his son--that son,\nfor whose welfare every desire of his life was concentrated,--that\nwas his blood, against which he conceived this dread prophecy to\nbe directed--that was his blood which he dreaded might flow. He\nshivered at the very thought. He recalled the strange circumstances\nwhich had attended the drinking of the toast to his roof-tree. His\nanxiety about his son was raised to a pitch, that converted his bed,\nfor that night at least, into a bed of thorns. He slept not,--yet all\nhis tossings failed to awaken his lady, who slept as if she had been\ndrenched with some soporiferous drug. The sun had no sooner darted his\nfirst rays through the casement, however, than she awaked as if from\na most refreshing sleep. She looked round upon her husband--observed\nhis haggard and tortured expression--and the whole recollection of\nwhat she previously knew having come upon her at once, she began\nvehemently to upbraid herself.\n\n\"I have slept,\" said she, in a tone of vexed self-reprehension.--\"After\nall my determination to the contrary, I have slept throughout the\nwhole night; and you have been again disturbed.--Say!--what has\nhappened? Have you seen him again?\"\n\n\"I have seen him,\" replied Inverawe in a subdued tone and manner--\"I\nhave seen him, and his appearance was terrible.\"\n\n\"Say--tell me!--what passed?\" exclaimed the lady earnestly. \"Inverawe,\nI must know all.\"\n\nInverawe would have fain eaten in his words. He would have especially\nwished to have left his wife in ignorance of the denunciation to\nwhich the apparition had given utterance. But he had not as yet\nrecovered sufficient mastery over himself, to enable him to baffle\nthe questioning of an acute woman. In a short time the whole truth\nwas extracted from him; and now the lady, in a state of agitation\nthat very much exceeded his, began to press upon him the necessity of\ngiving up the criminal to justice. Her argument was long and energetic;\nand during the time that it occupied, he gradually resumed the full\npossession of himself.\n\n\"I have heard you, my love,\" replied he calmly; \"yet you have urged,\nand you can urge nothing which can persuade me to break my solemn\npledge. The hitherto spotless honour of Inverawe shall never be\ntarnished in my person. Dreadful as is the curse which has been\ndenounced upon me, I am still resolved to act as an honourable man. Yet\nI will do this much. I will again visit the man in the cave, and insist\nwith him that he shall seek some other place of refuge. I have done\nenough for him. I have suffered enough on his account. He must go\nelsewhere. Perhaps I should have come to this resolve yesterday--the\ntime, alas! may now be past. But, come what come may, I am determined\nthat the visit of this night shall be the last that I shall pay to\nhim. He must go elsewhere. Even his own safety requires that he shall\ndo so--and mine! But no matter, he must seek some other asylum.\"\n\nEven this resolve--late though it might be, was, for the time, some\nconsolation to the afflicted mind of his wife. Nay, it was in some\ndegree matter of alleviation to his own sufferings. The broad sunlight\nof Heaven, and the bustling action of the creatures of this world while\nall creation is awake, produces a wonderful effect upon the human mind,\nin relieving it from all those phantoms of anticipated evil which the\nsilent shades of night are so apt to conjure up within it. Inverawe\nand his lady were less oppressed with gloomy thoughts during that\nday than might have been supposed possible. It is true, that he often\nsecretly repeated over the denunciation of the apparition, but even\nyet he would have fain persuaded himself, as he tried to persuade\nhis wife, that he had been the sport of dreams, resulting from some\nmorbid state of his system.\n\n\"Ticonderoga!\" said he, \"where is Ticonderoga? I know of no such\nplace; nay, I never heard of any such place; and, in truth, I do\nnot believe that any such place really exists on the face of this\nearth. Ticonderoga! A name so utterly unknown to me, and so strangely\nuncouth in itself, would lead me to believe that it is the coinage\nof my own distempered brain; and, if so, then the whole must have\nbeen an illusion. Yet it is altogether unaccountable and inexplicable.\"\n\nThus it was that Inverawe reasoned during that day; but as night\nagain approached, it brought all its phantoms of the imagination\nalong with it.\n\nInverawe, however, wound himself up to go through with that which he\nnow considered as his last trial. Having filled his basket as before,\nhe set off on his wonted circuitous route to the cave. As he went\nthither, he endeavoured to steel up his mind to assume that resolute\ntone with the stranger which he now felt to be absolutely necessary\nto rid himself of so troublesome and distressing a charge. Much as it\ndid violence to his innate feelings of hospitality to come to any such\ndetermination, he resolved to insist on his departure from the cave\nthat very night, and he had no difficulty in persuading himself that\nhis doing this would be the best line of safety he could prescribe\nfor the stranger, seeing that, by the active use of his limbs during\nthe remaining portion of it, he might well enough reach some distant\nplace of concealment before day-break. Full of such ideas, he pressed\non towards the cave, that he might get him off with as little delay\nas possible. The light which had shone from its mouth upon former\noccasions was now absent, and Inverawe hailed the circumstance as\na proof that the wretched man had at last become more rational. He\napproached the orifice in the cliff, and gently called him. His\nown voice alone was returned to him from the hollow bowels of the\nrock. All was so mysteriously silent, that an involuntary chill fell\nupon Inverawe. He repeated his call in a louder voice, but still there\nwas no reply--no stir from within. A cold shudder crept over him,\nand for a moment he half expected to see issue from the black void\nbefore him, that appalling apparition which had now three several times\nappeared by his bedside. A little thought enabled him to get rid of\nthis temporary weakness. He recalled the last words of the spectre,\nand the strange uncouth name of Ticonderoga. If such a place had\nexistence at all, it was there, and there only, that he could expect\nto behold him again. He became reassured, and all his wonted manliness\nreturned to him. He struck a light, and crept into the cave. A short\nsurvey of its interior satisfied him that the stranger was gone. The\nblanket, the extinguished lamp, and some other things lay there, but\nno other vestige of its recent inmate was to be seen. Inverawe felt\nrelieved; he was saved from even the semblance of inhospitality. But\nthe recollection of the apparition's last words recurred to him,\nand then every thing around him seemed to whisper him that indeed\nthe time might now be past. He began, most inconsistently, to wish\nthat the stranger had still been there--nay, he almost hoped that he\nmight yet be lingering about the neighbouring rocks or thickets. He\nsallied forth from the cave, and abandoning all his former caution,\nhe shouted twice or thrice in succession, at the very top of his\nvoice, but without obtaining any response, except that which came\nfrom the echoes of the cliffs, muffled as they were by the roar of\nthe numerous cataracts of the mountain side, and the howling blast\nthat swept downward through the pass far below. For a moment he felt\nthat if the stranger had been still in his power, he could have given\nhim up to justice, to be dealt with as a murderer; but reason made him\nblush, by bringing back to him his high and chivalric sense of honour\nin its fullest force, so that he turned to go homewards possessed\nwith a very different train of thought. When his lady met him, she\nwas eager in her enquiries, and deeply depressed when she learned\nthat Inverawe had now lost all chance of delivering up the murderer.\n\n\"Alas!\" said she, in an agony of tears, \"the time is now past.\"\n\n\"Do not allow this matter to distress you so, my love,\" said Inverawe,\nendeavouring to sooth her into a calm, which he could by no means\ncommand for himself. \"The more I think of it, the more I am persuaded\nthat the whole has been a phantasm of the brain. Let us have a cup of\nwine, and laugh all such foolish fancies away ere we go to bed. This\nperplexing and distressing adventure has now passed by, and this\nnight I hope to shake off all such vapours of the imagination.\"\n\nInverawe had little sleep that night, but he was undisturbed by\nany re-appearance of the apparition. Unknown to his wife, he made a\ncircuitous excursion next day to Ben-Cruachan, where a more accurate\nexamination of the cave and its environs satisfied him that the\nstranger was indeed gone. And he was gone for ever, for Inverawe\nnever afterwards saw him,--nor, indeed, did he ever again hear the\nslightest intelligence regarding him.\n\nDays, weeks, and months rolled away, and by degrees the gloom which\nthese extraordinary and portentous events had brought upon Inverawe,\nas well as upon his lady, began to be in a great degree dissipated. His\nson had long since returned home in full health and vigour, and things\nfell gradually into their natural and usual course.\n\nInverawe was one night sitting in social converse with his wife and\nhis son, and their friend, young George Campbell--the same individual\nwho, as you may remember, was the giver of the toast of the roof-tree\nof Inverawe--when a packet of letters was brought in, and handed to\nthe laird.\n\n\"What is all this?\" exclaimed he, quickly breaking the seal, and\nhastily examining the contents. \"Ha! the old Black Watch again! this\nis news indeed!\"\n\n\"What?--What is it?\" cried his lady.\n\n\"Glorious news!\" cried Inverawe, rubbing his hands. \"I am appointed to\nthe majority of the Highlanders; and here is an ensign's commission\nfor you, young gentleman,\" said he, addressing George Campbell. \"And\nmy friend Grant, who writes to me, tells me that he has got the\nlieutenant-colonelcy. What can be more delightful than the prospect\nof serving in such a corps, under the command of so old a friend?\"\n\n\"Glorious!--glorious!\" cried young George Campbell, jumping from his\nchair, and dancing through the room with joy.\n\n\"A bumper to the gallant Highlanders, and their brave commander!\" cried\nInverawe, filling the cups.\n\nThe toast was quaffed with enthusiasm. Young Inverawe alone seemed\nto feel that there was no joy in the cup for him.\n\n\"Would I had a commission too!\" said he, in a tone of extreme vexation.\n\n\"Boy,\" said Inverawe, gravely, \"Your time is coming. It will be well\nfor you to stay at home to look after your mother. One of us two is\nenough in the field at once.\"\n\n\"Am I then to be doomed to sloth and idleness at home?\" said Donald,\npettishly; \"better put petticoats on me at once, and give me a distaff\nto wield.\"\n\n\"Speak not so, Donald,\" said his mother, in a trembling voice. \"You\nare hardly old enough for such warlike undertakings; and, indeed,\nyour father says what is but too true--for what could I do, were both\nof you to be torn from me?\"\n\nDonald said no more. The cup circulated. George Campbell was in high\nspirits, and full of happy anticipations.\n\n\"I hope we may soon be sent on service,\" said he, exultingly.\n\n\"You may have service sooner than you dream of,\" said Inverawe, going\non to gather the remainder of the contents of his packet. \"Grant writes\nme here, that in consequence of the turn which matters are taking\nin America, he hopes every day for the arrival of an order for the\nregiment to embark. George, you and I must lose no time in making up\nour kitts, for we must join the corps with all manner of expedition.\"\n\nThe parting between Inverawe and his lady was tender and\ntouching. Donald bid his father farewell with less appearance of\nregret than his known affection for him would have led any one\nto have anticipated. There was even a certain smile of triumph on\nhis countenance as he saw them depart. But his mother was too much\noverwhelmed by her own feelings, to notice any thing regarding those\nof her son.\n\nThe meeting between Inverawe and his old brother officers was naturally\na joyous one, and nothing could be more delightful than the warmth of\nthe reception he met with from his long-tried friend Colonel Grant,\nnow the commanding-officer of the corps.\n\n\"My dear fellow, Inverawe!\" said he, cordially shaking him by the hand,\n\"This happy circumstance of having got you amongst us again, is even\nmore gratifying to me than my own promotion, and yet, let me tell you,\nthe peculiar circumstances attending that were gratifying enough.\"\n\n\"I need not assure you that the news of it were most gratifying to\nme,\" replied Inverawe. \"It doubled the happiness I felt, in getting\nthe majority, to find that I was to serve under so old and so much\nvalued a friend. But to what particular circumstances do you allude?\"\n\n\"When the step was opened to me, by the promotion of Colonel Campbell\nto the command of the fifty-fourth regiment,\" replied Colonel Grant,\nin a trembling voice, and with the tears beginning to swell in his\neyes, \"I was not a little surprised, and, as you will readily believe,\npleased also, to be waited on by a deputation from the non-commissioned\nofficers and privates of the corps, to make offer to me of a purse\ncontaining the sum necessary to purchase the lieutenant-colonelcy,\nwhich they had subscribed among themselves, and proposed to present\nto me, with the selfish view, as the noble fellows declared to me,\nof securing to themselves as commanding-officer a man whom they all\nso much loved and respected! Campbell!--Inverawe!\" continued he, with\nhis voice faultering still more from the swelling of his emotions,\n\"I can never forget this, were I to live to the age of Methuselah--I\ncan never deserve it all--but--but--phsaw! my heart is too full to\ngive utterance to my feelings--and I must e'en play the woman.\"\n\n\"Noble fellows indeed!\" cried Inverawe, fully sympathizing with him\nin all he felt; \"but by my faith they looked at the matter in its\ntrue light, when moved by selfish considerations, they were led so\nto act--for they well knew that you would be as a father to them.\"\n\n\"I shall ever be as a father to them whilst it pleases God to spare\nme,\" said the Colonel warmly, \"and if ever I desert them while life\nremains, may I be blown from the mouth of a cannon!\"\n\n\"What was the result of this matter then?\" demanded Inverawe.\n\n\"Why, as it happened,\" replied the Colonel, \"the promotion went in\nthe regiment without purchase, so that I enjoyed all the pleasure of\nreceiving this kind demonstration from my children, without taxing\ntheir pockets, or laying myself under an unpleasant pecuniary\nobligation to them, which might at times have had a tendency in\nsome degree to paralyze me in the wholesome exercise of strict\ndiscipline. And we shall require to stick the more rigidly to that now,\nseeing that we are going on service.\"\n\n\"We are going on service then?\" said Inverawe.\n\n\"We have this very evening received our orders for America,\" replied\nColonel Grant; \"and never did commanding-officer go on service with\nmore confidence in his men and officers than I do.\"\n\n\"And I may safely say that never did officers or men go on service\nwith greater confidence in their commander than we shall do,\" replied\nInverawe, again shaking the Colonel heartily by the hand.\n\nGeorge Campbell was introduced by Inverawe to the particular notice\nof Colonel Grant, and by him to the rest of the officers, among whom\nhe soon found himself at his ease. The time for their embarkation\napproached, and all was bustle and preparation amongst them. George\nhad much to do, and it was with some difficulty, but with great inward\ndelight, that he at last found himself complete in all his arms,\ntrappings, and necessaries. The night previous to their going on board\nof the ships appointed to convey them to their place of destination,\nwas a busy one for him, and he was still occupied, at a late hour,\nin his quarters, when he was surprised by a knock at his door.\n\n\"Come in!\" cried George Campbell.\n\nThe door opened, and a young man entered, whose fatigued and soiled\nappearance showed that he had come off a long journey.\n\n\"Donald Campbell of Inverawe!\" cried George, in utter astonishment;\nand the young men were instantly in one another's arms. \"My dear\nfellow, what strange chance has brought you hither?\"\n\n\"I come to throw myself on your honour,\" said Donald. \"I come to throw\nmyself on the honour of him whom I have ever held to be my dearest\nfriend;--on the honour of one who has never failed me hitherto,\nand who, if I mistake not, will not fail me now. Give me your solemn\npromise that you will keep my counsel, and do your best to assist me\nin my present undertaking.\"\n\n\"Methinks you need hardly ask for my solemn promise,\" replied George\nCampbell; \"for you might safely count on my best exertions to oblige\nyou at all times. But what can I do for you? It would need to be\nsomething that may be quickly and immediately gone about, else cannot\nI stay to effect it. We embark to-morrow morning.\"\n\n\"You will not require to stay behind the rest, in order to do what\nI require of you,\" said Donald of Inverawe.\n\n\"I could not if I would,\" replied George Campbell.\n\n\"Do you go in the same ship with my father?\" demanded young Inverawe.\n\n\"I wish I did,\" replied George Campbell; \"but I regret to say that\nI go in a different vessel.\"\n\n\"So much the better for my purpose,\" replied young Inverawe\neagerly. \"You will be the better able to take me with you without my\nbeing discovered.\"\n\n\"Take you with me!\" cried George Campbell, in great astonishment. \"What\nin the name of wonder would you propose?\"\n\n\"That which is perfectly reasonable,\" replied young Inverawe. \"Do you\nthink that I could sit quietly at home, whilst my father, and you,\nand so many of my friends, are earning honour and glory abroad? Ask\nyourself, George, what would you have done under my circumstances?\"\n\n\"I have never thought as to how I might have acted, had I been so\nplaced,\" replied George Campbell, much perplexed. \"But I have no relish\nfor having any hand in aiding you to oppose the will of your father.\"\n\n\"No matter now, George, whether you have any relish for it or not,\"\nreplied young Inverawe, smiling. \"You have given me your promise\nthat you will aid me, and you must now make the best of it. So come\naway. Let me see how you can best manage to get me aboard. I must\nnot be seen by my father till we land in America, and then I shall\nenter as a volunteer.\"\n\n\"What will your father say then?\" demanded George Campbell.\n\n\"Why, that the blood of Inverawe was too strong in me to be\nrestrained,\" replied Donald. \"Why man, it is just what he would have\ndone himself. He will be too proud of the spirit inherent in his\nhouse, which has impelled me to this act, ever to think of blaming\nme for it. Come, come, you have given me your word.\"\n\n\"I have given you my word,\" said George Campbell; \"and I must honestly\ntell you that I wish I had been less precipitate. But having given it,\nI must in truth abide by it. It may be as you say, that your father\nwill have more pride than pain in this matter, when he comes to know\nit. And then, as for myself, I shall be too happy to have you as my\ncompanion in so long a voyage. But come, let us have some refreshment,\nand then we can talk over the matter, and consider how your scheme\nmay be best carried into effect.\"\n\nThe thing was easily enough arranged. Many of the privates of the corps\nwere gentlemen who had attendants of their own. There was nothing\nextraordinary, therefore, in an officer being so provided. A slight\ndisguise was employed to alter Donald's appearance, so that he might\nescape detection from any one who had seen him before. Next morning he\nwent on board in charge of some of Ensign George Campbell's baggage,\nand there he remained snugly, until the expedition sailed.\n\nThe Highland regiment embarked full of enthusiasm, and it\nwas ultimately landed at New York in the highest health and\nspirits. Colonel Stewart of Garth, in his interesting work, tells\nus, that they were caressed by all ranks and orders of men, but more\nparticularly by the Indians. Those inhabitants of the wilds flocked\nfrom all quarters to see the strangers, as they were on their march to\nAlbany, and the resemblance which they discovered between the Celtic\ndress and their own, inclining them to believe that they were of the\nsame extraction as themselves, they hailed them as brothers. Orders\nwere issued to treat the Indians kindly; but, although these were\nmost generally and most cheerfully obeyed, instances did occur, where\ngross acts of impropriety and harshness were exhibited towards them,\nand one of these I shall now mention.\n\nA young Indian, of tall and handsome proportions, with that conscious\nair of equality which they all possess, came up to a group of the\nHighlanders who were resting themselves round a fire. An ignorant and\nmischievous fellow of the party, who much more merited the name of\nsavage than him of the woods, having heated the end of the stalk of\na tobacco-pipe, handed it, full of tobacco, with much mock solemnity,\nto the young Indian,--who, in ignorance of the trick, was just about\nto take it into his hand, and to apply the heated end of it to his\nlips, when a young Highlander who was present, dashed it to the\nground. The Indian started--looked tomahawks at the Highland youth,\nand might have used one too, had not he, with his glove on, taken up\na portion of the broken pipe-stalk, and signing to the Indian to feel\nit, made him sensible of the kind and friendly service he had rendered\nhim. The ferocious rage that lightened in the eye of the Red Man was\nat once extinguished. A mild and benignant sunshine succeeded it. He\ntook the hand of the young Highlander, and pressed it to his heart;\nand then, darting a look of dignified contempt upon the poor creature\nwho had been the author of this base and childish piece of knavery\nagainst him, he slowly, solemnly, and silently withdrew.\n\nWhilst Major Campbell of Inverawe was on the march, his noble\nappearance seemed to make a strong impression on their Indian\nfollowers. For his part, he was peculiarly struck with the fine figure\nand graceful mien of a heroic-looking young warrior of the woods,\nwho seemed to keep near to him, as if earnestly intent on holding\nintercourse with him. He encouraged his approach; and, conversing\nwith him, as well as the young man's imperfect knowledge of English\npermitted him to do, he invited him, when they halted for refreshment,\nto partake of his hasty meal. The young Eagle Eye--for such was the\nIndian's name in his own tribe--carried a rifle; and Major Campbell\nhaving put some questions to him as to his skill in using it, his\ncuriosity was so excited by all that the red man said of himself,\nthat he resolved to put it to the proof. Having loaded his own piece,\ntherefore, he proposed to his new Indian ally, to take a short circuit,\nto look for game, during the brief time that the men were allowed for\nrest, and one or two of the officers arose to accompany them. The Eagle\nEye moved on before them with that silence, and with that dignified\nair, which marked the confidence which he had in his own powers. A walk\nof a few hundred yards from their line of march, brought them into a\nsmall open space of grassy ground, surrounded by thickets. Inverawe\nstopped by chance to adjust the buckle of his bandoleer, when the Eagle\nEye, who happened at that moment to be some paces to the right of him,\nsprang on him like a falcon, and threw him to the ground. As he was\nin the very act of doing so, an arrow from the thicket in front of\nthem pierced the Indian's shoulder, whilst he, almost at the same\nmoment, levelled his rifle, fired it in the direction from whence\nthe arrow came, and, rushing forward with a yell, plunged among the\nbushes. The whole of these circumstances passed so instantaneously,\nthat Major Campbell's brother officers were confounded. But having\nassisted him to rise from the ground, they congratulated him on his\nescape from a danger which neither he nor they could as yet very well\ncomprehend or explain. They were not long left in suspense however,\nfor the Eagle Eye soon reappeared, dragging from the thicket the\nbody of an Indian belonging to a hostile tribe. In an instant, the\nEagle Eye exercised his scalping-knife, and possessed himself of the\nbloody trophy of his enemy. On examination, the ball from his rifle\nwas discovered to have perforated the brain through the forehead\nof his victim. The mystery was explained. The young Eagle Eye had\nsuddenly descried the lurking foe, deeply nestled among the bushes,\nand in the act of taking a deliberate aim at Inverawe. He had saved\nthe Major's life at the imminent risk of his own, and that quick\nsight from which he had his name, had enabled his ready hand to take\nprompt and deadly vengeance for the wound he had received in doing\nso. The grateful Inverawe felt beggared in expressions of thanks to\nhis Indian preserver. He and his friends extracted the arrow from the\nshoulder of the hero, poured spirits into the wound, and bound it up;\nand then, as they hastened back to join the troops, he entreated the\nEagle Eye to tell him how he could recompense him.\n\n\"It is enough for me,\" replied the young Indian warrior, with dignified\ngravity of manner, mingled with becoming modesty, and in his broken\nlanguage, the imperfections of which I shall not attempt to give you,\nthough I shall endeavour to preserve the finer peculiarities of its\npoetical conceptions,--\"it is enough for my youth to be suffered to\nlive within the shadow of a chief, broad as that which the great rock\nspreads over the grassy surface of the Prairie. A chief among those\nwho have come over the waters of the great salt lake, in number like\nthat of the beavers of the mohawk, whose fathers were the brethren of\nour fathers, though their hunting grounds are now so far apart. The\ntribe of the Eagle Eye has been broken. The pride of the foes of the\nEagle Eye is swelled by a thousand scalps of his kindred. He is like a\nsolitary tree that has escaped from the whirlwind that has levelled the\nforest. The Eagle Eye has no father--he is alone--make him thy son.\"\n\n\"You shall be as a son to me!\" said Inverawe, deeply affected by the\nmany tender recollections of home which this appeal had awakened\nin his mind. \"You shall never want such fatherly protection as I\ncan give you. But I would fain have you ask some more instant and\ndirect recompense from me, for having thus so nobly saved my life at\nthe peril of your own. Is there nothing immediate that I can do for\nyou? Gratify me by asking something.\"\n\n\"The Eagle Eye will obey his father,\" replied the Indian, calmly. \"One\nof your pale-faced tribe has deeply insulted your red son.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" exclaimed Inverawe, \"find him out for me, and you shall forthwith\nsee him punished to your heart's content.\"\n\n\"The cunning and cowardly kite is beneath the vengeance of the Eagle,\"\nreplied the Indian. \"But there was a youth among your pale faces,\nwho stood the red man's friend. Him would I hold as my brother. Him\nwould I bring with me beneath the shelter of my father, the great\nchief, that he may grow green and lofty under his protection.\"\n\n\"You shall search me out that youth,\" replied Inverawe, \"and be\nassured he shall find a friend in me for your sake.\"\n\nThe Eagle Eye, with great dignity, took the right hand of Inverawe\nbetween both of his, and pressed it forcibly to his heart. When they\nreached the ground where the men were halting, the major despatched a\nnon-commissioned officer with the Indian, to find out the young man,\nand to bring him immediately before him. They soon reappeared with\nhim; and what was Inverawe's astonishment, when he lifted up his eyes,\nand beheld--his son!\n\nIt was exactly as Donald had himself prognosticated. Inverawe's\nheart was so filled with joy, in thus so unexpectedly beholding and\nembracing his boy, at the very moment when he had been dreaming that he\nwas so far from him; and with pride in thinking of that brave spirit\nwhich had impelled him to follow him to America; as well as with deep\ngratification at the kind-hearted act which had thus caused him to be\nso strangely brought before him, that no room was left within it for\nthose gloomy thoughts which might have otherwise arisen there. He\nclasped him again and again to his bosom, whilst the Indian stood\nby as a calm spectator of the scene, his countenance unmoved by the\nfeelings of sympathy that were working within him. Their first emotions\nwere no sooner over, than Inverawe hurried Donald away to introduce\nhim to the commanding-officer, and he was speedily admitted into the\ncorps as a gentleman volunteer, with the promise of the first vacant\nensigncy. It will easily be believed, that the strict ties which\nwere thus formed between the Campbells of Inverawe and the noble\nEagle Eye, were destined to increase every day. Under the direction\nof his European friends, his wound was treated with the most tender\ncare, and he was soon perfectly cured. The Eagle Eye deeply felt the\nkindness of his Highland father and brother; but, whether in happiness\nor in pain, in joy or in grief, his lofty countenance never betrayed\nthose feelings which are so readily yielded to in civilized life. It\nwas in vain that they tried to induce him to adopt European habits,\nor to domesticate him so far as to make him regularly participate\nin those comforts, which are the fruits of civilization. He adhered\nwith pertinacity to his own customs, and looked down with barbarian\ndignity upon those of his hosts, which so widely differed from them;\nand when at any time he was induced to partake of them, it was with\na lofty native politeness, which seemed to indicate that he did so\nmore in compliment to those with whom he was associated, than from\nany gratification he received in his own person.\n\nCircumstances, with which they or their commanding-officer had nothing\nto do, had kept the Highlanders altogether out of action during the\ncampaign of 1757, which had done so little for the glory of the British\narms. But in the autumn of this year, Lord Loudon was recalled, and\nLieutenant-General Abercromby succeeded to the command of the army. By\nthis time, the Highlanders had received an accession of strength,\nby the arrival of seven hundred recruits from their native mountains;\nand the corps now numbered no less than thirteen hundred men, of size,\nfigure, strength, and courage, not easily to be matched. The British\narmy in America now consisted altogether of above twenty-two thousand\nregulars, and thirty thousand provincial troops, which last could\nnot be classed under that character. The hopes of all were high,\ntherefore, and active operations were immediately contemplated.\n\nIt was some little time before this, that Inverawe was spending an\nevening, tete-a-tete, with his friend, Colonel Grant. The bottle was\npassing slowly but regularly between them, when, by some unaccountable\nchange in their conversation, the subject of supernatural appearances\ncame to be introduced. Colonel Grant protested against all belief\nin them. The recollection of the apparition which had three several\ntimes visited Inverawe, came back upon his mind, in form and colours\nso strong and forcible, that his cheeks grew pale, and a deep gloom\noverspread his brow; so much so, indeed, that it did not escape the\nobservation of his friend. Colonel Grant rallied him, and asked him,\njocularly, if he had ever seen a ghost.\n\n\"I declare I could almost fancy that you saw some spectre at this\nmoment, Inverawe,\" said he.\n\n\"Where?--how?--what?\" cried Inverawe, darting his eyes into every\ncorner of the room, with a degree of perturbation which the Colonel\nhad never seen him display before.\n\n\"Nay,\" said the Colonel, surprised into sudden gravity, \"I cannot say\neither where or what; but I must confess that you seem to me as much\ndisturbed at present as if you saw a spectre.\"\n\n\"I cannot see him here,\" said Inverawe, with an abstracted solemnity of\ntone and manner, that greatly increased his friend's astonishment--\"I\ncannot see him here. This is not the place where I am fated to\nbehold him.\"\n\n\"Him!\" exclaimed Colonel Grant, with growing anxiety--\"him!--whom,\nI pray you? For heaven's sake, tell me whom it is that you are fated\nto behold!\"\n\n\"Pardon me,\" replied Inverawe, at length in some degree collecting his\nideas, but speaking in a solemn tone. \"An intense remembrance which\ncame suddenly upon me, regarding strange circumstances which happened\nto myself, has betrayed me to talk of that which I would have rather\navoided, and--and which cannot interest you, incredulous as you have\ndeclared yourself to be regarding all such supernatural visitations.\"\n\n\"Nay, you will pardon me, if you please,\" said the Colonel, eagerly;\n\"for you have so wonderfully excited my curiosity, that I must e'en\nentreat you to satisfy me. What were these circumstances that happened\nto you?--tell me, I conjure you.\"\n\n\"It is with great pain,\" said Inverawe gravely, \"that I enter upon\nthem at all; for, although they still remain as fresh upon my mind as\nif they had happened yesterday, I would fain bury them, not only from\nall mankind, but from myself. And yet, perhaps, it may be as well that\nyou should know them,--for strange as they are in themselves, they\nwould yet be stranger in their fulfilment. Listen then attentively,\nand I shall tell you every thing, even to the very minutest thought\nthat possessed me.\" And so he proceeded to narrate all that I have\nalready told.\n\n\"Strange!\" said the Colonel, after devouring the narrative with\nbreathless attention--\"wonderfully strange indeed! But these are airy\nphantoms of the brain, which we must not--nay, cannot allow to weigh\nwith us, or to dwell upon our minds--else might we be bereft of reason\nitself, by permitting them to get mastery over us, and so might we\nunwittingly aid them in working out their own accomplishment. Help\nyourself to another cup of wine, Inverawe, and then let us change\nthe subject for something of a more cheerful nature.\"\n\nBut all cheerfulness had fled from Inverawe for that night, and the\nfriends soon afterwards separated, to seek a repose, which he at\nleast in vain tried to court to his pillow for many hours; and when\nsleep did come at last, the figure of the murdered man floated to\nand fro in his dreams. But it did so, only the more to convince him\nof the wonderful difference between such faint visions of slumber,\nand that vivid spectral appearance, which had formerly so terribly and\ndeeply impressed itself upon his waking senses, in his own bed-chamber\nat Inverawe.\n\nThe conversation I have just repeated, together with Inverawe's\nnarrative, remained strongly engraven upon the recollection of\nColonel Grant. The whole circumstances adhered to him so powerfully,\nthat he almost felt as if he too had seen the apparition, and heard\nhim utter his fatal words. He could not divest himself of a most\nintense solicitude about his friend's future fate, which he could\nin no manner of way explain to his own rational satisfaction. But\nthe active and bustling duties which now called for his attention,\nin consequence of the approaching campaign, very speedily banished\nall such thoughts from his mind.\n\nIt was not long after this, that Colonel Grant was summoned by General\nAbercromby to meet the other commanding-officers of corps in a council\nof war. The council lasted for many hours, and when the Colonel came\nforth from it after it had broken up, he was observed to have a cloud\nupon his brow, and a certain air of serious anxiety about him, which\nwas very much augmented by his meeting with his friend Inverawe.\n\n\"Well,\" said Inverawe cheerfully to him, as Colonel Grant joined him\nand his other officers at mess. \"I hope you have good news for us,\nColonel, and that at last you can tell us that we are to march out\nof quarters on some piece of active service.\"\n\n\"We are to march to-morrow,\" replied the Colonel, with unusual gravity.\n\n\"Whither?\" cried Inverawe eagerly. \"Whither, if I may be permitted\nto ask?\"\n\n\"We march to Lake George,\" replied the Colonel, with a very manifest\ndisposition to taciturnity.\n\n\"Pardon me,\" said Inverawe; \"perhaps I push my questions\nindiscreetly,--if so, forgive me.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied the Colonel, with assumed carelessness. \"I have nothing\nwhich the good of the service requires me to conceal from you,\nInverawe, nor, indeed, from any one here present. We march for Lake\nGeorge, as I have already said; and there we are to be embarked in\nboats to proceed up the lake. Our object,\" added he, in a deeper and\nsomewhat melancholy tone,--\"our object is to attack Fort Defiance.\"\n\n\"What sort of a place is it?\" demanded one of the officers.\n\n\"A strong place, as I understand from the engineer who reconnoitred\nit,\" replied the Colonel. \"But these American fastnesses are so beset\nwith forests, that no one can well judge of them till he is fairly\nwithin their entrenchments.\"\n\n\"Then let us pledge this cup to our speedy possession of\nthem!\" exclaimed Inverawe joyously.\n\n\"With all my heart,\" said the Colonel, filling his to the brim,--but\nwith a solemnity of countenance that sorted but ill with the cheerful\nshouts of mutual interchange of congratulation, that arose around\nthe table. \"With all my heart, I drink the toast, and may we all be\nthere alive to drink a cup of thanks for our success.\"\n\n\"Father,\" cried young Inverawe, in his keenness overlooking the\nColonel's ominous addition to the toast; \"now father, these Frenchmen\nshall see what stuff Highlanders are made of!\"\n\n\"They shall, my boy,\" replied Inverawe.--\"Come, then, as I am master\nof the revels to-night, I call on you all to fill a brimmer.--I give\nyou Highlanders shoulder to shoulder!\"\n\n\"Hurrah!--hurrah!--hurrah!\" vociferated the whole officers present.\n\nThis was but the commencement of an evening of more than usual\njollity. The spirits of all were up,--and of all, none were so\nhigh in glee as those of Inverawe and his son. There was something,\nindeed, which might have been almost said to have been strangely wild\nin the unwonted revelry of the father. Colonel Grant was the only\nindividual present, who did not seem to keep pace with the rest. The\nflask circulated with more than ordinary rapidity and frequency,--but\nas the mirth which it created rose higher and higher, and especially\nwith Inverawe and young Donald, Colonel Grant's thoughts seemed to sink\ndeeper and deeper into gloomy speculation. If any one chanced so far\nto forget his own hilarity for a moment, as to observe this strange\nanomaly in his commanding-officer, it is probable that he attributed\nit to those cares, which must necessarily arise in the mind of one,\nwith whom so much of the responsibility of the approaching contest\nmust rest. He retired from the festive board at an early hour, leaving\nthe others, who kept up their night's enjoyment as long as they could\ndo so with decency. Inverawe and his son sat with them to the last;\nand all agreed, at parting, that they had been the life and soul of\nthat evening's revel.\n\nThe next morning, the officers of the Highlanders were early astir,\nto get their men into order of march. Major Campbell of Inverawe was\nthe most active man among them. General Abercromby's force upon this\noccasion consisted of about six thousand regulars, and nine thousand\nprovincial troops, together with a small train of artillery. Before\nthey moved off, the General rode along the line of troops, giving his\ndirections to the field officers of each battalion in succession. When\nhe came up to the Highlanders, he courteously accosted Colonel Grant\nand Major Campbell.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said he, \"we shall have toughish work of it; for though\nthe enemy have not had time to complete their defences, yet, I am\ntold, that, even in its present state, there are few places which\nare naturally likely to be of more troublesome entrance than we\nshall find----\"\n\n\"Than we shall find Fort Defiance,\" somewhat strangely interrupted\nColonel Grant, with an emphasis which not a little surprised Inverawe,\nas coming from a man usually so polite.--\"Aye, I have heard, indeed,\nthat Fort Defiance is naturally a strong place, General. But what\nwill not Highlanders accomplish!--You may rely on it you shall have\nno cause to complain of the Black Watch!\"\n\n\"I have no fear that I shall,\" replied the General, betraying\nno symptom of having taken offence at the Colonel's apparently\nunaccountable interruption. \"I know that both you and your men will\ndo your duty against Fort Defiance, or any other fort in America.\"\n\n\"Fort Defiance is a bold name, General,\" said Major Campbell, laughing.\n\n\"It is a bold name,\" said the Colonel gravely.\n\n\"It is a vaunting name enough,\" replied the General.--\"Yet I\nhope to meet you both alive and merry as conquerors within its\nworks. Meanwhile, gentlemen, pray get your Highlanders under march\nfor the boats with as little delay as possible.\"\n\nNot another word but the necessary words of command were now\nuttered. The regiment moved off steadily, and the embarkation on Lake\nGeorge was speedily effected, with the most perfect regularity and\norder, on the 5th of July, 1758.\n\nIt must have been a beautiful sight indeed, to have beheld that\nimmense flotilla of boats moving over the pellucid surface of that\nlovely sheet of water--not a sound proceeding from them save that of\nthe oars,--the unruffled bosom of the lake every where reflecting the\nserene sky of a July evening, together with all the charms of its bold\nand varied shores, and its romantic islands;--its stillness affording\na strange prelude to that tempest of mortal contest which was about\nto ensue. Its breadth is about two miles--so that the boats nearly\ncovered it from side to side. As they moved on, they were occasionally\nlost to the eyes of those who looked upon them from the shores, as they\ndisappeared into the numerous channels formed by its islands, or were\nagain discovered, as they emerged from these narrow straits. There were\nsnatches of scenery, and many little circumstances in the features\nof nature around them, that called up the remembrance of their own\nLoch Awe to both the Laird of Inverawe and young Donald, as the sun\nwent down; and the pensiveness arising from these home recollections,\nat such a time, kept both of them silent. At length, after a safe,\nand easy, and, on the part of the enemy, an unobserved navigation,\nthe boats reached the northern end of the lake early on the ensuing\nmorning; and the landing having been effected without opposition,\nthe troops were formed by General Abercromby into two parallel columns.\n\nThe order was given to advance; and the troops speedily came to an\noutpost of the enemy, which was abandoned without a shot. But as they\nproceeded, the nature of the ground, encumbered as it was with trees,\nrendered the march of both lines uncertain and wavering, so that the\ncolumns soon began to interfere with each other; and great confusion\nensued. Whilst endeavouring to extend themselves, the right column,\ncomposed of the Highlanders, and the Fifty-fifth Regiment, under\nthe command of Lord Howe, fell in with a detachment of the enemy,\nwhich had got bewildered in the wood, just as they themselves\nhad done. The British attacked them briskly, and a sharp contest\nfollowed. The enemy behaved gallantly; and the Highlanders especially\ndistinguished themselves. Young Donald of Inverawe, his bosom bounding\nwith excitement, from the shouts of those engaged in the skirmish,\nrushed into the thickest part of the irregular melee, and performed\nsuch feats of prowess with his maiden claymore, that they might have\ndone honour to an old and well-tried soldier. Excited yet more by\nhis success, he became rash and unguarded, and being too forward in\nthe pursuit among the trees--which had already broken the troops on\nboth sides into small handfulls--he found himself suddenly engaged\nwith three enemies at once. As he was just about to be overpowered\nby their united pressure upon him, a ball from a rifle stretched\none of them lifeless before him, and in an instant afterwards, the\nEagle Eye, whose accurate aim had directed it to its deadly errand,\nwas flourishing his tomahawk over the head of another of his foes. It\nfell upon him--the skull was split open--the man rolled down on the\nground a ghastly corpse; and the third, that was left opposed to young\nInverawe, began to give way in terror before him. Urging fiercely upon\nthis last foe, however, the youth ran him through with one tremendous\nthrust, and he too dropped dead.\n\nFlushed with success, Donald Campbell was now about to continue the\npursuit, after some fugitives of the enemy, who came rushing past him,\nwhen, turning to call on his red brother and preserver, the Eagle Eye,\nto follow him, he beheld him stooping over one of his dead foes, in\nthe act of scalping him. At that very moment, he saw a French soldier\napproaching his Indian brother unperceived, with sword uplifted, and\nwith the fell intent of hewing him down. Springing before the Eagle\nEye, the young Inverawe prepared himself to receive the meditated\nstroke--warded it skilfully off,--and then following in on his foe\nwith a thrust, he penetrated him right through the breast, with\na wound that was instantaneously mortal. The Eagle Eye was now as\nsensible that he owed his life to young Donald, as Donald could have\nbeen that his had been preserved by the Indian warrior. They stood\nfor a moment gazing at each other,--and then they embraced, with\nan affection, which the stern Eagle Eye had difficulty in veiling,\nand which young Inverawe could not conceal.\n\nBy this time the enemy were all cut to pieces, or put to flight. The\njoy of this unexpected victory was turned into mourning, by the death\nof Lord Howe, who had been unfortunately killed in the early part of\nthis random engagement. His loss, at such a time, was greater than\nanything they had gained by this partial overthrow of the enemy. And\nyou will easily understand this, when I tell you, that it was said of\nthis young nobleman, that he particularly distinguished himself by his\ncourage, activity, and rigid observance of military discipline; and\nthat he had so acquired the esteem and affection of the soldiers, by\nhis generosity, sweetness of manners, and engaging address, that they\nassembled in groups around the hurried grave to which his venerated\nremains were consigned, and wept over it in deep and silent grief.\n\nThe troops having been much harassed by this engagement, as well\nas by the troublesome nature of their march, General Abercromby,\nin consideration of the lateness of the hour, deemed it prudent, to\ndeliver them from the embarrassment of the woods, to march them back to\nthe landing-place; which they reached early in the morning. They were\nthen allowed the whole of the ensuing day and night for repose. But\non the morning of the 8th of July, he rode up to the lines of the\nHighlanders, and saluting Colonel Grant and Major Campbell of Inverawe,\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said he, \"I have just obtained information from some of\nthe prisoners, that General Levi is advancing with three thousand men\nto reinforce, or succour,--a--a--a--to succour, I say,--the garrison\nI wish to attack.\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed Colonel Grant,--\"to succour Fort Defiance,\nGeneral? Then I presume you will move on directly, to strike the blow\nbefore they can arrive.\"\n\n\"That is exactly my intention,\" replied General Abercromby. \"And now\nI must tell you, confidentially, Gentlemen, that the present garrison\nconsists of fully five thousand men, of whom the greater part are said\nto be French troops of the line; who, as I am informed, are stationed\nbehind the traverses, with large trees lying every where felled in\nfront of them. But I have sent forward an engineer to reconnoitre\nmore strictly, and I trust I shall have his report before we shall\nhave advanced as far as--as--\"\n\n\"As Fort Defiance,\" interrupted Colonel Grant. \"Well, General, are\nwe to be in the advance?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied the General. \"As you and the Fifty-fifth have had all\nthe fighting that has as yet fallen to our lot, I mean that you shall\nbe in the reserve upon this occasion. The picquets will commence the\nassault, and they will be followed by the grenadiers,--which will be\nin their turn supported by the battalions of the reserve.--Nay, do\nnot look mortified, Colonel;--you and your men will have a bellyfull\nof it before all is done, I promise you.\"\n\nWith these words the General left them, and the columns moved\non through the wood, in the order he had signified to them. They\nhad now possessed themselves of better guides, and they were thus\nenabled to make their march more direct, and as they had already\ncleared their front of enemies, the leading troops were soon up at the\nentrenchments. Here they were surprised to find a regular breast work,\nnine or ten feet high, strongly defended with wall-pieces, and having\na very impregnable chevaux de frise, whilst the whole ground in front\nwas every where strewed thickly over with huge newly felled oak trees,\nfor the distance of about a cannon-shot from the walls. From behind\nthe chevaux de frise, the enemy, in strong force, commenced a most\ngalling and destructive fire upon the assailants, so as to render the\nworks almost unapproachable, without certain destruction, especially\nwithout the artillery, which, from some accident, had not as yet\nbeen brought up. But the very danger they had to encounter seemed\nto give the British troops a more than human courage. Regardless of\nthe hail-storm of bullets discharged on them, with deliberate aim,\nfrom behind the abattis, whilst they were fighting their laborious\nand painful way through the labyrinth of fallen trunks and branches\nthat opposed their passage, they continued, column after column,\nto advance, dropping and thinning fearfully as they went.\n\nThe Highlanders beheld this slaughter that the enemy was making of\ntheir friends--their blood boiled within them. In vain Colonel Grant\nand Major Campbell galloped backwards and forwards, along the line,\nusing every command and every argument that official authority or\nreason could employ to restrain and to sooth them, till their time for\naction should arrive. With one tremendous shout, they rushed forward\nfrom the reserve, and cutting their way through the trees with their\nclaymores, they were soon shewing their plumed crests among the very\nforemost ranks of the assailants. But so murderous was the fire that\nfell upon them, that their black tufted bonnets were seen dropping in\nall directions, never to be again raised by the brave heads that bore\nthem. Their loss, before they gained the outward defences of the fort,\nwas fearful; but the onset of those who survived was so overwhelming,\nthat it drove the enemy from these outworks, and compelled them to\nretreat within the body of the fort itself.\n\nNow came the most dreadful part of this work of death. The garrison,\nprotected by the works of the fort, mowed down the ranks of the\nbesiegers with a yet more certain and unerring aim. Under the false\nreport that these works were as yet incomplete, scaling ladders had\nbeen considered as unnecessary. The Highlanders, gnashing their teeth\nlike raging tigers caught in the toils, endeavoured to clamber up\nthe front of them, by rearing themselves on each other's shoulders,\nand by digging holes with their swords and bayonets in the face of the\nintrenchments. Some few succeeded, by such means, in gaining a footing\non the top. But it was only to make themselves more conspicuous, and\nmore certain marks for destruction; and they were no sooner seen, than\ntheir lifeless bodies, perforated by showers of bullets, were swept\ndown upon their struggling comrades below. By repeated and multiplied\nexertions of this kind, Captain John Campbell succeeded in forcing\nhis way entirely over the breastwork, at the head of a handful of men;\nbut they also were instantly despatched by the multitude of bayonets by\nwhich they were assailed. Four hours did these gallant men persevere\nin the repetition of such daring attempts as I have described--all,\nalas! with equal want of success, and with increasing slaughter, till\nGeneral Abercromby ordered the retreat to be sounded. To this call,\nhowever, the Highlanders were deaf; and it was not until Colonel Grant,\nafter receiving three successive orders from the General, which he had\nfailed in enforcing, threw himself among them, and literally drove\nthem back from the works with his sword, that he could collect and\nbring away the small moiety that yet remained alive, of that splendid\nregiment with which he had marched to the attack. More than one-half\nof the men, and two-thirds of the officers, were lying killed or\nwounded on that bloody field.\n\nColonel Grant had hardly gathered this remnant of his men together,\nwhen he hastened back over the ground where the contest had raged,\nto search eagerly for some of those whom he most dearly loved, and\nfor the cause of whose absence from this hasty muster he trembled\nto inquire or investigate. The enemy, though victorious, had been\ntoo roughly handled to be tempted to a sally, for the mere purpose of\nannoying those who were peacefully engaged in the sad duty of carrying\noff their wounded or dying comrades. The Colonel was therefore enabled\nto make his way over the encumbered field without molestation, and\nwith no other interruption than that which was presented to him by\nthe prostrate trees, which, however, seemed to him to offer greater\nobstruction to his present impatience, than they had done during\nhis advance with his corps to the attack. The scene was strangely\nterrible! It might have been imagined by any one who looked upon\nthat field, that all Nature, even the elements themselves, had been\nat strife. Slaughtered, and mutilated, and dying men lay in confused\nheaps, or scattered singly among the overthrown giants of the forest,\nthose enormous trees which had been so recently rooted in the primeval\nsoil, where they had stood for ages. Colonel Grant looked everywhere\nanxiously around him. Many were the familiar faces that he recognized,\nbut their features were now so fixed by the last agonizing pang of\na violent death, as cruelly, yet certainly, to assure him, that they\ncould never again in this world recognize him. The last spirited words\nof high and courageous hope, so recently uttered by many of them to\nhim in their anticipation of triumph, still rang in his recollection,\nand as he tore his eyes away from them, the tears would burst over his\nmanly cheeks as the thought arose in his mind, that words of theirs\nwould never again reach his ears. He moved hurriedly on, endeavouring\nto suppress his feelings, but every now and then compelled to give way\nto them, till his attention was absorbingly attracted by descrying\nthe dark form of an Indian, who was seated on his hams, beneath the\narched trunk and boughs of a huge felled oak. It was the Eagle Eye.\n\nHe sat motionless as a bronze statue, with the drapery of his blanket,\nhanging in deep folds from his shoulders. His features were grave\nand still, and apparently devoid of feeling; but his eyes were\nturned downward, and they were immovably fixed on the countenance\nof a young man, who lay stretched out a corpse before him. His head\nwas supported between the knees of the red man, whilst the cold and\nstiffened fingers of him who was dead, were firmly clasped between\nboth his hands. The body was that of young Donald Campbell of Inverawe.\n\n\"God help me!\" cried the Colonel, clasping his hands, and weeping\nbitterly. \"God help me, what a spectacle!\"\n\n\"Why should you weep, old man?\" said the Eagle Eye, with imperturbable\ncalmness. \"My young brother has gone to the Great Spirit, like a great\nwarrior as he was. Who among his tribe shall be ashamed of him? Who\namong warriors shall call him a woman? I could weep for him too,\ndid I not know that the Great Spirit has taken him to happiness,\nfrom which it were wicked in me to wish to have detained him for my\nown miserable gratification. But he is happy! He has gone to those\nfair, boundless, and plentiful hunting-grounds that lie beyond the\ngreat lake, where he will never know want, and where we, if our deeds\nbe like his, will surely follow him. But till then, the sunshine of\nthe Eagle Eye has departed, and night must surround his footsteps,\nsince the light of his pale-faced brother has departed!\"\n\n\"This is too much!\" said the Colonel, quite overwhelmed by his\nfeelings. \"Help him to bear off the body. It must not be left here.\"\n\nThe Eagle Eye arose in silence, and gravely and solemnly assisted\nthe Highlander, who attended the Colonel, to lift and bear away\nthe body, and they had not thus proceeded more than a few paces in\ntheir retreat from the works, when the weeping eyes of the Highland\ncommanding-officer, and the eagle gaze of the red warrior, were equally\narrested, at the same moment, by one and the same object. This was\nthe manly and heroic form of Major Campbell of Inverawe. He sat on the\nground, desperately wounded, with his back partially supported against\nthe body of his horse, which had been killed under him. His eye-balls\nwere stretched from their sockets, and fixed upon vacancy, with an\nexpression of terror, greater than that with which death himself,\nriding triumphant as he was over that field of the slain, could have\nfilled those of so brave a man. Colonel Grant was so overcome, that\nhe could not utter a word. He was convulsed by his emotions. The\nEagle Eye laid down the body of Donald opposite to his father, and\nsilently resumed his former position, with the youth's head between\nhis knees. The father's eyes caught the motionless features of his son,\nand he started from his strange state of abstraction.\n\n\"My son!\" murmured the wounded Inverawe. \"So, it is as I supposed,--he\nis gone! But I shall soon be with you, boy. God in his mercy help\nand protect your poor mother!\"\n\n\"Speak not thus, my dearest friend!\" said Colonel Grant, making an\neffort to command himself, and hastening to support and comfort the\nwounded man; \"trust me you will yet do well. You must live for your\npoor wife's sake.\"\n\n\"No!\" replied Inverawe, with deep solemnity. \"My hour is come. In vain\nwas it that your kind friendship, and that of the brave Abercromby,\nsucceeded in deceiving me,--for I have seen him--I have seen him\nterribly,--and this is Ticonderoga!\"\n\n\"Pardon me, my dear Inverawe, for a deception which was so well\nintended,\" said the Colonel, much agitated. \"It is indeed Ticonderoga\nas you say, but--but--believe me,--that which now disturbs you was\nonly some phantom of your brain, arising from loss of blood and\nweakness. Cheer up!--Come, man!--Come!--Inverawe!--Merciful Heaven,\nhe is gone!\"\n\n\n\n                          END OF VOLUME THIRD.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNOTES\n\n[1] A Scottish farmer's house and offices.\n\n[2] Plaid.\n\n[3] Remove.\n\n[4] Ancestors.\n\n[5] Innermost.","title":"Legendary Tales of the Highlands (Volume 3 of 3): A sequel to Highland Rambles","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":59345}