{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_65294/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_65294","id":"gutenberg_65294","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65294","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Adventure","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Great Britain. Army. Regiment of Foot, 42nd -- History -- Anecdotes"],"text":"[Frontispiece: The Black Watch in Canada. P. 267]\n\n\n\n\n  LEGENDS\n\n  OF\n\n  THE BLACK WATCH:\n\n  OR,\n\n  Forty-second Highlanders.\n\n\n\n  BY\n\n  JAMES GRANT,\n\n  AUTHOR OF\n  \"THE ROMANCE OF WAR,\" \"HOLLYWOOD HALL,\" ETC., ETC.\n\n\n\n  _NEW EDITION._\n\n\n\n  LONDON:\n  ROUTLEDGE, WARNE, AND ROUTLEDGE,\n  FARRINGDON STREET,\n  NEW YORK: 66, WALKER STREET.\n  1860.\n\n  [_The Author reserves the right of translation._]\n\n\n\n\n  LONDON\n  SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS,\n  CHANDOS STREET.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\nWoven up with an occasional legend or superstition gleaned among the\nmountains from whence its soldiers came, the warlike details and many\nof the names which occur in the following pages, belong to the\nmilitary history of the country and of the brave Regiment whose title\nis given to our Book.\n\nIt is generally acknowledged that but for the retention of the kilt\nin the British service, and for the high character of those regiments\nwho wear it> the military _name_ of Scotland had been long since\nforgotten in Europe, and her national existence had been as\ncompletely ignored during the Wars of Wellington as in those of\nMarlborough; nor in times more recent had the electric wire announced\nthat, when the cloud of Russian horse came on at Balaclava and our\nallies fled, \"the Scots stood firm.\"\n\nThe kilt alone indicated _their_ country, as our Scots Lowland\nregiments are clad like the rest of the Line.  The martial and\npicturesque costume of the ancient clans which is now so completely\nidentified with modern Scotland, is one of the few remnants of the\npast that remain to her; and it is remarkable that it has survived so\nlong; for it was the garb of those adventurous Greeks who fought\nunder Xenophon, and of those hardy warriors who spread the terror of\nthe Roman name from the shores of the Euphrates on the east, to those\nof the Caledonian Firths upon the west.\n\nIt was the best public service of the great Pitt when he first\nrallied round the British throne, as soldiers of the Highland\nRegiments, the men of that warlike race, who had been so long\ninimical to the House of Hanover.\n\n\"I sought for merit wherever it was to be found,\" said he; \"it is my\nboast that I was the first minister who looked for it and found it on\nthe mountains of the north.  I called it forth, and drew into your\nservice a hardy and intrepid race of men, who, when left by your\njealousy, became a prey to the artifice of your enemies, and who, in\nthe war before the last, had well nigh gone to have overturned the\nState.  These men in the last war were brought to combat by your\nside; they served with fidelity as they fought with honour, and\nconquered for you in every part of the world.\"\n\nHighlander and Lowlander are now so mingled by intermarriage that\nthere is scarcely a subject in the northern kingdom without more or\nless Celtic blood in his or her veins; and to this mixture of race,\nwhich unites the fire and impatience of the former to the steady\nperseverance of the latter, Scotland owes her present prosperity.\n\nThe Clans are passing away, and with them a thousand great and\nglorious historical and romantic associations; while, by the rapid\nspread of education, even their language cannot long survive; \"but\nwhen time shall have drawn its veil over the past as over the\npresent--when the _last_ broadsword shall have been broken on the\nanvil, and the shreds of the _last_ plaid tossed to the winds upon\nthe cairn, or been bleached within the raven's nest, posterity may\nlook back with regret to a people who have so marked the history, the\npoetry, and the achievements of a distant age;\" and who, in the ranks\nof the British army, have stood foremost in the line of battle and\ngiven place to none!\n\n  20, DANUBE STREET, EDINBURGH,\n      _October_, 1859.\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nI. THE STORY OF FARQUHAR SHAW\n\nII. THE SEVEN GRENADIERS\n\nIII. THE LOST REGIMENT--A LOVE STORY\n\nIV. MASSACRE AT FORT WILLIAM HENRY\n\nV. THE WIFE OF THE RED COMYN--MY GRANDFATHER'S STORY\n\nVI. STORY OF THE GREY MOUSQUETAIRE--A FRAGMENT OF THE SEVEN YEARS' WAR\n\nVII. THE LETTRE DE CACHET\n\nVIII. THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN GRANT\n\nIX. THE STORY OF DICK DUFF\n\nX. THE FOREST OF GAICH--OR THE CAPTAIN DHU\n\nNOTES\n\n\n\n\nLEGENDS\n\nOF\n\nTHE BLACK WATCH,\n\n\n\nI.\n\nTHE STORY OF FARQUHAR SHAW.\n\nThis soldier, whose name, from the circumstances connected with his\nremarkable story, daring courage, and terrible fate, is still\nremembered in the regiment, in the early history of which he bears so\nprominent a part, was one of the first who enlisted in Captain\nCampbell of Finab's independent band of the _Reicudan Dhu_, or Black\nWatch, when the six separate companies composing this Highland force\nwere established along the Highland Border in 1729, to repress the\npredatory spirit of certain tribes, and to prevent the levy of black\nmail.  The companies were independent, and at that time wore the clan\ntartan of their captains, who were Simon Frazer, the celebrated Lord\nLovat; Sir Duncan Campbell of Lochnell; Grant of Ballindalloch;\nAlister Campbell of Finab, whose father fought at Darien; Ian\nCampbell of Carrick, and Deors Monro of Culcairn.\n\nThe privates of these companies were all men of a superior station,\nbeing mostly cadets of good families--gentlemen of the old Celtic and\npatriarchal lines; and of baronial proprietors.  In the Highlands,\nthe only genuine mark of aristocracy was descent from the founder of\nthe tribe; all who claimed this were styled _uislain_, or gentlemen,\nand, as such, when off duty, were deemed the equal of the highest\nchief in the land.  Great care was taken by the six captains to\nsecure men of undoubted courage, of good stature, stately deportment,\nand handsome figure.  Thus, in all the old Highland regiments, but\nmore especially the _Reicudan Dhu_, equality of blood and similarity\nof descent, secured familiarity and regard between the officers and\ntheir men--for the latter deemed themselves inferior to no man who\nbreathed the air of heaven.  Hence, according to an English engineer\nofficer, who frequently saw these independent companies, \"many of\nthose private gentlemen-soldiers have gillies or servants to attend\nupon them in their quarters, and upon a march, to carry their\nprovisions, baggage, and firelocks.\"\n\nSuch was the composition of the corps, now first embodied among that\nremarkable people, the Scottish Highlanders--\"a people,\" says the\nHistorian of Great Britain, \"untouched by the Roman or Saxon\ninvasions on the south, and by those of the Danes on the east and\nwest skirts of their country--the _unmixed remains_ of that vast\nCeltic empire, which once stretched from the Pillars of Hercules to\nArchangel.\"\n\nThe Reicudan Dhu were armed with the usual weapons and accoutrements\nof the line; but, in addition to these, had the arms of their native\ncountry--the broadsword, target, pistol, and long dagger, while the\nsergeants carried the old Celtic _tuagh_, or Lochaber axe.  It was\ndistinctly understood by all who enlisted in this new force, that\ntheir military duties were to be confined _within_ the Highland\nBorder, where, from the wild, predatory spirit of those clans which\ndwelt next the Lowlands, it was known that they would find more than\nenough of military service of the most harassing kind.  In the\nconflicts which daily ensued among the mountains--in the sudden\nmarches by night; the desperate brawls among Caterans, who were armed\nto the teeth, fierce as nature and outlawry could make them, and who\ndwelt in wild and pathless fastnesses secluded amid rocks, woods, and\nmorasses, there were few who in courage, energy, daring, and activity\nequalled Farquhar Shaw, a gentleman from the Braes of Lochaber, who\nwas esteemed the _premier_ private in the company of Campbell of\nFinab, which was then quartered in that district; for each company\nhad its permanent cantonment and scene of operations during the\neleven years which succeeded the first formation of the Reicudan Dhu.\n\nFarquhar was a perfect swordsman, and deadly shot alike with the\nmusket and pistol; and his strength was such, that he had been known\nto twist a horse-shoe, and drive his _skene dhu_ to the hilt in a\npine log; while his activity and power of enduring hunger, thirst,\nheat, cold and fatigue, became a proverb among the companies of the\nWatch: for thus had he been reared and trained by his father, a\ngenuine old Celtic gentleman and warrior, whose memory went back to\nthe days when Dundee led the valiant and true to the field of\nRinrory, and in whose arms the viscount fell from his horse in the\nmoment of victory, and was borne to the house of Urrard to die.  He\nwas a true Highlander of the old school; for an old school has\nexisted in all ages and everywhere, even among the Arabs, the\nchildren of Ishmael, in the desert; for they, too, have an olden time\nto which they look back with regret, as being nobler, better, braver,\nand purer than the present.  Thus, the father of Farquhar Shaw was a\ngrim _duinewissal_, who never broke bread or saw the sun rise without\nuncovering his head and invoking the names of \"God, the Blessed Mary,\nand St. Colme of the Isle;\" who never sat down to a meal without\nopening wide his gates, that the poor and needy might enter freely;\nwho never refused the use of his purse and sword to a friend or\nkinsman, and was never seen unarmed, even in his own dining-room; who\nnever wronged any man; but who never suffered a wrong or affront to\npass, without sharp and speedy vengeance; and who, rather than\nacknowledge the supremacy of the House of Hanover, died sword in hand\nat the rising in Glensheil.  For this act, his estates were seized by\nthe House of Breadalbane, and his only son, Farquhar, became a\nprivate soldier in the ranks of the Black Watch.\n\nIt may easily be supposed, that the son of such a father was imbued\nwith all his cavalier spirit, his loyalty and enthusiasm, and that\nhis mind was filled by all the military, legendary, and romantic\nmemories of his native mountains, the land of the Celts, which, as a\nfine Irish ballad says, was THEIRS\n\n  Ere the Roman or the Saxon, the Norman or the Dane,\n  Had first set foot in Britain, or trampled heaps of slain,\n  Whose manhood saw the Druid rite, at forest tree and rock--\n  And savage tribes of Britain round the shrines of Zernebok;\n  Which for generations witnessed all the glories of the Gael,\n  Since their Celtic sires sang war-songs round the sacred fires of Baal.\n\n\nWhen it was resolved by Government to form the six independent\nHighland companies into one regiment, Farquhar Shaw was left on the\nsick list at the cottage of a widow, named Mhona Cameron, near\nInverlochy, having been wounded in a skirmish with Caterans in\nGlennevis, and he writhed on his sickbed when his comrades, under\nFinab, marched for the Birks of Aberfeldy, the muster-place of the\nwhole, where the companies were to be united into one battalion,\nunder the celebrated John Earl of Crawford and Lindesay, the last of\nhis ancient race, a hero covered with wounds and honours won in the\nservices of Britain and Russia.\n\nWeak, wan, and wasted though he was (for his wound, a slash from a\npole-axe, had been a severe one), Farquhar almost sprang from bed\nwhen he heard the notes of their retiring pipes dying away, as they\nmarched through Maryburgh, and round by the margin of Lochiel.  His\nspirit of honour was ruffled, moreover, by a rumour, spread by his\nenemies the Caterans, against whom he had fought repeatedly, that he\nwas growing faint-hearted at the prospect of the service of the Black\nWatch being extended beyond the Highland Border.  As rumours to this\neffect were already finding credence in the glens, the fierce, proud\nheart of Farquhar burned within him with indignation and unmerited\nshame.\n\nAt last, one night, an old crone, who came stealthily to the cottage\nin which he was residing, informed him that, by the same outlaws who\nwere seeking to deprive him of his honour, a subtle plan had been\nlaid to surround his temporary dwelling, and put him to death, in\nrevenge for certain wounds inflicted by his sword upon their comrades.\n\nThe energy and activity of the Black Watch had long since driven the\nCaterans to despair, and nothing but the anticipation of killing\nFarqnhar comfortably, and chopping him into ounce pieces at leisure,\nenabled them to survive their troubles with anything like Christian\nfortitude and resignation.\n\n\"And this is their plan, mother?\" said Farquhar to the crone.\n\n\"To burn the cottage, and you with it.\"\n\n\"Dioul! say you so, Mother Mhona,\" he exclaimed; \"then 'tis time I\nwere betaking me to the hills.  Better have a cool bed for a few\nnights on the sweet-scented heather, than be roasted in a burning\ncottage, like a fox in its hole.\"\n\nIn vain the cotters besought him to seek concealment elsewhere; or to\ntarry until he had gained his fall strength.\n\n\"Were I in the prime of strength, I would stay here,\" said Farquhar;\n\"and when sleeping on my sword and target, would fear nothing.  If\nthese dogs of Caterans came, they should be welcome to my life, if I\ncould not redeem it by the three best lives in their band; but I am\nweak as a growing boy, and so shall be off to the free mountain side,\nand seek the path that leads to the Birks of Aberfeldy.\"\n\n\"But the Birks are far from here, Farquhar,\" urged old Mhona.\n\n\"_Attempt_, and _Did-not_, were the worst of Fingal's hounds,\"\nreplied the soldier.  \"Farquhar will owe you a day in harvest for all\nyour kindness; but his comrades wait, and go he must!  Would it not\nbe a strange thing and a shameful, too, if all the Reicudan Dhu\nshould march down into the flat, bare land of the Lowland clowns, and\nFarquhar not be with them?  What would Finab, his captain, think? and\nwhat would all in Brae Lochaber say?\"\n\n\"Yet pause,\" continued the crones.\n\n\"Pause!  Dhia! my father's bones will soon be clattering in their\ngrave, far away in green Glensheil, where he died for King James,\nMhona.\"\n\n\"Beware,\" continued the old woman, \"lest you go for ever, Farquhar.\"\n\n\"It is longer to _for ever_ than to Beltane, and by that day I must\nbe at the Birks of Aberfeldy.\"\n\nThen, seeing that he was determined, the crones muttered among\nthemselves that the _tarvecoill_ would fall upon him; but Farquhar\nShaw, though far from being free of his native superstitions, laughed\naloud; for the tarvecoill is a black cloud, which, if seen on a\nnew-year's eve, is said to portend stormy weather; hence it is a\nproverb for a misfortune about to happen.\n\n\"You were unwise to become a soldier, Farquhar,\" was their last\nargument.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"The tongue may tie a knot which the teeth cannot untie.\"\n\n\"As your husbands' tongues did, when they married you all, poor men!\"\nwas the good-natured retort of Farquhar.  \"But fear not for me; ere\nthe snow begins to melt on Ben Nevis, and the sweet wallflower to\nbloom on the black Castle of Inverlochy, I will be with you all\nagain,\" he added, while belting his tartan-plaid about him, slinging\nhis target on his shoulder, and whistling upon Bran, his favourite\nstag-hound; he then set out to join the regiment, by the nearest\nroute, on the skirts of Ben Nevis, resolving to pass the head of\nLochlevin, through Larochmohr, and the deep glens that lead towards\nthe Braes of Rannoch, a long, desolate, and perilous journey, but\nwith his sword, his pistols, and gigantic hound to guard him, his\nplaid for a covering, and the purple heather for a bed wherever he\nhalted, Farquhar feared nothing.\n\nHis faithful dog Bran, which had shared his couch and plaid since the\ntime when it was a puppy, was a noble specimen of the Scottish hound,\nwhich was used of old in the chase of the white bull, the wolf, and\nthe deer, and which is in reality the progenitor of the common\ngreyhound; for the breed has degenerated in warmer climates than the\nstern north.  Bran (so named from Bran of old) was of such size,\nstrength, and courage, that he was able to drag down the strongest\ndeer; and, in the last encounter with the Caterans of Glen Nevis, he\nhad saved the life of Farquhar, by tearing almost to pieces one who\nwould have slain him, as he lay wounded on the field.  His hair was\nrough and grey; his limbs were muscular and wiry; his chest was broad\nand deep; his keen eyes were bright as those of an eagle.  Such dogs\nas Bran bear a prominent place in Highland song and story.  They were\nremarkable for their sagacity and love of their master, and their\nsolemn and dirge-like howl was ever deemed ominous and predictive of\ndeath and woe.\n\nBran and his master were inseparable.  The noble dog had long been\ninvaluable to him when on hunting expeditions, and now since he had\nbecome a soldier in the Reicudan Dhu, Bran was always on guard with\nhim, and the sharer of all his duties; thus Farquhar was wont to\nassert, \"that for watchfulness on sentry, Bran's two ears were worth\nall the rest in the Black Watch put together.\"\n\nThe sun had set before Farquhar left the green thatched clachan, and\nalready the bases of the purple mountains were dark, though a red\nglow lingered on their heath-clad summits.  Lest some of the Cateran\nband, of whose malevolence he was now the object, might already have\nknowledge or suspicion of his departure and be watching him with\nlynx-like eyes from behind some rock or bracken bush, he pursued for\na time a path which led to the westward, until the darkness closed\ncompletely in; and then, after casting round him a rapid and\nsearching glance, he struck at once into the old secluded drove-way\nor Fingalian road, which descended through the deep gorge of\nCorriehoilzie towards the mouth of Glencoe.\n\nOn his left towered Ben Nevis--or \"the Mountain of Heaven\"--sublime\nand vast, four thousand three hundred feet and more in height, with\nits pale summits gleaming in the starlight, under a coating of\neternal snow.  On his right lay deep glens yawning between pathless\nmountains that arose in piles above each other, their sides torn and\nrent by a thousand water-courses, exhibiting rugged banks of rock and\ngravel, fringed by green waving bracken leaves and black whin bushes,\nor jagged by masses of stone, lying in piles and heaps, like the\nblack, dreary, and Cyclopean ruins \"of an earlier world.\"  Before him\nlay the wilderness of Larochmohr, a scene of solitary and solemn\ngrandeur, where, under the starlight, every feature of the landscape,\nevery waving bush, or silver birch; every bare scalp of porphyry, and\nevery granite block torn by storms from the cliffs above; every\nrugged watercourse, tearing in foam through its deep marl bed between\nthe tufted heather, seemed shadowy, unearthly, and weird--dark and\nmysterious; and all combined, were more than enough to impress with\nsolemnity the thoughts of any man, but more especially those of a\nHighlander; for the savage grandeur and solitude of that district at\nsuch an hour--the gloaming--were alike, to use a paradox, soothing\nand terrific.\n\nThere was no moon.  Large masses of crape-like vapour sailed across\nthe blue sky, and by gradually veiling the stars, made yet darker the\ngloomy path which Farquhar had to traverse.  Even the dog Bran seemed\nimpressed by the unbroken stillness, and trotted close as a shadow by\nthe bare legs of his master.\n\nFor a time Farquhar Shaw had thought only of the bloodthirsty\nCaterans, who in their mood of vengeance at the Black Watch in\ngeneral, and at him in particular, would have hewn him to pieces\nwithout mercy; but now as the distance increased between himself and\ntheir haunts by the shores of the Lochy and Eil, other thoughts arose\nin his mind, which gradually became a prey to the superstition\nincident alike to his age and country, as all the wild tales he had\nheard of that sequestered district, and indeed of that identical glen\nwhich he was then traversing, crowded upon his memory, until he,\nFarquhar Shaw, who would have faced any six men sword in hand, or\nwould have charged a grape-shotted battery without fear, actually\nsighed with apprehension at the waving of a hazel bush on the lone\nhill side.\n\nOf many wild and terrible things this locale was alleged to be the\nscene, and with some of these the Highland reader may be as familiar\nas Farquhar.\n\nA party of the Black Watch in the summer of 1738, had marched up the\nglen, under the command of Corporal Malcolm MacPherson (of whom more\nanon), with orders to seize a flock of sheep and arrest the\nproprietor, who was alleged to have \"lifted\" (_i.e._, stolen) them\nfrom the Camerons of Lochiel.  The soldiers found the flock to the\nnumber of three hundred, grazing on a hill side, all fat black-faced\nsheep with fine long wool, and seated near them, crook in hand, upon\na fragment of rock, they found the person (one of the Caterans\nalready referred to) who was alleged to have stolen them.  He was a\nstrange-looking old fellow, with a long white beard that flowed below\nhis girdle; he was attended by two huge black dogs of fierce and\nrepulsive aspect.  He laughed scornfully when arrested by the\ncorporal, and hollowly the echoes of his laughter rang among the\nrocks, while his giant hounds bayed and erected their bristles, and\ntheir eyes flashed as if emitting sparks of fire.\n\nThe soldiers now surrounded the sheep and drove them down the hill\nside into the glen, from whence they proceeded towards Maryburgh,\nwith a piper playing in front of the flock, for it is known that\nsheep will readily follow the music of the pipe.  The Black Watch\nwere merry with their easy capture, but none in MacPherson's party\nwere so merry as the captured shepherd, whom, for security, the\ncorporal had fettered to the left hand of his brother Samuel; and in\nthis order they proceeded for three miles, until they reached a\nrunning stream; when, lo! the whole of the three hundred fat sheep\nand the black dogs turned into clods of brown earth; and, with a wild\nmocking laugh that seemed to pass away on the wind which swept the\nmountain waste, their shepherd vanished, and no trace of his presence\nremained but the empty ring of the fetters which dangled from the\nleft wrist of Samuel MacPherson, who felt every hair on his head\nbristle under his bonnet with terror and affright.\n\nThis sombre glen was also the abode of the _Daoine Shie_, or Good\nNeighbours, as they are named in the Lowlands; and of this fact the\nwife of the pay-sergeant of Farquhar's own company could bear\nterrible evidence.  These imps are alleged to have a strange love for\nabstracting young girls and women great with child, and leaving in\ntheir places bundles of dry branches or withered reeds in the\nresemblance of the person thus abstracted, but to all appearance dead\nor in a trance; they are also exceeding partial to having their own\nbantlings nursed by human mothers.\n\nThe wife of the sergeant (who was Duncan Campbell of the family of\nDuncaves) was without children, but was ever longing to possess one,\nand had drunk of all the holy wells in the neighbourhood without\nfinding herself much benefited thereby.  On a summer evening when the\ntwilight was lingering on the hills, she was seated at her cottage\ndoor gazing listlessly on the waters of the Eil, which were reddened\nby the last flush of the west, when suddenly a little man and woman\nof strange aspect appeared before her--so suddenly that they seemed\nto have sprung from the ground--and offered her a child to nurse.\nHer husband, the sergeant, was absent on duty at Dumbarton; the poor\nlonely woman had no one to consult, or from whom to seek permission,\nand she at once accepted the charge as one long coveted.\n\n\"Take this pot of ointment,\" said the man, impressively, giving Moina\nCampbell a box made of shells, \"and be careful from time to time to\ntouch the eyelids of our child therewith.\"\n\n\"Accept this purse of money,\" said the woman, giving her a small bag\nof green silk; \"'tis our payment in advance, and anon we will come\nagain.\"\n\nThe quaint little father and mother then each blew a breath upon the\nface of the child and disappeared, or as the sergeant's wife said,\nseemed to melt away into the twilight haze.  The money given by the\nwoman was gold and silver; but Moina knew not its value, for the\ncoins were ancient, and bore the head of King Constantine IV.  The\nchild was a strange, pale and wan little creature, with keen, bright,\nand melancholy eyes; its lean freakish hands were almost transparent,\nand it was ever sad and moaning.  Yet in the care of the sergeant's\nwife it throve bravely, and always after its eyes were touched with\nthe ointment it laughed, crowed, screamed, and exhibited such wild\njoy that it became almost convulsed.\n\nThis occurred so often that Moina felt tempted to apply the ointment\nto her own eyes, when lo! she perceived a group of the dwarfish\nDaoine Shie--little men in trunk hose and sugar-loaf hats, and little\nwomen in hoop petticoats all of a green colour--dancing round her,\nand making grimaces and antic gestures to amuse the child, which to\nher horror she was now convinced was a bantling of the spirits who\ndwelt in Larochmohr!\n\nWhat was she to do?  To offend or seem to fear them was dangerous,\nand though she was now daily tormented by seeing these green imps\nabout her, she affected unconsciousness and seemed to observe them\nnot; but prayed in her heart for her husband's speedy return, and to\nbe relieved of her fairy charge, to whom she faithfully performed her\ntrust, for in time the child grew strong and beautiful; and when,\nagain on a twilight eve, the parents came to claim it, the woman wept\nas it was taken from her, for she had learned to love the little\ncreature, though it belonged neither to heaven nor earth.\n\nSome months after, Moina Campbell, more lonely now than ever, was\npassing through Larochmohr, when suddenly within the circle of a\nlarge green fairy ring, she saw thousands, yea myriads of little imps\nin green trunk hose and with sugar-loaf hats, dancing and making\nmerry, and amid them were the child she had nursed and its parents\nalso, and in terror and distress she addressed herself to them.\n\nThe tiny voices within the charmed circle were hushed in an instant,\nand all the little men and women became filled with anger.  Their\nlittle faces grew red, and their little eyes flashed fire.\n\n\"How do _you_ see us?\" demanded the father of the fairy child,\nthrusting his little conical hat fiercely over his right eye.\n\n\"Did I not nurse your child, my friend?\" said Moina, trembling.\n\n\"But how do you _see us_?\" screamed a thousand little voices.\n\nMoina trembled, and was silent.\n\n\"Oho!\" exclaimed all the tiny voices, like a breeze of wind, \"she has\nbeen using our ointment, the insolent mortal!\"\n\n\"I can alter that,\" said one fairy man (who being three feet high was\na giant among his fellows), as he blew upward in her face, and in an\ninstant all the green multitude vanished from her sight; she saw only\nthe fairy ring and the green bare sides of the silent glen.  Of all\nthe myriads she had seen, not one was visible now.*\n\n\n* This, and the two legends which follow, were related to me by a\nHighlander, who asserted, with the utmost good faith, that they\nhappened in Glendochart; but I have since seen an Arabian tale, which\nsomewhat resembles the adventure of the sergeant's wife.\n\n\n\"Fear not, Moina,\" cried a little voice from the hill side, \"for your\nhusband will prosper.\"  It was the fairy child who spoke.\n\n\"But his fate will follow him,\" added another voice, angrily.\n\nFull of fear the poor woman returned to her cottage, from which, to\nher astonishment, she had been absent ten days and nights; but she\nsaw her husband no more: in the meantime he had embarked for a\nforeign land, being gazetted to on ensigncy; thus so far the fairy\npromise of his prospering proved true.*\n\n\n* His \"fate\" would seem to have followed him, too; for he was killed\nat Ticonderoga, when captain-lieutenant of the Black Watch.--See\n_Stewart's Sketches_.\n\n\nAnother story flitted through Farquhar's mind, and troubled him quite\nas much as its predecessors.  In a shieling here a friend of his,\nwhen hunting, one night sought shelter.  Finding a fire already\nlighted therein he became alarmed, and clambering into the roof sat\nupon the cross rafters to wait the event, and ere long there entered\na little old man two feet in height.  His head, hands, and feet were\nenormously large for the size of his person; his nose was long,\ncrooked, and of a scarlet hue; his eyes brilliant as diamonds, and\nthey glared in the light of the fire.  He took from his back a bundle\nof reeds, and tying them together, proceeded to blow upon them from\nhis huge mouth and distended cheeks, and as he blew, a skin crept\nover the dry bundle, which gradually began to assume the appearance\nof a human face and form.\n\nThese proceedings were more than the huntsman on his perch above\ncould endure, and filled by dread that the process below might end in\na troublesome likeness of himself, he dropped a sixpence into his\npistol (for everything evil is proof to lead) and fired straight at\nthe huge head of the spirit or gnome, which vanished with a shriek,\ntearing away in his wrath and flight the whole of the turf wall on\none side of the shieling, which was thus in a moment reduced to ruin.\n\nThese memories, and a thousand others of spectral Druids and tall\nghastly warriors, through whose thin forms the twinkling stars would\nshine (but these orbs were hidden now) as they hovered by grey cairns\nand the grassy graves of old, crowded on the mind of Farquhar; for\nthere were then, and even now are, more ghosts, devils, and\nhobgoblins in the Scottish Highlands than ever were laid of yore in\nthe Red Sea.  Nor need we be surprised at this superstition in the\nearly days of the Black Watch, when Dr. Henry tells us, in 1831, that\nwithin the last twenty years, when a couple agreed to marry in\nOrkney, they went to the Temple of the Moon, which was semicircular,\nand there, on her knees, the woman solemnly invoked the spirit of\nWoden!\n\nFarquhar, as he strode on, comforted himself with the reflection that\nthose who are born at night--as his mother had a hundred times told\nhim he had been--_never saw spirits_; so he took a good dram from his\nhunting-flask, and belted his plaid tighter about him, after making a\nsign of the cross three times, as a protection against all the\ndiablerie of the district, but chiefly against a certain malignant\nfiend or spirit, who was wont to howl at night among the rocks of\nLarochmohr, to hurl storms of snow into the deep vale of\nCorriehoilzie, and toss huge blocks of granite into the deep blue\nwaters of Loch Leven.  He shouted on Bran, whistled the march of the\nBlack Watch, \"to keep his spirits cheery,\" and pushed on his way up\nthe mountains, while the broad rain drops of a coming tempest plashed\nheavily in his face.\n\nHe looked up to the \"Hill of Heaven.\"  The night clouds were\ngathering round its awful summit, wheeling, eddying, and floating in\nwhirlwinds from the dark chasms of rock that yawn in its sides.  The\ngrowling of the thunder among the riven peaks of granite overhead\nannounced that a tempest was at hand; but though Farquhar Shaw had\ncome of a brave and adventurous race, and feared nothing earthly, he\ncould not repress a shudder lest the mournful gusts of the rising\nwind might bear with them the cry of the Tar' Uisc, the terrible\nWater Bull, or the shrieks of the spirit of the storm!\n\nThe lonely man continued to toil up that wilderness till he reached\nthe shoulder of the mountain, where, on his right, opened the black\nnarrow gorge, in the deep bosom of which lay Loch Leven, and, on his\nleft, opened the glens that led towards Loch Treig, the haunt of Damn\nmohr a Vonalia, or Enchanted Stag, which was alleged to live for\never, and be proof to mortal weapons; and now, like a tornado of the\ntropics, the storm burst forth in all its fury!\n\nThe wind seemed to shriek around the mountain summits and to bellow\nin the gorges below, while the thunder hurtled across the sky, and\nthe lightning, green and ghastly, flashed about the rocks of Loch\nLeven, shedding, ever and anon, for an instant, a sudden gleam upon\nits narrow stripe of water, and on the brawling torrents that roared\ndown the mountain sides, and were swelling fast to floods, as the\nrain, which had long been falling on the frozen summit of Ben Nevis,\nnow descended in a broad and blinding torrent that was swept by the\nstormy wind over hill and over valley.  As Farquhar staggered on, a\ngleam of lightning revealed to him a little turf shieling under the\nbrow of a pine-covered rock, and making a vigorous effort to\nwithstand the roaring wind, which tore over the bare waste with all\nthe force and might of a solid and palpable body, he reached it on\nhis hands and knees.  After securing the rude door, which was\ncomposed of three cross bars, he flung himself on the earthen floor\nof the hut, breathless and exhausted, while Bran, his dog, as if awed\nby the elemental war without, crept close beside him.\n\nAs Farquhar's thoughts reverted to all that he had heard of the\ndistrict, he felt all a Highlander's native horror of remaining in\nthe _dark_ in a place so weird and wild; and on finding near him a\nquantity of dry wood--bog-pine and oak, stored up, doubtless, by some\nthrifty and provident shepherd--he produced his flint and tinder-box,\nstruck a light, and, with all the readiness of a soldier and\nhuntsman, kindled a fire in a corner of the shieling, being\ndetermined that if it was the place where, about \"the hour when\nchurchyards yawn and graves give up their dead,\" the brownies were\nalleged to assemble, they should not come upon him unseen or unawares.\n\nHaving a venison steak in his havresack, he placed it on the embers\nto broil, heaped fresh fuel on his fire, and drawing his plaid round\nBran and himself, wearied by the toil of his journey on foot in such\na night, and over such a country, he gradually dropped asleep,\nheedless alike of the storm which raved and bellowed in the dark\nglens below, and round the bare scalps of the vast mountain whose\nmighty shadows, when falling eastward at eve, darken even the Great\nGlen of Albyn.\n\nIn his sleep, the thoughts of Farquhar Shaw wandered to his comrades,\nthen at the Birks of Aberfeldy.  He dreamt that a long time--how long\nhe knew not--had elapsed since he had been in their ranks; but he saw\nthe Laird of Finab, his captain, surveying him with a gloomy brow,\nwhile the faces of friends and comrades were averted from him.\n\n\"Why is this--how is this?\" he demanded.\n\nThen he was told that the Reicudan Dhu were disgraced by the\ndesertion of three of its soldiers, who, on that day, were to die,\nand the regiment was paraded to witness their fate.  The scene with\nall its solemnity and all its terrors grew vividly before him; he\nheard the lamenting wail of the pipe as the three doomed men marched\nslowly past, each behind his black coffin, and the scene of this\ncatastrophe was far, far away, he knew not where; but it seemed to be\nin a strange country, and then the scene, the sights, and the voices\nof the people, were foreign to him.  In the background, above the\nglittering bayonets and blue bonnets of the Black Watch, rose a lofty\ncastle of foreign aspect, having a square keep or tower, with four\nturrets, the vanes of which were shining in the early morning sun.\nIn his ears floated the drowsy hum of a vast and increasing multitude.\n\nFarquhar trembled in every limb as the doomed men passed so near him\nthat he could see their breasts heave as they breathed; but their\nfaces were concealed from him, for each had his head muffled in his\nplaid, according to the old Highland fashion, when imploring mercy or\nquarter.\n\nLots were cast with great solemnity for the firing party or\nexecutioners, and, to his horror, Farquhar found himself one of the\ntwelve men chosen for this, to every soldier, most obnoxious duty!\n\nWhen the time came for firing, and the three unfortunates were\nkneeling opposite, each within his coffin, and each with his head\nmuffled in a plaid, Farquhar mentally resolved to close his eyes and\nfire at random against the wall of the castle opposite; but some\nmysterious and irresistible impulse compelled him to look for a\nmoment, and lo! the plaid had fallen from the face of one of the\ndoomed men, and, to his horror, the dreamer beheld _himself_!\n\nHis own face was before him, but ghastly and pale, and his own eyes\nseemed to be glaring back upon him with affright, while their aspect\nwas wild, sad, and haggard.  The musket dropped from his hand, a\nweakness seemed to overspread his limbs, and writhing in agony at the\nterrible sight, while a cold perspiration rolled in bead-drops over\nhis clammy brow, the dreamer started, and awoke, when a terrible\nvoice, low but distinct, muttered in his ear--\n\n\"Farquhar Shaw, bithidth duil ri fear feachd, ach cha bhi duil ri\nfear lic!\"*\n\n\n* A man may return from an expedition; but there is no hope that he\nmay return from the grave.--_A Gaelic Proverb_.\n\n\nHe leaped to his feet with a cry of terror, and found that he was\n_not_ alone, as a little old woman was crouching near the embers of\nhis fire, while Bran, his eyes glaring, his bristles erect, was\ngrowling at her with a fierce angry sound, that rivalled the\nbellowing of the storm, which still continued to rave without.\n\nThe aspect of this hag was strange.  In the light of the fire which\nbrightened occasionally as the wind swept through the crannies of the\nshieling, her eyes glittered, or rather glared like fiery sparks; her\nnose was hooked and sharp; her mouth like an ugly gash; her hue was\nlivid and pale.  Her outward attire was a species of yellow mantle,\nwhich enveloped her whole form; and her hands, which played or\ntwisted nervously in the generous warmth of the glowing embers,\nresembled a bundle of freakish knots, or the talons of an aged bird.\nShe muttered to herself at times, and after turning her terrible red\neyes twice or thrice covertly and wickedly towards Farquhar, she\nsuddenly snatched the venison steak from amid the flames, and, with a\nchuckle of satisfaction, devoured it steaming hot, and covered as it\nwas with burning cinders.\n\nOn Farquhar secretly making a sign of the cross, when beholding this\nstrange proceeding, she turned sharply with a savage expression\ntowards him, and rose to her full stature, which was not more than\nthree feet; and he felt, he knew not why, his heart tremble; for his\nspirit was already perturbed by the effect of his terrible dream, and\nclutching the steel collar of Bran (who was preparing to spring at\nthis strange visitor, and seemed to like her aspect as little as his\nmaster) he said--\n\n\"Woman, who are you?\"\n\n\"A traveller like yourself, perhaps.  But who are _you_?\" she asked\nin a croaking voice.\n\n\"Do you know our proverb in Lochaber--\n\n  What sent the messengers to hell,\n  But asking what they knew full well?\"\n\nwas the reply of Farquhar, as he made a vigorous effort to restrain\nBran, whose growls and fury were fast becoming quite appalling; and\nat this proverb the eyes of the hag seemed to blaze with fresh anger,\nwhile her figure became more than ever erect.\n\n\"Oich! oich!\" grumbled Farquhar, \"I would as readily have had the\ndevil as this ugly hag.  I have got a shelter, certainly; but with\nher 'tis out of the cauldron and into the fire.  Had she been a\nbrown-eyed lass, to a share of my plaid she had been welcome; but\nthis wrinkled cailloch----down, Bran, down!\" he added aloud, as the\nstrong hound strained in his collar, and tasked his master's hand and\narm to keep him from springing at the intruder.\n\n\"Is this kind or manly of you,\" she asked, \"to keep a wild brute that\nbehaves thus, and to a woman too?  Turn him out into the storm; the\nwind and rain will soon cool his wicked blood.\"\n\n\"Thank you; but in that you must excuse me.  Bran and I are as\nbrothers.\"\n\n\"Turn him out, I say,\" screamed the hag, \"or worse may befall him!\"\n\n\"I shall not turn him out, woman,\" said Farquhar, firmly, while\nsurveying the stranger with some uneasiness; for, to his startled\ngaze, she seemed to have grown _taller_ within the last five minutes.\n\"You have a share of our shelter, and you have had all our supper;\nbut to turn out poor Bran--no, no, that would never do.\"\n\nTo this Bran added a roar of rage, and the fear or fury which blazed\nin the eyes of the woman fully responded to those, of the now\ninfuriated staghound.  The glances of each made those of the other\nmore and more fierce.\n\n\"Down, Bran; down, I say,\" said Farquhar.  \"What the devil hath\npossessed the dog?  I never saw him behave thus before.  He must be\nsavage, mother, that you left him none of the savoury venison steak;\nfor all the supper we had was that road-collop from one of\nMacGillony's brown cattle.\"\n\n\"MacGillony,\" muttered the hag, spreading her talon-like hands over\nthe embers; \"I knew him well.\"\n\n\"You!\" exclaimed Farquhar.\n\n\"I have said so,\" she replied with a grin.\n\n\"He was a mighty hunter five hundred years ago, who lived and died on\nthe Grampians!\"\n\n\"And what are five hundred years, to me, who saw the waters of the\ndeluge pour through Corriehoilzie, and subside from the slope of Ben\nNevis?\"\n\n\"This is a very good joke, mother,\" said poor Farquhar, attempting to\nlaugh, while the hideous old woman, who was so small when he first\nsaw her as to be almost a dwarf, was now, palpably, veritably, and\nwithout doubt, nearly a head taller than himself; and watchfully he\ncontinued to gaze on her, keeping one hand on his dirk and the other\non the collar of Bran, whose growls were louder now than the storm\nthat careered through the rocky glen below.\n\n\"Woman!\" said Farquhar, boldly, \"my mind misgives me--there is\nsomething about you that I little like; I have just had a dreadful\ndream.\"\n\n\"A morning dream, too!\" chuckled the hag with an elfish grin.\n\n\"So I connect your presence here with it.\"\n\n\"Be it so.\"\n\n\"What may that terrible dream foretell?\" pondered Farquhar; \"for\nmorning dreams are but warnings and presages unsolved.  The blessings\nof God and all his saints be about me!\"\n\nAt these words the beldame uttered a loud laugh.\n\n\"You are, I presume, a Protestant?\" said Farquhar, uneasily.\n\nAt this suggestion she laughed louder still, but seemed to grow more\nand more in stature, till Farquhar became well-nigh sick at heart\nwith astonishment and fear, and began to revolve in his mind the\npossibility of reaching the door of the shieling and rushing out into\nthe storm, there to commit himself to Providence and the elements.\nBesides, as her stature grew, her eyes waxed redder and brighter, and\nher malevolent hilarity increased.\n\nIt was a fiend, a demon of the wild, by whom he was now visited and\ntormented in that sequestered hut.\n\nHis heart sank, and as her terrible eyes seemed to glare upon him,\nand pierce his very soul, a cold perspiration burst over all his\nperson.\n\n\"Why do you grasp your dirk, Farquhar--ha! ha!\" she asked.\n\n\"For the same reason that I hold Bran--to be ready.  Am I not one of\nthe King's Reicudan Dhu?  But how know you my name?\"\n\n\"'Tis a trifle to me, who knew MacGillony.\"\n\n\"From whence came you to-night?\"\n\n\"From the Isle of Wolves,\" she replied, with a shout of laughter.\n\n\"A story as likely as the rest,\" said Farquhar, \"for that isle is in\nthe Western sea, near unto Coll, the country of the Clan Gillian.\nYou must travel fast.\"\n\n\"Those usually do who travel on the skirts of the wind.\"\n\n\"Woman!\" exclaimed Farquhar, leaping up with an emotion of terror\nwhich he could no longer control, for her stature now overtopped his\nown, and ere long her hideous head would touch the rafters of the\nhut; \"thou art either a liar or a fiend! which shall I deem thee?\"\n\n\"Whichever pleases you most,\" she replied, starting to her feet.\n\n\"Bran, to the proof!\" cried Farquhar, drawing his dirk, and preparing\nto let slip the now maddened hound; \"at her, Bran, and hold her down.\nGood, dog--brave dog! oich, he has a slippery handful that grasps an\neel by the tail! at her, Bran, for thou art strong as Cuchullin.\"\n\nUttering a roar of rage, the savage dog made a wild bound at the hag,\nwho, with a yell of spite and defiance, and with a wondrous activity,\nby one spring, left the shieling, and dashing the frail door to\nfragments in her passage, rushed out into the dark and tempestuous\nnight, pursued by the infuriated but baffled Bran--baffled now,\nthough the fleetest hound on the Braes of Lochaber.\n\nThey vanished together in the obscurity, while Farquhar gazed from\nthe door breathless and terrified.  The storm still howled in the\nvalley, where the darkness was opaque and dense, save when a solitary\ngleam of lightning flashed on the ghastly rocks and narrow defile of\nLoch Leven; and the roar of the bellowing wind as it tore through the\nrocky gorges and deep granite chasms, had in its sound something more\nthan usually terrific.  But, hark! other sounds came upon the skirts\nof that hurrying storm.\n\nThe shrieks of a fiend, if they could be termed so;--for they were\nshrill and high, like cries of pain and laughter mingled.  Then came\nthe loud deep baying, with the yells of a dog, as if in rage and\npain, while a thousand sparks, like those of a rocket, glittered for\na moment in the blackness of the glen below.  The heart of Farquhar\nShaw seemed to stand still for a time, while, dirk in hand, he\ncontinued to peer into the dense obscurity.  Again came the cries of\nBran, but nearer and nearer now; and in an instant more, the noble\nhound sprang, with a loud whine, to his master's side, and sank at\nhis feet.  It was Bran, the fleet, the strong, the faithful and the\nbrave; but in what a condition!  Torn, lacerated, covered with blood\nand frightful wounds--disembowelled and dying; for the poor animal\nhad only strength to loll out his hot tongue in an attempt to lick\nhis master's hand before he expired.\n\n\"Mother Mary,\" said Farquhar, taking off his bonnet, inspired with\nhorror and religious awe, \"keep thy blessed hand over me, for my dog\nhas fought with a demon!\" ......\n\nIt may be imagined how Farquhar passed the remainder of that\nmorning--sleepless and full of terrible thoughts, for the palpable\nmemory of his dream, and the episode which followed it, were food\nenough for reflection.\n\nWith dawn, the storm subsided.  The sun arose in a cloudless sky; the\nblue mists were wreathed round the brows of Ben Nevis, and a\nbeautiful rainbow seemed to spring from the side of the mountain far\nbeyond the waters of Loch Leven; the dun deer were cropping the wet\nglistening herbage among the grey rocks; the little birds sang early,\nand the proud eagle and ferocious gled were soaring towards the\nrising sun; thus all nature gave promise of a serene summer day.\n\nWith his dirk, Farquhar dug a grave for Bran, and lined it with soft\nand fragrant heather, and there he covered him up and piled a cairn,\nat which he gave many a sad and backward glance (for it marked where\na faithful friend and companion lay) as he ascended the huge\nmountains of rock, which, on one hand, led to the _Uisc Dhu_, or Vale\nof the Black Water, and on the other, by the tremendous steep named\nthe Devil's Staircase, to the mouth of Glencoe.\n\nIn due time he reached the regiment at its cantonments on the Birks\nof Aberfeldy, where the independent companies, for the first time\nwere exercised as a battalion by their Lieutenant-Colonel, Sir Robert\nMunro of Culcairn, who, six years afterwards, was slain at the battle\nof Falkirk.\n\nFarquhar's terrible dream and adventure in that Highland wilderness\nwere ever before him, and the events subsequent to the formation of\nthe Black Watch into a battalion, with the excitement produced among\nits soldiers by an unexpected order _to march into England_, served\nto confirm the gloom that preyed upon his spirits.\n\nThe story of how the Black Watch were deceived is well known in the\nHighlands, though it is only one of the many acts of treachery\nperformed in those days by the British Government in their\ntransactions with the people of that country, when seeking to lessen\nthe adherents of the Stuart cause, and ensnare them into regiments\nfor service in distant lands; hence the many dangerous mutinies which\noccurred after the enrolment of all the _old_ Highland corps.\n\nThis unexpected order to march into England caused such a dangerous\nferment in the Black Watch, as being a violation of the principles\nand promise under which it was enrolled, and on which so many\nHighland gentlemen of good family enlisted in its ranks, that the\nLord President Duncan Forbes of Culloden, warned General Clayton, the\nScottish Commander-in-Chief, of the evil effects likely to occur if\nthis breach of faith was persisted in; and to prevent the corps from\nrevolting _en masse_, that officer informed the soldiers that they\nwere to enter England \"solely to be seen by King George, who had\nnever seen a Highland soldier, and had been graciously pleased to\nexpress, or feel great curiosity on the subject.\"\n\nCajoled and flattered by this falsehood, the soldiers of the Reicudan\nDhu, _all unaware that shipping was ordered to convey them to\nFlanders_, began their march for England, in the end of March, 1743;\nand if other proof be wanting that they were deluded, the following\nannouncement in the _Caledonian Mercury_ of that year affords it:--\n\n\"On Wednesday last, the Lord Sempills Regiment of Highlanders began\ntheir march for England, _in order to be reviewed by his Majesty_.\"\n\nEverywhere on the march throughout the north of England, they were\nreceived with cordiality and hospitality by the people, to whom their\ngarb, aspect, and equipment were a source of interest, and in return,\nthe gentlemen and soldiers of the Reicudan Dhu behaved to the\nadmiration of their officers and of all magistrates; but as they drew\nnearer to London, according to Major Grose, they were exposed to the\nmalevolent mockery and the national \"taunts of the true-bred English\nclowns, and became gloomy and sullen.  Animated even to the humblest\nprivate with the feelings of gentlemen,\" continues this English\nofficer, \"they could ill brook the rudeness of boors, nor could they\npatiently submit to affronts in a country to which they had been\ncalled by the invitation of their sovereign.\"\n\nOn the 30th April, the regiment reached London, and on the 14th May\nwas reviewed on Finchley Common, by Marshal Wade, before a vast\nconcourse of spectators; but the King, whom they expected to be\npresent, had sailed from Greenwich for Hanover on the same night they\nentered the English metropolis.  Herein they found themselves\ndeceived; for \"the King had told them a lie,\" and the spark thus\nkindled was soon fanned into a flame.\n\nAfter the review at Finchley Common, Farquhar Shaw and Corporal\nMalcolm MacPherson were drinking in a tavern, when three English\ngentlemen entered, and seating themselves at the same table, entered\ninto conversation, by praising the regiment, their garb, their\ncountry, and saying those compliments which are so apt to win the\nheart of a Scotchman when far from home; and the glens of the Gael\nseemed then indeed, far, far away, to the imagination of the simple\nsouls who manned the Black Watch in 1743.\n\nBoth Farquhar and the corporal being gentlemen, wore the wing of the\neagle in their bonnets, and were well educated, and spoke English\nwith tolerable fluency.\n\n\"I would that his Majesty had seen us, however,\" said the corporal;\n\"we have had a long march south from our own country on a bootless\nerrand.\"\n\n\"Can you possibly be so simple as to believe that the King cared a\nrush on the subject?\" asked a gentleman, with an incredulous smile;\nfor he and his companions, like many others who hovered about these\nnew soldiers, were Jacobites and political incendiaries.\n\n\"What mean you, sir?\" demanded MacPherson, with surprise.\n\n\"Why, you simpleton, that story of the King wishing to see you was\nall a tale of a tub--a snare.\"\n\n\"A snare!\"\n\n\"Yea--a pretext of the ministry to lure you to this distance from\nyour own country, and then transport you bodily for life.\"\n\n\"To where?\"\n\n\"Oh, that matters little--perhaps to the American plantations.\"\n\n\"Or, to Botany Bay,\" suggested another, maliciously; \"but take\nanother jorum of brandy, and fear nothing; wherever you go, it can't\nwell be a worse place than your own country.\"\n\n\"Thanks, gentlemen,\" replied Farquhar, loftily, while his hands\nplayed nervously with his dirk; \"we want no more of your brandy.\"\n\n\"Believe me, sirs,\" resumed their informant and tormentor, \"the real\nobject of the ministry is to get as many fighting men, Jacobites and\nso forth, out of the Highlands as possible.  This is merely part of a\nnew system of government.\"\n\n\"Sirs,\" exclaimed Farquhar, drawing his dirk with an air of gravity\nand determination which caused his new friends at once to put the\ntable between him and them, \"will you swear this upon the dirk?\"\n\n\"How--why?\"\n\n\"Upon the Holy Iron--we know no oath more binding,\" continued the\nHighlander, with an expression of quiet entreaty.\n\n\"I'll swear it by the Holy Poker, or anything you please,\" replied\nthe Englishman, re-assured on finding the Celt had no hostile\nintentions.  \"'Tis all a fact,\" he continued, winking to his\ncompanions, \"for so my good friend Phil Yorke, the Lord Chancellor,\nwho expects soon to be Earl of Hardwick, informed me.\"\n\nThe eyes of the corporal flashed with indignation; and Farquhar\nstruck his forehead as the memory of his terrible dream in the\nhaunted glen rushed upon his memory.\n\n\"Oh! yes,\" said a third gentleman, anxious to add his mite to the\ngrowing mischief; \"it is all a Whig plot of which you are the\nvictims, as our kind ministry hope that you will all die off like\nsheep with the rot; or like the Marine Corps; or the Invalids, the\nold 41st, in Jamaica.\"\n\n\"They dare not deceive us!\" exclaimed MacPherson, striking the\nbasket-hilt of his claymore\n\n\"Dare not!\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Indeed--why?\"\n\n\"For in the country of the clans fifty thousand claymores would be on\nthe grindstone to avenge us!\"\n\nA laugh followed this outburst.\n\n\"King George made you rods to scourge your own countrymen, and now,\nas useless rods, you are to be flung into the fire,\" said the first\nspeaker, tauntingly.\n\n\"By God and Mary!\" began MacPherson, again laying a hand on his sword\nwith sombre fury.\n\n\"Peace, Malcolm,\" interposed Farquhar; \"the Saxon is right, and we\nhave been fooled.  Bithidh gach ni mar is aill Dhiu.  (All things\nmust be as God will have them.)  Let us seek the Reicudan Dhu, and\nwoe to the Saxon clowns and to that German churl, their King, if they\nhave deceived us!\"\n\nOn the march back to London, MacPherson and Farquhar Shaw brooded\nover what they had heard at Finchley; while to other members of the\nregiment similar communications had been made, and thus, ere\nnightfall, every soldier of the Black Watch felt assured that he had\nbeen entrapped by a royal falsehood, which the sudden, and to them\nunaccountable, departure of George II. to Hanover seemed beyond all\ndoubt to confirm.\n\n\"In those whom he knows,\" according to General Stewart, \"a Highlander\nwill repose perfect confidence, and if they are his superiors will be\nobedient and respectful; but ere a stranger can obtain this\n_confidence_, he must show that he _merits_ it.  When once it is\ngiven, it is constant and unreserved; but if confidence be lost, no\nman is more suspicious.  Every officer of a Highland regiment, on his\nfirst joining the corps, must have observed in his little\ntransactions with the men how minute and strict they are in every\nitem; but when once confidence is established, scrutiny ceases, and\nhis word or nod of assent is as good as his bond.  In the case in\nquestion (the Black Watch), notwithstanding the arts which were\npractised to mislead the men, they proceeded to no violence, but\nbelieving themselves deceived and betrayed, the only remedy that\noccurred to them was to get back to their own country.\"\n\nThe memory of the commercial ruin at Darien, and of the massacre at\nGlencoe (the Cawnpore of King William), were too fresh in every\nScottish breast not to make the flame of discontent and mistrust\nspread like wildfire; and thus, long before the bell of St. Paul's\nhad tolled the hour of midnight, the conviction that he had been\nBETRAYED was firmly rooted in the mind of every soldier of the Black\nWatch, and measures to baffle those who had deluded and lured them so\nfar from their native mountains were at once proposed, and as quickly\nacted upon.\n\nAt this crisis, the dream of Farquhar was constantly before him, as a\nforeboding of the terrors to come, and he strove to thrust it from\nhim; but the words of that terrible warning--a man may return from an\nexpedition, but never from the grave--seemed ever in his ears!\n\nOn the night after the review, the whole regiment, except its\nofficers, most of whom knew what was on the tapis, assembled at\ntwelve o'clock on a waste common near Highgate.  The whole were in\nheavy marching order; and by direction of Corporal Malcolm\nMacPherson, after carefully priming and loading with ball-cartridge,\nthey commenced their march in silence and secresy and with all speed\nfor Scotland--a wild, daring, and romantic attempt, for they were\nheedless and ignorant of the vast extent of hostile country that lay\nbetween them and their homes, and scarcely know the route to pursue.\nThey had now but three common ideas;--to keep together, to resist to\nthe last, and to march _north_.\n\nWith some skill and penetration they avoided the two great highways,\nand marched by night from wood to wood, concealing themselves by day\nso well, that for some time no one knew how or where they had gone,\nthough, by the Lords Justices orders had been issued to all officers\ncommanding troops between London and the Scottish Borders to overtake\nor intercept them; but the 19th May arrived before tidings reached\nthe metropolis that the Black Watch, one thousand strong, had passed\nNorthampton, and a body of Marshal Wade's Horse (now better known as\nthe 3rd or Prince of Wales's Dragoon Guards) overtook them, when\nfaint by forced and rapid marches, by want of food, of sleep and\nshelter, the unfortunate regiment had entered Ladywood, about four\nmiles from the market town of Oundle-on-the-Nen, and had, as usual,\nconcealed themselves in a spacious thicket, which, by nine o'clock in\nthe evening, was completely environed by strong columns of English\ncavalry under General Blakeney.\n\nCaptain Ball, of Wade's Horse, approached their bivouac in the dusk,\nbearer of a flag of truce, and was received by the poor fellows with\nevery respect, and Farquhar Shaw, as interpreter for his comrades,\nheard his demands, which were, \"that the whole battalion should lay\ndown its arms, and surrender at discretion as mutineers.\"\n\n\"Hitherto we have conducted ourselves quietly and peacefully in the\nland of those who have deluded and wronged us, even as they wronged\nand deluded our forefathers,\" replied Farquhar; \"but it may not be so\nfor one day more.  Look upon us, sir; we are famished, worn, and\ndesperate.  It would move the heart of a stone to know all we have\nsuffered by hunger and by thirst, even in this land of plenty.\"\n\n\"The remedy is easy,\" said the captain.\n\n\"Name it, sir.\"\n\n\"Submit.\"\n\n\"We have no such word in our mother-tongue, then how shall I\ntranslate it to my comrades, so many of whom are gentlemen?\"\n\n\"That is your affair, not mine.  I give you but the terms dictated by\nGeneral Blakeney.\"\n\n\"Let the general send us a written promise.\"\n\n\"Written?\" reiterated the captain, haughtily.\n\n\"By his own hand,\" continued the Highlander, emphatically; \"for here\nin this land of strangers we know not whom to trust when our King has\ndeceived us.\"\n\n\"And to what must the general pledge himself?\"\n\n\"That our arms shall not be taken away, and that a free pardon be\ngiven to all.\"\n\n\"Otherwise----\"\n\n\"We will rather be cut to pieces.\"\n\n\"This is your decision?\"\n\n\"It is,\" replied Farquhar, sternly.\n\n\"Be assured it is a rash one.\"\n\n\"I weigh my words, Saxon, ere I speak them.  No man among us will\nbetray his comrade; we are all for one and one for all in the ranks\nof the Reicudan Dhu!\"\n\nThe captain reported the result of his mission to the general, who,\nbeing well aware that the Highlanders had been entrapped by the\nGovernment on one hand, and inflamed to revolt by Jacobite emissaries\non the other, was humanely willing to temporize with them, and sent\nthe captain to them once more.\n\n\"Surrender yourselves prisoners,\" said Ball; \"lay down your arms, and\nthe general will use all his influence in your favour with the Lords\nJustices.\"\n\n\"We know of no Lords Justices,\" they replied \"We acknowledge no\nauthority but the officers who speak our mother-tongue, and our\nnative chiefs who share our blood.  To be without arms, in our\ncountry, is in itself to be dishonoured.\"\n\n\"Is this still the resolution of your comrades?\" asked Captain Ball.\n\n\"It is, on my honour as a gentleman and soldier,\" replied Farquhar.\n\nThe English captain smiled at these words, for he knew not the men\nwith whom he had to deal.\n\n\"Hitherto, my comrade,\" said he, \"I have been your friend, and the\nfriend of the regiment, and am still anxious to do all I can to save\nyou; but, if you continue in open revolt one hour longer, surrounded\nas you all are by the King's troops, not a man of you can survive the\nattack, and be assured that even I, for one, will give quarter to\nnone!  Consider well my words--you may survive banishment for a time,\nbut from the grave there is no return.\"\n\n\"The words of my dream!\" exclaimed Farquhar, in an agitated tone of\nvoice; \"_Bithidh duil ri fear feachd, ach cha bhi duil ri fear lic_.\nGod and Mary, how come they from the lips of this Saxon captain?\"\n\nThe excitement of the regiment was now so great that Captain Ball\nrequested of Farquhar that two Highlanders should conduct him safely\nfrom the wood.  Two duinewassals of the Clan Chattan, both corporals,\nnamed MacPherson, stepped forward, blew the priming from their pans,\nand accompanied him to the outposts of his own men--the Saxon _Seidar\nDearg_, or Red English soldiers, as the Celts named them.\n\nHere, on parting from them, the good captain renewed his entreaties\nand promises, which so far won the confidence of the corporals, that,\nafter returning to the regiment, the whole body, in consequence of\ntheir statements, agreed to lay down their arms and submit the event\nto Providence and a court-martial of officers, believing implicitly\nin the justice of their cause and the ultimate adherence of the\nGovernment to the letters of local service under which they had\nenlisted.\n\nFarquhar Shaw and the two corporals of the Clan Chattan nobly offered\ntheir own lives as a ransom for the honour and liberties of the\nregiment, but their offer was declined; for so overwhelming was the\nforce against them, that all in the battalion were alike at the mercy\nof the ministry.  On capitulating, they were at once surrounded by\nstrong bodies of horse, foot, and artillery, with their field-pieces\ngrape-shotted; and the most severe measures were faithlessly and\ncruelly resorted to by those in authority and those in whom they\ntrusted.  While, in defiance of all stipulation and treaty with the\nHighlanders, the main body of the regiment was marched under escort\ntowards Kent, to embark for Flanders, two hundred privates, chiefly\ngentlemen or cadets of good family, were selected from its ranks and\nsentenced to banishment, or service for life in Minorca, Georgia, and\nthe Leeward Isles.  The two corporals, Samuel and Malcolm MacPherson,\nwith Farquhar Shaw, were marched back to London, to meet a more\nspeedy, and to men of such spirit as theirs, a more welcome fate.\n\nThe examinations of some of these poor fellows prove how they had\nbeen deluded into service for the Line.\n\n\"I did not desert, sirs,\" said John Stuart, a gentleman of the House\nof Urrard, and private in Campbell of Carrick's company.  \"I repel\nthe insinuation,\" he continued, with pride; \"I wished only to go back\nto my father's roof and to my own glen, because the inhospitable\nSaxon churls abused my country and ridiculed my dress.  We had no\nleader; we placed no man over the rest.\"\n\n\"I am neither a Catholic nor a false Lowland Whig,\" said another\nprivate--Gregor Grant, of the family of Bothiemurchus; \"but I am a\ntrue man, and ready to serve the King, though his actions have proved\nhim a liar!  You have said, sirs, that I am afraid to go to Flanders.\nI am a Highlander, and never yet saw the man I was afraid of.  The\nSaxons told me I was to be transported to the American plantations to\nwork with black slaves.  Such was not our bargain with King George.\nWe were but a Watch to serve along the Highland Border, and to keep\nbroken clans from the Braes of Lochaber.\"\n\n\"We were resolved not to be tricked,\" added Farquhar Shaw.  \"We will\nmeet the French or Spaniards in any land you please; but we will die,\nsirs, rather than go, like Saxon rogues, to hoe sugar in the\nplantations.\"\n\n\"What is your faith?\" asked the president of the court-martial.\n\n\"The faith of my fathers a thousand years before the hateful sound of\nthe Saxon drum was heard upon the Highland Border!\"\n\n\"You mean that you have lived----\"\n\n\"As, please God and the Blessed Mary, I shall die--a Catholic and a\nHighland gentleman; stooping to none and fearing none----\"\n\n\"_None_, say you?\"\n\n\"Save Him who sits upon the right hand of His Father in Heaven.\"\n\nAs Farquhar said this with solemn energy, all the prisoners took off\ntheir bonnets and bowed their heads with a religious reverence which\ndeeply impressed the court, but failed to save them.\n\nOn the march to the Tower of London, Farquhar was the most resolute\nand composed of his companions in fetters and misfortune; but on\ncoming in sight of that ancient fortress, his firmness forsook him,\nthe blood rushed back upon his heart, and he became deadly pale; for\nin a moment he recognised the castle of his strange dream--the castle\nhaving a square tower, with four vanes and turrets--and then the\nwhole scene of his foreboding vision, when far away in lone Lochaber,\ncame again upon his memory, while the voice of the warning spirit\nhovered again in his eat, and he knew that the hour of his end was\npursuing him!\n\nAnd now, amid crowds of country clowns and a rabble from the lowest\npurlieus of London, who mocked and reviled them, the poor Highlanders\nwere marched through the streets of that mighty metropolis (to them,\nwho had been reared in the mountain solitudes of the Ga\u00ebl, a place of\ncountless wonders!) and were thrust into the Tower as prisoners under\nsentence.\n\nEarly on the morning of the 12th July, 1743, when the sun was yet\nbelow the dim horizon, and a frowsy fog that lingered on the river\nwas mingling with the city's smoke to spread a gloom over the\nmidsummer morning, all London seemed to be pouring from her many\navenues towards Tower Hill, where an episode of no ordinary interest\nwas promised to the sight-loving Cockneys--a veritable military\nexecution, with all its stern terrors and grim solemnity.\n\nAll the troops in London were under arms, and long before daybreak\nhad taken possession of an ample space enclosing Tower Hill; and\nthere, conspicuous above all by their high and absurd sugar-loaf\ncaps, were the brilliantly accoutred English and Scots Horse\nGrenadier Guards, the former under Viscount Cobham, and the latter\nunder Lieutenant-General John Earl of Rothes, K.T., and Governor of\nDuncannon; the Coldstream Guards; the Scots Fusiliers; and a sombre\nmass in the Highland garb of dark-green tartan, whom they surrounded\nwith fixed bayonets.\n\nThese last were the two hundred men of the Reicudan Dhu selected for\nbanishment, previous to which they were compelled to behold the\ndeath, or--as they justly deemed it--the deliberate murder under\ntrust, of three brave gentlemen, their comrades.\n\nThe gates of the Tower revolved, and then the craped and muffled\ndrums of the Scots Fusilier Guards were heard beating a dead march\nbefore those who were \"to return to Lochaber no more.\"  Between two\nlines of Yeomen of the Guard, who faced inwards, the three prisoners\ncame slowly forth, surrounded by an escort with fixed bayonets, each\ndoomed man marching behind his coffin, which was borne on the\nshoulders of four soldiers.  On approaching the parade, each politely\nraised his bonnet and bowed to the assembled multitude.\n\n\"Courage, gentlemen,\" said Farquhar Shaw; \"I see no gallows here.  I\nthank God we shall not die a dog's death!\"\n\n\"'Tis well,\" replied MacPherson, \"for honour is more precious than\nrefined gold.\"\n\nThe murmur of the multitude gradually subsided and died away, like a\nbreeze that passes through a forest, leaving it silent and still, and\nthen not a sound was heard but the baleful rolling of the muffled\ndrums and the shrill but sweet cadence of the fifes.  Then came the\nword, _Halt!_ breaking sharply the silence of the crowded arena, and\nthe hollow sound of the three empty coffins, as they were laid on the\nground, at the distance of thirty paces from the firing party.\n\nNow the elder brother patted the shoulder of the other, as he smiled\nand said---\n\n\"Courage--a little time and all will be over--our spirits shall be\nwith those of our brave forefathers.\"\n\n\"No coronach will be cried over us here, and no cairn will mark in\nother times where we sleep in the land of the stranger.\"\n\n\"Brother,\" replied the other, in the same forcible language, \"we can\nwell spare alike the coronach and the cairn, when to our kinsmen we\ncan bequeath the dear task of avenging us!\"\n\n\"If that bequest be valued, then we shall not die in vain.\"\n\nOnce again they all raised their bonnets and uttered a pious\ninvocation; for now the sun was up, and in the Highland fashion--a\nfashion old as the days of Baal--they greeted him.\n\n\"Are you ready?\" asked the provost-marshal.\n\n\"All ready,\" replied Farquhar; \"_moch-eirigh 'luain, a ni'n t-suain\n'mhairt._\"*\n\n\n* Early rising on Monday gives a sound sleep on Tuesday.--see\nMacIntosh's _Gaelic Proverbs_.\n\n\nThis, to them, fatal 12th of July Was a _Monday_; so the proverb was\nsolemnly applicable.\n\nWan, pale, and careworn they looked, but their eyes were bright,\ntheir steps steady, their bearing erect and dignified.  They felt\nthemselves victims and martyrs, whose fate would find a terrible echo\nin the Scottish Highlands; and need I add, that echo _was heard_,\nwhen two years afterwards Prince Charles unfurled his standard in\nGlenfinnan?  Thus inspired by pride of birth, of character, and of\ncountry--by inborn bravery and conscious innocence, at this awful\ncrisis, they gazed around them without quailing, and exhibited a\nself-possession which excited the pity and admiration of all who\nbeheld them.\n\nThe clock struck the fatal hour at last!\n\n\"It is my doom,\" exclaimed Farquhar; \"the hour of my end hath\nfollowed me.\"\n\nThey all embraced each other, and declined having their eyes bound\nup, but stood boldly, each at the foot of his coffin, confronting the\nlevelled muskets of thirty privates of the Grenadier Guards, and they\ndied like the brave men they had lived.  One brief paragraph in _St.\nJames's Chronicle_ thus records their fate.\n\n\"On Monday, the 12th, at six o'clock in the morning, Samuel and\nMalcolm MacPherson, corporals, and Farquhar Shaw, a private-man,\nthree of the Highland deserters, were shot upon the parade of the\nTower pursuant to the sentence of the court martial.  The rest of the\nHighland prisoners were drawn out to see the execution, and joined in\ntheir prayers with great earnestness.  They behaved with perfect\nresolution and propriety.  Their bodies were put into three coffins\nby three of the prisoners, their clansmen and namesakes, and buried\nin one grave, near the place of execution.\"\n\nSuch is the matter-of-fact record of a terrible fate!\n\nTo the slaughter of these soldiers, and the wicked breach of faith\nperpetrated by the Government, may be traced much of that distrust\nwhich characterized the Seaforth Highlanders and other clan regiments\nin their mutinies and revolts in later years; and nothing inspired\ngreater hatred in the hearts of those who \"rose\" for Prince Charles\nin 1745, than the story of the deception and _murder_ (for so they\nnamed it) of the three soldiers of the Reicudan Dhu by King George at\nLondon.  \"There must have been something more than common in the case\nand character of these unfortunate men,\" to quote the good and\ngallant old General Stewart of Garth, \"as Lord John Murray, who was\nafterwards colonel of the regiment, had portraits of them hung in his\ndining-room.\"\n\nThis was the first episode in the history of the Black Watch, which\nsoon after covered itself with glory by the fury of its charge at\nFontenoy, and on the field of Dettingen exulted that among the dead\nwho lay there was General Clayton, \"the Sassenach\" whose specious\nstory first lured them from the Birks of Aberfeldy.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nTHE SEVEN GRENADIERS.\n\n\"As the regiment expects to be engaged with the enemy to-morrow, the\nwomen and baggage will be sent to the rear.  For this duty, Ensign\nJames Campbell, of Glenfalloch.\"\n\nSuch was the order which was circulated in the camp of the 42nd\nHighlanders (then known as the Black Watch) on the evening of the\n28th April, 1745, previous to the Duke of Cumberland's attack on the\nFrench outposts in front of Fontenoy.  Our battalion (writes one of\nour old officers) was to form the advanced guard on this occasion,\nand had been ordered to the village of Veson, where a bivouac was\nformed, while Ensign Campbell, of Glenfalloch, the same who was\nafterwards wounded at Fontenoy, marched the baggage, with all the\nsorrowing women of the corps, beyond Maulpr\u00e9, as our operations were\nfor the purpose of relieving Tournay, then besieged by a powerful\nFrench army under Marshal Count de Saxe, and valiantly defended by\neight thousand Dutchmen under the veteran Baron Dorth.  It was the\nwill of Heaven in those days that we should fight for none but the\nDutch and Hanoverians.\n\nI had been appointed captain-lieutenant to the Black Watch from the\nold 26th, or Angus's Foot, and having overtaken the corps on its\nmarch between the gloomy old town of Liege and the barrier fortress\nof Maestricht, the aspect and bearing of the Highlanders--we had then\nonly one regiment of them in the service--seemed new and strange,\neven barbaric to my eyes; for, as a Lowlander, I had been ever\naccustomed to associate the tartan with fierce rapine and armed\ninsurrection.  Yet their bearing was stately, free, and noble; for\nour ranks were filled by the sons of Highland gentlemen, and of these\nthe most distinguished for stature, strength, and bravery were the\nseven sons of Captain Maclean, a cadet of the house of Duairt, who\nled our grenadiers.  The very flower of these were the seven tall\nMacleans, who, since the regiment had been _first_ mustered at the\nbeautiful Birks of Aberfeldy, in May, 1740, had shone foremost in\nevery encounter with the enemy.\n\nCaptain Campbell, of Finab, and I seated ourselves beside the Celtic\npatriarch who commanded our grenadier company, and near him were his\nseven sons lounging on the grass, all tall and muscular men, bearded\nto the eyes, athletic, and weather-beaten by hunting and fighting in\nthe Highlands, and inured alike to danger and to toil.  Though\ngentlemen volunteers, they wore the uniform of the privates, a\nlooped-up scarlet jacket and waistcoat faced with buff and laced with\nwhite,* a tartan plaid of twelve yards plaited round the body and\nthrown over the left shoulder; a flat blue bonnet with the\nfesse-chequ\u00e9 of the house of Stuart round it, and an eagle's feather\ntherein, to indicate the wearer's birth.  The whole regiment carried\nclaymores in addition to their muskets, and to these weapons every\nsoldier added, if he chose, a dirk, skene, pair of pistols, and\ntarget; in the fashion of the Highlands; thus our front rank men were\nusually as fully equipped as any that stepped on the muir of\nCulloden.  Our sword-belts were black, and the cartouch-box was slung\nin front by a waist-belt.  In addition to all this warlike\nparaphernalia, our grenadiers carried each a hatchet and pouch of\nhand-grenades.  The servicelike, formidable, and _cap-\u00e0-pie_ aspect\nof the regiment had impressed me deeply; but Captain Maclean and his\nseven sons more than all, as they lay grouped near the watchfire, in\nthe red light of which their bearded visages, keen eyes, and\nburnished weapons were glinting and glowing.\n\n\n* The regiment was not made royal until 1768.\n\n\nThe beard of old Maclean was white as snow, and flowed over his\ntartan plaid and scarlet waistcoat, imparting to his appearance a\ngreater peculiarity, as all gentlemen were then closely shaven.  As\nFinab and I seated ourselves by his fire, he raised his bonnet and\nbade us welcome with a courtly air, which consorted ill with his\nsharp west Highland accent.  His eye was clear and bold in\nexpression, his voice was commanding and loud, as in one whose will\nhad never been disputed.  Close by was his inseparable henchman and\nfoster-brother Ronald MacAra, the colour-sergeant of his company, an\naged Celt of grim presence and gigantic proportions, whose face had\nbeen nearly cloven by a blow from a Lochaber axe at the battle of\nDunblane.\n\n\"Welcome, gentlemen,\" said old Maclean, \"a hundred thousand welcomes\nto a share of our supper, a savoury _road collop_, as we call it at\nhome.  It was a fine fat sheep that my son Dougal found astray in a\nfield near Maulpr\u00e9; and here is a braw little demijohn of Belgian\nwine, which Alaster borrowed from a boor close by.  These other five\nlads are also my sons, Dunacha, Deors, Findlay Bane, Farquhar Gorm,\nand Angus Dhu, all grenadiers in the King's service, and hoping each\none to be like myself a captain and to cock their feathers among the\nbest in the Black Watch.  Attend to our comrades, my braw lads.\"\n\nThe _lads_, the least of whom was six feet in height, assisted us to\na share of the sheep, which was broiling merrily on the glowing\nembers, and from which their comrades, who crowded round, partook\nfreely, cutting off the slices, as they sputtered and browned, by\ntheir long dirks and sharp skenes.  The seven grenadiers were all\nfine and hearty fellows, who trundled Alaster's demijohn of wine from\nhand to hand round the red roaring fire, on which the grim henchman\nor colour-sergeant heaped up, from time to time, the doors and\nrafters of an adjacent house, and there we continued to carouse,\nsing, and tell stories, until the night was far advanced.\n\nThe month was April, and the night was a glorious one; all our\nbivouac was visible as if at noonday.  The hum of voices, the scrap\nof a song, a careless laugh, the neigh of a horse, or the jangle of a\nbridle alone broke the silence of the moonlit sky; though at times we\nheard the murmur of a stream that stole towards the Scheldt, like a\nsilver current through the fields of sprouting corn, and under banks\nwhere the purple foxglove, the pink wild rose, and the green bramble\nhung in heavy masses.\n\nAnd could aught be more picturesque than our Highland bivouac,\nlighted up by wavering watchfires and the brilliant queen of\nnight--the Celtic soldiers muffled in their dark-green plaids, their\nrough bare knees, hardy as the stems of the mountain pine, and alike\nimpervious to the summer heat and winter cold, lying asleep upon\ntheir \"umbered arms,\" or seated in groups, singing old songs, or\ntelling wild stories of those distant glens from which, as _Seidaran\nDearg_ or \"Red Soldiers,\" the chances of the Belgian war had brought\nthem here.\n\nI was delighted with the old chief and his sons--they were so free\nand gay in manner, so frank and bold in bearing, while there was\nsomething alike noble and patriarchal in the circumstance of their\nstately old father leading a company of brave hearts, nearly all of\nwhom were men of his own name and kindred.  The fire had been freshly\nheaped with billets and fagots, the demijohn still bled freely; we\nhad just concluded a merry chorus, which made the Uhlan videttes on\nthe distant plain prick up their ears and listen, and we had reached\nthat jovial point when a little wit goes a very long way, when\nSergeant Ronald MacAra, the old henchman, approached Captain Maclean,\nand placing a hand upon his shoulder with that kind but respectful\nfamiliarity which his relation as a foster-brother sanctioned, said\nwith impressive solemnity--\n\n\"For the love of the blessed God, see that ye do not fight the\nstranger to-morrow with your stomach fasting.\"\n\nThe ruddy face of the old soldier grew pale.\n\n\"No, Ronald,\" said he; \"our race has already paid dear for neglecting\nthat strange warning.\"\n\n\"God and Mary forbid!\" muttered two of his sons, crossing themselves\ndevoutly.\n\n\"Keep something for me in your havresack, Ronald,\" said the captain,\n\"and call me before the drums beat for marching; keep something for\nthe laddies, too--for the Lord forfend that ever son of mine should\ndraw his blade with a fasting stomach under his belt.\"\n\n\"A wise precaution, Maclean,\" said old Captain Campbell of Finab;\n\"but Gude kens we have often had to draw our blades here in Low\nGermanie, and fall on, without other breakfast than a tightened\nwaist-belt.\"\n\n\"True; but it was by omitting to break his fast that my worthy\nancestor Sir Lauchlan Maclean lost his life in Mull, and hence the\nwarning of Sergeant MacAra, my fosterer.\"\n\n\"How came that to pass?\" I asked with surprise; for the impressive\nmanner of these Celts was strange and new to me.\n\n\"'Tis a story as well as any other, and I care not if I tell you,\ngentlemen,\" said the old captain of grenadiers.  \"Dunacha, throw some\nmore sticks on the fire--Angus, pass round the black-jack, my son,\nwhile I tell of the doleful battle of Groynard.  The presence of the\nLord be about us, but that was a black day, and a dreary one for the\nhouse of Duairt and the Clan Gillian to boot!\"\n\nAfter this preamble and collecting his thoughts a little, the captain\ncommenced the following strange story:--\n\n\nHistory will tell you, gentlemen, that in the early part of the reign\nof his Majesty James VI. there arose a deadly feud between my people,\nthe Clan Gillian in Mull, and the Clan Donald of Islay, concerning\nthe claim which, from times beyond the memory of man, we had, or\nbelieved we had ('tis all one in the Highlands) to the Rhinns of\nIslay.  For many a year our people and the Macdonalds invaded,\nharried, hacked, hewed, and shot each other; the axe and bow, the\npistol and claymore were never relinquished for one entire week, but\nwe were never nearer our end, for I must admit that our antagonists\nwere a brave tribe, though in boyhood--such is the absurdity of a\ntransmitted feud--I was taught to hate them more than death.  I have\nbeen told that there was not a man of either of the hostile tribes\nbut had lost his nearest and dearest kinsmen in that ungodly contest.\n\nBut now a crisis was coming.\n\nMy worthy ancestor, Sir Lauchlan Maclean of Duairt, was a soldier of\nhigh renown and bravery--one whose skill in war was acknowledged by\nall who saw him lead the Clan Gillian to victory at the great battle\nof Benrinnes, where twelve thousand Scottish Protestants measured\nswords with Lord Huntly's Catholics on the banks of the Livat, and\nthere decided their religious differences like pretty men.  Well, Sir\nLauchlan, through the great favour in which he was held at court,\nobtained from the King's own hand at Holyrood a charter or warrant\nempowering him to take possession not only of those devilish Rhinns,\nbut of the whole island of Islay--the patrimony and home of the Lords\nof the Isles--what think you of that, sirs?  All Islay with\nEilan-na-Corlle, or the Island of Council, the great castle in Loch\nFinlaggan, the Rock of the Silver Rent, the Rock of the Rent-in-Kind,\nwith everything that flew over Islay, walked on its hills, or swam in\nits lakes, to him and his heirs for ever, heritably and irredeemably,\nuntil the day of doom.\n\nThis seemed a severe stroke of fortune to the poor Clan Donald, the\nmore so as their chief, Angus of Kintyre, was aged and frail, and had\nnot drawn a sword since last he fought our people in his seventieth\nyear, and now he was eighty.  His son, Sir James, was as yet unknown\nas a soldier, while Sir Lauchlan was in the noon of his strength and\nmanhood--second to none that stepped on heather or ever wore the\ntartan: hence, full of hope and confident of success, he rejected\nwith scorn the offers of mediation made by neighbouring chiefs; for\nold Angus had many friends, and my forefathers' claims were, to say\nthe least of them, rather unjust.  Sir Lauchlan summoned all the\nclan, his friends and kinsmen, to meet him in arms and with their\ngalleys on a certain day to sail for Islay, when he hoped to crush\nthe Clan Donald for ever in one decisive battle.\n\nOn the evening before the muster, mounted and alone he rode from\nDuairt to consult a witch who dwelt in an uncouth den known among us\nas \"the cave of the Grey Woman.\"  It was not without some misgivings\nthat my ancestor paid this visit; but the advice and auguries of this\nwoman, Aileen Glas, had never failed our race in times of war and\nperil.\n\nAs he drew near her dwelling, the night was closing in; the wind\nshook the boughs of the forest, and as he looked back, they resembled\nthe long green waves of a sea of foliage rolling up the narrow glen.\nThe \"gloaming\" darkened fast, and the silent dew distilled from the\ndrooping leaves; the golden cups of the broom and the calices of the\nheather-bells were shrinking with many a summer fly and honey-bee\nconcealed in their petals, for night was descending on the stormy\nshores and boisterous hills of Mull--boisterous indeed, for there the\nhollow winds rave and howl from peak to peak, and wreath up the mist\ninto many a strange and many a fearful shape, till the ghosts of\nOssian seem again to tower above Benmore and Bentaluidh.\n\nSir Lauchlan rode rapidly up the narrowing glen, till he found the\ncave of the Grey Woman before him.  It yawned dark, lofty, and\nprofound; so, dismounting, he tied his horse to a tree, and with his\ntarget and claymore advanced boldly, but with no small trouble, as\nthe darkness was now intense, and the ascent to the cavern was rocky\nand difficult.  Above his head rose its capacious arch, fringed by\nmatted ivy and the light waving mountain ash that covered all the\nupper rocks, the splintered peaks of which shot up against the\nstarless sky in abrupt and jagged outline.  Clambering up, he entered\nwith a stately step, though his heart beat fast with anxiety; before\nhim lay a dark abyss of blackness and vacancy, opening into the\nbowels of the mountain; and though lightly shod in cuarans of soft\ndeer hide, he could hear his footsteps echoing afar off.\n\nAt last a red light began to gleam before him, playing in fitful\nflashes upon the wet slimy walls of the den, and on the huge\nstalactites that hung like rough Gothic pendants from the roof, and\nwere formed by the filtrations of calcareous rills that stole\nnoiselessly down between the chasms and crannies in the walls of rock.\n\nAileen Glas was said to have been born in the mossy isle of\nCalligrey, in a hut built among the stones of the temple of Annat,\nthe mined shrine of a Druidical goddess.  Annat presided over the\nyoung maidens of the Western Isles, and there still remains her well,\nin which they are said to have purified themselves.  In that well\nAileen was baptized by the Red Priest of Applecross, and hence her\nmagical power.\n\nAs Maclean stepped on, he perceived the Grey Woman, a withered,\nshrivelled, and frightful hag, whose nose was hooked like an eagle's\nbeak, and on whose chin was a grey tuft, like a thistle's beard--a\nmere anatomy of bones and skin--seated before a heap of blazing turf\nand sticks, but asleep, and reclining against the wall of rock.  A\ntattered plaid of our clan tartan was over her head, the grey hair of\nwhich hung in twisted elflocks round her bony visage.  An urchin--a\nhideous hedgehog--nestled in her fleshless bosom, and its diminutive\neyes shone like red beads in the light.  On one side lay a heap of\nwithered herbs, a human skull cloven in battle, and the spulebane of\na sea-wolf; on the other side was an old iron three-legged pot used\nin her incantations.  Therein sat a huge, rough, and wild-eyed\npolecat, which spat at the intruder, and woke up a large, sleepy bat\nthat swung by his tail from a withered branch which projected from a\nfissure of the rock.\n\nThe Grey Woman awoke also, and, without moving, fixed her green\nbasilisk eyes on Sir Lauchlan's face, saying sharply--\n\n\"What want ye, Duairt?\"\n\n\"Your advice, good Aileen Glas,\" replied the chief, meekly, for he\nwas awed by her aspect.\n\n\"Advice!\" shrieked the Grey Woman.  \"Is it a spell you seek, to\ninsure success, that you may do a greater wrong unto the hapless and\nguiltless Clan Donald of Islay?\"\n\n\"I seek to do them no wrong, Aileen.  The Rhinns are ours by right,\nand Islay is ours by the King's own charter.\"\n\n\"The _people_ were there before kings or charters were known in the\nland.  God gave the hills and the isles to the children of the Gael,\nand His curse will fall on all who seek to dispossess them by virtue\nof sheepskins and waxen seals.  Did not a Lord of the Isles say that\nhe little valued a right which depended on the possession of a scrap\nof parchment?  Beware, Lauchlan Maclean! beware! for the hand of fate\nis upon you!\"\n\nScared by her words and her fury, as her shrill voice awoke the\ninmost recesses of the vault, Sir Lauchlan said--\n\n\"In the name of the mother of God, Aileen Glas, I beseech you to be\ncomposed, and to tell me of what I must beware!\"\n\nShe snatched up the spulebane of the wolf, and, after looking through\nit by holding it between her and the fire, cast it aside with a\nshriek, saying--\n\n\"Lauchlan of Duairt, listen to me, for never may you hear my voice\nagain!\"\n\n\"It may be so, Aileen; we sail for Islay to-morrow!\"\n\n\"Well, do not land upon a _Thursday_, and do not drink of the well\nthat flows at the head of Loch Groynard, for I can see that one\nMaclean will be slain there, and _lie headless_!  Away! leave me now!\nIn the glen you will meet those who will tell you more!\" and she\nmuffled her face in her plaid as Sir Lauchlan left her.\n\n\"I can easily avoid a landing on Thursday, and a draught of that\ndevilish well too; but whom shall I meet in the glen?\" thought he, as\nhe mounted and galloped homewards to Duairt, glad the horrid\ninterview was over.  As he rode round the base of Benmore, the waning\nmoon began to show half her disc above the black shoulder of the\nmighty mountain, and a pale light played along the broad waves of\nLoch-na-keal, which lay on his left, and were rolled in foam against\nthe bold headlands and columnar ridges, which are covered with coats\nof ivy and tufted by remains of oak and ash woods that overhung the\nsalt billows of that western sea, where the scart, the mew, and the\nheron were screaming.\n\nOn, on rode our chief, treasuring the words of Grey Aileen in his\nheart, and soon he saw the lights in his own castle of Duairt\nglittering before him about a mile off, and anon he could perceive\nthe outline of the great keep as it towered in the pale moonlight on\nits high cliff that breasts the Sound of Mull.  But hark! the voice\nof a woman made him pause.\n\nHe checked his horse and looked around him.\n\nUnder an old and blasted oak-tree, the leafless and gnarled branches\nof which seemed white and ghastly in the cold moonlight, stood the\nfigure of a woman arrayed in a pale-coloured dress that shimmered and\ngleamed as the moon's half-disc dipped behind the sharp rocky cone of\nBentaluidh.  The figure, which was thin and tall, was enveloped in a\ngarment that resembled a shroud.  It came forward with one lean arm\nuplifted, as if to stay the onward progress of Maclean, whose rearing\nhorse swerved, trembled, and perspired with fear.  Nearer she came,\nand, as the starlight glinted on her features, they seemed pallid,\nghastly, hollow, and wasted; the lips were shrunken from the teeth,\nthe eyes shone like two pieces of glass, and, to his horror, Sir\nLauchlan recognised his old nurse Mharee, who had been buried in the\npreceding year, and whom, with his own hands, he had laid in her\ngrave, close by the wall of Torosay Kirk, the bell of which at that\nmoment tolled the eleventh hour of the night.  Gathering courage from\ndespair, he asked--\n\n\"In the name of Him who died for us, Mharee, what want you here\nto-night?\"\n\n\"Oh, my son!\" said she, \"for such indeed I may call you (for did not\nthese breasts, on which the worms are now preying, give you suck?)\nthis expedition against the men of Islay is full of mighty\nconsequences to you and all Clan Gillian!\"\n\n\"I am sure of that, Mharee,\" replied Maclean, with a sinking heart;\n\"but we go to gather glory and triumph, to spread the honour and the\nterror of our name, and to win a fairer patrimony to bequeath, with\nour swords, to the children who succeed us.\"\n\n\"Lauchlan Maclean! by the bones of your father and the fame of your\nmother, I conjure you to abandon this wicked war, to sheath your\nsword, to burn the King's charter, and to leave the Clan Donald in\npeace, for Islay is the land of their inheritance.\"\n\n\"To what disgrace would you counsel me, Mharee? to be a coward and a\nliar in the face of the King, of my kindred and clansmen?  Come weal,\ncome woe, to-morrow my birlinns shall spread their sails upon the sea\nthat leads to Islay, though I and all my people go but to their\ngraves: by the cross of Maclean I have sworn it!\"\n\n\"So be it then; but if go you will, I warn you not to cross the\nthreshold of Duairt with a _fasting stomach_, or sore evil, Lauchlan,\nwill come of it to all thy kin and thee!\"\n\nWith these strange words, the figure faded away like a moonbeam, and\nnothing was seen but the bare, blasted tree stretching its naked anna\nacross the narrow way.  Some time elapsed before Maclean recovered\nfrom his terror and astonishment to find his horse dashing up the\nascent which led to the Castle of Duairt, where his pale face and\nwild manner caused many questions and excited much comment; but he\nkept his own counsel, resolving not to march on the morrow before\nbreakfast, not to land on a Thursday, and _not_ to drink of any well\nin Islay, if other liquor could be found for love or money.\n\nNext morning great were the hurry, din, and preparation in Duairt,\nand long before cockcrow the shore of Loch Linnhe was covered by\narmed men, with their brass targets and burnished claymores, axes,\nbows, and Spanish muskets; their helmets and lurichs sparkled in the\ndawn, and when the sun arose above the hills of Lorn, the white sails\nof the birlinns, with banners flying and pipers playing at the prow,\ncovered all the sea around the Castle of Duairt.  Sir Lauchlan in\nperson superintended the embarkation of his followers, and if there\nwas one, there were seven hundred good claymores among them--not a\nbonnet less!  Every man, as he left Duairt, had a ration of bannock,\ncheese, and venison given to him, with a good dram to put under his\nbelt, for such is our Highland custom before setting out on an\nexpedition.\n\nBut such was the enthusiasm, such were the cheers, the\ncongratulations and hopes uttered aloud, the yelling of pipes, the\ntwangling of clairsachs and quaffing of toasts with blade and bicker\nheld aloft, that it was not until he was on board his great war\nbirlinn, with all her canvas spread to catch the northern gale which\nblew towards the peaks of Jura, that the fated chieftain found that,\nin attending to his people, he had forgotten to regale himself, and,\ncontrary to the solemn warning of the spirit, had actually commenced\nhis hazardous expedition with a \"fasting stomach!\"\n\n\"Dhia!\" cried he to my grand-uncle Lauchlan Barroch; \"I am lost,\nnephew,\" and he related the vision of last night.\n\n\"If that be all,\" replied my grand-uncle, who was his brother's son,\n\"rest easy, for here have I and Ronald of the Drums marched too, with\nnothing under our belts but the cold north wind.\"\n\nStill my ancestor felt far from easy; but he forgot it before night,\nwhen a heavy gale came on, and the birlinns were scattered on the\nwaters of the darkening deep like a flock of gulls; and it was in\nvain that he fired his pateraroes as signals to keep together.\n\nThe storm increased, and while some of the little fleet narrowly\nescaped being sucked (like the Danish prince of old) into the roaring\nwhirlpool of Coirvreckan, many were blown to the Isle of Colonsay and\nothers to the Sound of Jura.  Many days--all days of storm with\nnights of pitchy blackness--followed, and on the first _Thursday_ of\nthe next week the little fleet of birlinns made the low green shores\nand sandy inlets of Islay, and saw the rising sun gild the woods and\nhills that rise upon its eastern coast.  Still the stormy wind\nploughed up the sea; the sun was enveloped in watery clouds, and the\ntempest-tossed Clan Gillian gladly steered their vessels (oh,\nfatality!) into the salt Loch of Groynard, a shallow bay on the\nnorth-west of the isle, where, with a shout of triumph, they ran the\nkeels into the sand and leaped ashore with brandished swords, and\nformed their ranks, all barelegged, in the water.\n\nBut long ere this the crian tarigh, or cross of fire, had blazed upon\nthe hills of Islay!\n\nUnder their young chief, Sir James, the whole Clan Donald, many of\nwhom had been trained to service in the Irish wars, were drawn up in\narray of battle at the head of Loch Groynard; and there, with all\ntheir weapons glittering from the purple heather, they hovered like a\ncloud of battle.  As the hostile bands drew near, some gentlemen of\nthe Clan Donald, to prevent the effusion of Christian blood,\nprevailed upon Sir James to promise that he would resign one half of\nIslay to Maclean during his life, provided he would acknowledge that\nhe held it for personal service to the Clan Donald, in the same\nmanner as our forefathers had held the Rhinns of Islay.\n\nBut, rendered furious on finding that he had doubly transgressed the\nwizard warnings he received, Sir Lauchlan laughed the proposition to\nscorn.  Then the young chief offered to submit the matter in dispute\nto any impartial umpires Duairt might choose, with the proviso that,\nif _they_ should disagree, his Majesty the King should be their\narbiter.\n\nBut my ancestor drew off his glove, and, taking a handful of water\nfrom a fountain that gurgled from a rock near him, exclaimed--\n\n\"May this water prove my poison, if I will have any arbiter but my\nsword, or any terms but an absolute surrender of the whole island!\"\n\nThen my grand-uncle Lauchlan Barroch uttered a cry of terror--for\nDuairt in his anger had forgotten the prediction, and drank of \"the\nwell at the head of Loch Groynard, where one Maclean was to\nfall\"--and there, in ten minutes after, he was slain by a MacDonald,\nwho by a single blow of a claymore swept his head off his shoulders.\n\nLong and bloody was the battle that ensued when the MacDonalds rushed\ndown the hill to close with the Clan Gillian, who were routed,\nleaving eighty duinewassals and two hundred soldiers, with their\nchief, dead upon the field.  Ronald Maclean of the Drums--a little\ntower upon the peninsula of Loch Suinard--was shot by an arrow, and\nnot one who left Duairt with \"a fasting stomach,\" escaped;--why, God\nalone knows; for though my grand-uncle Lauchlan Barroch retreated\nwith a remnant of our people to the birlinns, he was mortally wounded\nby a musket-shot.  Of the Clan Donald, only thirty men were killed\nand sixty wounded.  Among the latter was their young\nchief--afterwards a general of the Scots Brigade in Holland--who was\nfound on the field with an arrow in his breast.\n\nI have heard my mother say that all that night the watchman on the\nkeep of Duairt heard cries and moans coming from the seaward, though\nthe castle was more than fifty miles distant from Groynard; for it\nseemed as if the spirits of the air brought the sounds of battle on\ntheir wings from the fatal shore of Islay.  Late that night, the\nhoofs of a galloping horse were heard reverberating in the glen and\nringing on the roadway that led to Duairt; and soon a horse and rider\nwere seen in the moonlight approaching rapidly, the hoofs of the\nsteed striking fire from the flinty path.\n\n\"A messenger approaches!\" cried the watchman, and in an instant the\nlady of Duairt and all her household were at the gate; but how great\nwas their terror when they perceived that the approaching horseman\nwas headless, though wearing the arms, plaid, and trews of a chief!\nUp, up the ascent came the terrible vision, galloping in the pale\nmoonlight, but passing on, it disappeared in the glen which led to\nthe blasted oak where Sir Lauchlan had received his last unearthly\nwarning.\n\nBe this story false or true, there are in our regiment a hundred\nbrave men of trust and honour, who can swear to having seen this\nspectre gallop up to Duairt gate on the anniversary of the battle of\nGroynard, or when any calamity overhangs the Clan Gillian.  Sir\nLauchlan--the heavens be his bed to-night!--sleeps in Torosay Kirk,\nyet that headless horseman may appear to-morrow on the shore of Mull,\nfor many a bonnet will be on the turf, many a plaid in our ranks dyed\nred in the wearer's blood--and I have seven sons in the field!  But\nour fate is in the hands of God, so let our hearts be stout and true,\nfor He will never fail us, though we may be false to ourselves.  Hand\nround the demijohn, Findlay, my brave lad--and rouse the brands,\nFarquhar, for the moon has sunk behind the hills, and our fire is\ngetting low.\n\n\nSo ended this legend of Celtic diablerie, to which I had listened\nattentively, for the air and manner of the venerable narrator were\nvery impressive, as he devoutly believed it all; but Captain Campbell\nof Finab, who affected to consider it, as he said, \"a tale of a tub,\"\nwas as much startled as I by the issue of the next day's engagement\nwith the enemy.\n\nBy dawn next day the wild pibroch \"Come to me and I will give you\nflesh,\" that fierce invitation to the wolf and raven, rang in the\nallied bivouac, as his Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland took\npost at Maulpr\u00e9 in view of the French position, and ordered a\nsquadron of each regiment, with six battalions of foot, five hundred\npioneers, a body of Austrian hussars, and six pieces of cannon, all\nunder the command of the veteran Lieutenant-General Sir James\nCampbell, K.B., Governor of the Castle of Edinburgh, to drive the\nenemy out of the defiles of the wood of Barri.  This movement was the\nprelude to the disastrous battle of Fontenoy, where Campbell was\nkilled.\n\nThe Guards and we--the old Black Watch--began the engagement at\nVeson--the well-known affair of outposts.  There the Dauphin\ncommanded, and his soldiers were the flower of the French line, a\nsplendid brigade, all clad in white coats laced with gold, long\nruffles, tied perriwigs, and little plumed hats.  They were\nintrenched breast high, and defended by an abattis.\n\nWe fell furiously on; the Scottish Foot-guards with their clubbed\nmuskets and fixed bayonets; the Black Watch with swords, pistols, and\ndirks, and the struggle was terrible, as the action ensued at a place\nwhich was swept by the fire of a redoubt mounted with cannon and\nmanned by six hundred of the noble Regiment de Picardie.  Old Captain\nMaclean, at the head of his grenadiers and with his seven sons by his\nside, rushed up the glacis to storm the palisades.\n\n\"Open pouches--blow fuses--dirk and claymore, fall on!\" were his\nrapid orders, as the hand-grenades fell like a hissing shower over\nthe breastwork, from which a sheet of lead tore through the ranks of\nour stormers.  Maclean fell at the foot of the palisades with one\nhand upon them and the other on his sword.  All his sons perished\nwith him, falling over each other in a gory heap as they strove to\nprotect his body.  The last who fell was the youngest, Angus Dhu,\nwho, after slaying a French field officer, had driven a bayonet into\nhis head, thrusting it through the ears; using it as a lever, he\nstrove furiously to twist, tear, or wrench off the Frenchman's skull\nas a trophy of vengeance; for the young Celt was beside himself with\ngrief and rage, when a volley of bullets from the white-coated\nRegiment de Picardie laid him on the grass to rise no more, just as\nSir James Campbell carried the intrenchment sword in hand, and\ntotally routed or destroyed the soldiers of the Dauphin.\n\nWhether old Captain Maclean and his sons marched that morning without\nbreaking their fast--a fatal omission apparently in any of the Clan\nGillian--I have no means of ascertaining; but, as Ronald MacAra, who\nbore their provisions, was killed by a stray bullet about daybreak,\nit was generally believed so by the regiment, as this faithful\nhenchman of the captain was found dead with a full havresack under\nhis right arm, and the weird story of the seven fated grenadiers was\nlong remembered by the Black Watch, when the greater events of the\nrout at Fontenoy and the evacuation of Flanders were forgotten.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nTHE LOST REGIMENT.\n\nA LOVE STORY.\n\nI have been told that a better or a braver fellow than Louis Charters\nof ours never drew a sword.  He was, as the regimental records show,\ncaptain of our 7th company, and major in the army when the corps\nembarked for service in the _Illinois_ in 1763; but prior to that his\nstory was a strange and romantic one.  Louis was a cadet of one of\nthe oldest houses in Scotland, the Charters of Amisfield; thus he was\na lineal descendant of the famous Red Riever.  Early in life he had\nbeen gazetted to an ensigncy in Montgomery's Highlanders, the _old_\n77th, when that corps was raised in 1757 by Colonel Archibald\nMontgomery (afterwards Earl of Eglinton and Governor of Dumbarton),\namong the Frasers, Macdonalds, Camerons, Macleans, and other Jacobite\nclans.\n\nCharters was a handsome and enthusiastic soldier, full of the old\nchivalry and romance of the Highlands; but, at the time he joined the\nBlack Watch, with the remnant of Montgomery's regiment, which\nvolunteered into our ranks in 1763, he was a pale, moody, and\ndisappointed man, who had no hope in the service, but that it might\nprocure him an honourable death under the balls of an enemy.\n\nThe story of Louis Charters was as follows:--\n\nIn January, 1757, he was recruiting at Perth for the 77th, when it\nwas his good, or perhaps ill fortune, to become attached to a young\nlady possessed of great attractions, whom he had met at a ball, and\nwho was the only daughter of the Laird of Tullynairn, a gentleman of\nproperty in the vicinity of the \"Fair City.\"\n\nEmmy Stuart was four-and-twenty, and Louis was three years her\nsenior.  She was tall and beautiful in face and figure; her hair was\nchesnut, her eyes hazel, and there was a charming droop in their lids\nwhich enhanced all her varieties of expression, especially the droll,\nand lent to them a seductive beauty, most dangerous to the peace of\nall who engaged in a two-handed flirtation with her; for although\nthat word was unknown to the fair maids of Perth in those days, yet\nthey flirted nevertheless, and none more than the lively Emmy Stuart.\n\nThough her charming figure was almost hidden by her frightful hoop\npetticoat, and her beautiful hair by white powder--but that, if\npossible, increased the brilliance of her eyes and complexion--none\nknew better than Emmy the piquant mode of arranging her capuchin, of\nholding a vinaigrette under her pretty pink nostrils; and your\ngreat-grandmother, my good reader, never surpassed her in the secret\nart of putting those devilish little patches on her soft cheek, or\nabout her bright roguish eyes, in such a manner as to give double\npoint to those glances of drollery or disdain in which all ladies\nthen excelled; or, worse still, an amorous languish, levelled _\u00e0 la\nFrancaise_, in such a mode as would have demolished a whole\nbattalion; while the adorable _embonpoint_ of her figure was somewhat\nincreased by the arrangement of her busk, her jewelled necklace, her\nembossed gold watch and _etui_, which no lady was ever without, and\nwhich Emmy of course carried at her waist.\n\nWhen she left the assembly, there was always such a crush of gay\ngallants about the door to see her depart, that Louis seldom got her\nsafely into her sedan or coach without swords being drawn, and some\nunfortunate being run through the body, or having a few inches of a\nflaming link thrust down his throat; for the \"fine fellows\" of those\ndays were not over-particular in their mode of resentment when a\npretty woman was concerned.  The \"Blood,\" or \"Buck,\" or \"Maccaroni,\"\nof the last century was a very different fellow from the peaceful\nunmitigated \"snob\" of the present day.\n\nIt was no wonder that Louis loved Emmy; the only marvel would have\nbeen had he proved invulnerable; so he fell before a glance of her\nbright hazel eyes, as Dunkirk fell before the allied armies.  But\nEmmy was so gay in manner, distinguishing none in particular, that\nCharters was often in an agony of anxiety to learn whether she would\never love him; and moreover, there was one of ours, a Captain\nDouglas, recruiting in Perth, who possessed a most annoyingly\nhandsome person, and who hovered more about the beautiful Emmy than\nour friend of the 77th could have wished.  To make the matter worse,\nDouglas was an old lover, having met Emmy at a ball three years\nbefore, and been shot clean through the heart by one of her most\nseductive glances.\n\nEmmy was so full of repartee and drollery, that though Charters was\nalways making the most desperate love to her, he was compelled to\nmask his approaches under cover of pretty banter, or mere flirtation;\nthus leaving him an honourable retreat in case of a sharp repulse;\nfor he could not yet trust himself to opening the trenches in\nearnest, lest she might laugh at him, as she had done at others; and\nLouis knew enough of the world to be aware, that a lover once laughed\nat is lost, and may as well quit the field.\n\nSo passed away the summer of--I am sorry to give so antique an\nepoch--1757.  The snow began to powder the bare scalps of the\nHighland frontier; the woods of Scone and Kinnoull became stripped\nand leafless, and their russet spoils where whirled along the green\ninches and the reedy banks of the Tay; then the hoar frost wove its\nthistle blades on the windows in the morning, and our lovers found\nthat a period was put to their rambles in the evening, when the sun\nwas setting behind the darkening mountains of the west.\n\nNow came the time to ballot for partners for the winter season; and\nthen it was that Louis first learned to his joy that he was not\naltogether indifferent to the laughing belle.  The fashion of\nballoting for partners was a very curious one, and now it is happily\nabolished in Scottish society; for only imagine one's sensations,\ngood reader, on being condemned to dance everything with the same\ngirl, and with her only, during a whole winter season!  Besides, as\nthe devil would be sure to have it so, one would always have the girl\none did not want.  The laws respecting partners were strictly\nenforced, and when once settled or fairly handfasted to a dancing\ngirl for the season, a gentleman was on no account permitted to\nchange, even for a single night, on pain of being shot or run through\nthe body by her nearest male relative.\n\nIn the beginning of the winter season, the appointment for partners\nusually took place in each little coterie before the opening of the\nfirst ball or assembly.  A gentleman's triple-cocked beaver was\nunflapped, and the fans of all the ladies present were slily put\ntherein; the gentlemen were then blindfolded, and each selected a\nfan; then she to whom it belonged, however ill they might be paired\nor assorted, was his partner for the season.  Such was the strange\nlaw, most rigidly enforced in the days of Miss Nicholas, who was then\nthe mirror of fashion and presiding goddess of the Edinburgh\nassemblies.\n\nWhen the time for balloting came, great was the anxiety of poor Louis\nCharters lest his beloved Emmy might fall to the lot of that\nprovoking fellow Douglas of ours; but judge of his joy when Emmy told\nhim, with the most arch and beautiful smile that ever lighted up a\npair of lovely hazel eyes, how to distinguish _her fan_ from amid the\neighteen or twenty that were deposited in the hat.\n\n\"Now, my dear Mr. Charters,\" said she in a whisper, \"I never\npretended to be ferociously honest, and thus my unfortunate little\ntongue is always getting me into some frightful scrape; but I shall\ngive you a token by which you will know _my_ fan.  Does that make you\nsupremely happy?\"\n\n\"Happy, Emmy?  Dear Emmy, more than ever you will give me credit for!\"\n\n\"Do not be sure of that, and do not make a scene.  Quick now, lest\nsome one anticipate you.\"\n\n\"But the fan----\"\n\n\"Has a silver ball in lieu of a tassel.  Now go and prosper.\"\n\nThus indicated, he soon selected the fan and drew it forth, to the\nannoyance of Douglas, who beheld him present it to the fair owner;\nand her hazel eye sparkled with joy as Charters kissed her hand with\na matchless air of ardour and respect.  Honest Charters felt quite\ntipsy with joy.  Emmy had now shown that he was _not_ without\ninterest to her; and was not this a charming admission from a young\nbeauty, who could command any number of wedding-rings at any hour she\npleased?  Thus, according to the witty Sir Alexander Boswell, who\n(for one of his squibs) was shot one morning by Stuart of Dunearn,\n\n  \"Each lady's fan a chosen Damon bore,\n  With care selected many a day before.\"\n\n\nWith the dancing of a whole season before them, the reader may easily\nimagine the result.  All the tabbies, gossips, and coteries of the\nfair city had long since assigned them to each other; and though the\nmere magic of linking two names constantly together has done much to\ncajole boys and girls into a love for each other, no such magic was\nrequired here, for Emmy, I have said, was four-and-twenty, and Louis\nwas three years her senior.\n\nFinding himself completely outwitted, and that the fan of a\ndemoiselle of somewhat mature age and rather unattractive appearance\nhad fallen to his lot, Willy Douglas \"evacuated Flanders,\" _i.e._,\nforsook the ballroom, and bent all his energies to recruiting for the\nsecond battalion of the Black Watch, leaving the fair field\ncompletely to his more successful rival.\n\nBut though assigned to Charters by the fashion of the time, and by\nher own pretty manoeuvre, as a partner for the season, our gay\ncoquette would not yet acknowledge herself conquered; and Charters\nfelt with some anxiety that she was amusing herself with him, and\nthat the time was drawing near when he would have to rejoin his\nregiment, which was then expecting the route for America, over the\nfortunes of which the clouds of war were gathering.  Besides, Emmy\nhad a thousand little whims and teasing ways about her, all of which\nit was his daily pleasure, and sometimes his task, to gratify and to\nsoothe; and often they had a quarrel--a real quarrel--for two whole\ndays.  These were two centuries to Louis; but then it was of course\nmade up again; and Emmy, like an Empress, gave him her dimpled hand\nto kiss, reminding him, with a coy smile, that\n\n  \"A lover's quarrel was but love renewed.\"\n\n\n\"True, Emmy; but I would infinitely prefer a love that required no\nrenewal,\" said Charters, with a sigh.\n\n\"How tiresome you become!  You often make me think of Willy Douglas.\nWell, and where shall we find this remarkable love you speak of?\"\n\n\"Ah, Emmy, you read it in every eye that turns to yours; it fills the\nvery air you breathe, and sheds a purity and a beauty over\neverything.\"\n\n\"Then you always see beauty here?\"\n\n\"Oh, Emmy, I always see _you_, and you only; but you are still\nbantering.\"\n\n\"Do you know, Captain Charters, that I do not think it polite to tell\na woman that she is beautiful?\" said Emmy, pretending to pout, while\nher eyelids drooped, and she played with her fan.\n\n\"To tell any ordinary woman that she was beautiful, might offend her,\nif she was sensible; but to tell you so, though you have the sense of\na thousand, must be pleasing, because you are conscious of your great\nbeauty, Emmy, and know its fatal power--but alas! too well.\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed Emmy, her eyes flashing with triumph and fun, \"I am\nbeautiful, then?\"\n\n\"Too much so for my peace.  Beautiful!  Oh, Emmy Stuart, you are\ndangerously so.  But you trifle with me cruelly, Emmy.  Think how\ntime is gliding away--and a day must come when I shall be no longer\nhere.\"\n\nHer charming eyelids drooped again.\n\n\"A time--well, but remember there is an Italian poet who says,\n\n  All time is lost that is not spent in love.\"\n\n\nCharters gazed at her anxiously, and after a momentary pause, with\nall his soul in his eyes and on his tongue, he said:--\n\n\"Listen to me, dearest Emmy.  Of all things necessary to conduce to\nman's happiness, love is the principal.  It purifies and sheds a\nglory, a halo over everything, but chiefly around the beloved object\nherself.  It awakens and matures every slumbering virtue in the\nheart, and causes us to become as pure and noble as a man may be, to\nmake him more worthy of the woman we love.  Such, dear Emmy, is my\nlove for you.\"\n\nThis time Emmy heard him in silence, with downcast eyes, a blush\nplaying upon her beautiful cheek, a smile hovering on her alluring\nlittle mouth, with her breast heaving and her pretty fingers playing\nnervously with her fan and the frills of her busk.\n\nThis conversation may be taken as a specimen of a hundred that our\nlovers had on every convenient opportunity, when Louis was all\ntruthful earnestness--devotion and anxiety pervading his voice and\nmanner; while Emmy was all fun, drollery, and coquetry, yet loving\nhim nevertheless.\n\nBut a crisis came, when Charters received, by the hand of his chief\nfriend, Lieutenant Alaster Mackenzie, of the house of Seaforth, a\ncommand to rejoin his regiment, then under orders to embark at\nGreenock, to share in the expedition which Brigadier-General Forbes\nof Pittencrief was to lead against Fort du Quesne, one of the three\ngreat enterprises undertaken in 1758 against the French possessions\nin North America.  How futile were the tears of Emmy now!\n\n\"Though divided by the sea, dear Louis, our hope will be one, like\nour love,\" she sobbed in his ear.\n\n\"Think--think of me often, very often, as I shall think of you.\"\n\n\"I do not doubt you, Louis.  I now judge of your long, faithful, and\nnoble affection by my own.  Oh, Louis!  I have been foolish and\nwilful; I have pained you often; but you will forgive your poor Emmy\nnow; she judges of your love by her own.\"\n\nIt was now too late to think of marriage.  Emmy, subdued by the\nprospect of a sudden and long separation from her winning and\nhandsome lover, and by a knowledge of the dangers that lay before him\nby sea and land, the French bullet, the Indian arrow--all the risks\nof war and pestilence--was almost broken-hearted on his departure.\nThe usual rings and locks of hair, the customary embraces, were\nexchanged; the usual adieus and promises--solemn and sobbing promises\nof mutual fidelity--were given, and so they parted; and with sad\nEmmy's kiss yet lingering on his lips, and her undried tears on his\ncheek, poor Charters found himself marching at the head of his party\nof fifty recruits, while the drum and fife woke the echoes in the\nromantic Wicks of Baiglie, as he bade a long adieu to beautiful\nPerth, the home of his Emmy, and joined the headquarters of\nMontgomery's Highlanders at Greenock.\n\nBut amid all the bustle of the embarkation in transports and ships of\nwar--such rough sea-going ships as Smollet has portrayed in his\n\"Roderick Random\"--Charters saw ever before him the happy, bright,\nand beautiful Emmy of the past year of joy; or as he had last seen\nher, pale, crushed, and drooping in tears upon his breast--her\ncoquetry, her drollery, her laughter, all evaporated, and the true\nloving and trusting woman alone remaining--her eyes full of\naffection, and her voice tremulous with emotion.\n\nLouis sailed for America with one of the finest regiments ever sent\nforth by Scotland, which, in the war that preceded the declaration of\nAmerican independence, gave to the British ranks more than sixty\nthousand soldiers*--few, indeed, of whom ever returned to lay their\nbones in the land of their fathers.\n\n\n* See \"Present Conduct of the Chieftains Considered.\" Edinburgh:\n1773.  \"Thus it appears,\" says an anti-ministerial pamphlet,\npublished in 1763, \"that out of 756 officers commanding in the Army,\ngarrisons, &c., 210 are Scots: and out of 1930 in the Navy, 536 are\nScots.\"  The table was thus:--\n\n  Army\n  Scots Generals . . . . . .  29\n  Scots Colonels . . . . . .  39\n  Scots Lieut.-Colonels  . .  81\n  Scots Majors . . . . . . .  61\n\n  Navy\n  Scots Admirals . . . . . .   7\n  Scots Captains . . . . . .  81\n  Scots Masters  . . . . . .  33\n  Scots Lieutenants  . . . . 271\n  Scots Surgeons . . . . . . 144\n\n\nMontgomery's Highlanders consisted of thirteen companies, making a\ntotal of 1460 men, including 65 sergeants who were armed with\nLochaber axes, and 30 pipers armed with target and claymore.\n\nOnce more among his comrades, the spirit of Charters rose again; a\nhundred kindly old regimental sympathies were awakened in his breast,\nand, though the keen regret of his recent parting was fresh in his\nmemory, yet in the conversation of Alaster Mackenzie (who shared his\nconfidence), and in his military duty, he found a relief from\nbitterness--a refuge which was denied to poor Emmy, who was left to\nthe solitude of her own thoughts and the bitter solace of her own\ntears, amid those familiar scenes which only conduced to add\npoignancy to her grief, and served hourly to recal some memory of the\nabsent, and those hours of love and pleasure that had fled, perhaps\nnever to return.\n\nMeanwhile, Charters had not a thought or hope, desire or aim, but to\ndo his duty nobly in the field, to obtain promotion, and to return to\nwed Emmy.  A year--two years--yea, even three, though an eternity to\na lover, would soon pass amid the bustle and excitement of war and of\nforeign service.  Three years at most, then, would find him again at\nthe side of Emmy, hand in hand as of old.  But, alas I as poor Robert\nBurns says pithily--\n\n  \"The best-laid schemes of mice and men\n                        Gang aft ajee.\"\n\n\nThough, our lovers had resolved that nothing should exceed the\nregularity of their correspondence, and that the largest sheets of\nfoolscap should be duly filled with all they could wish each other to\nsay, in those days when regular mails, steamers, telegraphs, and\npenny postage were yet concealed in Time's capacious wallet, neither\nEmmy nor Charters had quite calculated upon the devious routes or the\nstrange and wild districts into which the troops were to penetrate,\nor the chances of the Western war, with all its alternate glories and\ndisasters.\n\nAfter a lapse of two long and weary months, by a sailing vessel poor\nEmmy received a letter from Louis, and, in the hushed silence of her\nown apartment, the humbled coquette wept over every word of it--and\nread it again and again--for it seemed to come like the beloved voice\nof the writer from a vast distance and from that land of danger.\nThen when she looked at the date and saw that it was a month--a whole\nmonth--ago, and when she thought of the new terrors each day brought\nforth, she trembled and her heart grew sick; then a paroxysm of tears\nwas her only relief, for she was a creature of a nervous and highly\nexcitable temperament.\n\nIt described the long and dreary voyage to America in the crowded and\ncomfortless transport--one thought ever in his soul--the thought of\nher; one scene ever around him--sea and sky.  It detailed the hurried\ndisembarkation and forced march of General Forbes's little army of\n6200 soldiers from Philadelphia in the beginning of July, through a\nvast tract of country, little known to civilized men; all but\nimpenetrable or impassable, as the roads were mere war paths, that\nlay through dense untrodden forests or deep morasses and over lofty\nmountains, where wild, active, and ferocious Indians, by musket,\ntomahawk, scalping-knife, and poisoned arrow, co-operated with the\nFrench in harassing our troops at every rood of the way.  He told how\nmany of the strongest and healthiest of Montgomery's Highlanders\nperished amid the toils and horrors they encountered; but how still\nhe bore up, animated by the memory of her, by that love which was a\nsecond life to him, and by the darling hope that, with God's help, he\nwould survive the campaign and all its miseries, and would find\nhimself again, as of old, seated by the side of his beloved Emmy,\nwith her cheek on his shoulder and her dear little hand clasped in\nhis.  He sent her some Indian beads, a few forget-me-nots that grew\namid the grass within his tent; he sent her another lock of his hair,\nand prayed kind God to bless for the sake of the poor absent heart\nthat loved her so well.\n\nAnd here ended this sorrowful letter, which was dated from the camp\nof the Scottish Brigadier, who halted at Raystown, ninety miles on\nthe march from Fort du Quesne.  Thus, by the time Emmy received it,\nthe fort must have been attacked and lost or won.\n\n\"Attacked!\"--How breathlessly and with what protracted agony did she\nlong for intelligence--for another letter or for the War-office\nlists!  But days, weeks, months rolled on; the snow descended on the\nHighland mountains; the woods of Kinnoull were again leafless; again\nthe broad Inches of Perth wore the white mantle of winter; the Tay\nwas frozen hard as flint between its banks and between the piers of\nthe old wooden bridge; there now came no mails from America; no\nletter reached her; and poor Emmy, though surrounded by admirers as\nof old, felt all the misery of that deferred hope which \"maketh the\nheart sick.\"\n\nMeanwhile Louis, at the head of his company of Montgomery's\nHighlanders, accompanied the force of Brigadier Forbes, who, in\nSeptember, despatched from Raystown Colonel Bouquet to a place called\nLoyal Henning, to reconnoitre the approach to Fort du Quesne.  The\ncolonel's force consisted of 2000 men; of these he despatched in\nadvance 500 Provincials and 400 of Montgomery's regiment, under Major\nJames Grant of Ballindalloch, whose second in command was Captain\nCharters.  Despite the advice of the latter, Grant, a brave but\nreckless and imprudent officer, advanced boldly towards Fort du\nQuesne with all his pipes playing and drums beating, as if he was\napproaching a friendly town.  Now the French officer who commanded in\nthe fort was a determined fellow.  He it was who had behaved with\nsuch heroism at the recent siege of Savannah, where he had been\nsergeant-major of Dillon's Regiment of the Irish Brigade in the\nservice of King Louis.  When the Comte d'Estaing madly proposed to\ntake the fortress by a _coup-de-main_, M. le Comte Dillon, anxious to\nsignalize his Irishmen, proposed a reward of a hundred guineas to the\nfirst grenadier who should plant a fascine in the fosse, which was\nswept by the whole fire of the garrison; but his purse was proffered\nin vain, for not an Irishman would advance.  Confounded by this,\nDillon was upbraiding them with cowardice, when the sergeant-major\nsaid--\n\n\"Monsieur le Comte, had you not held out a sum of money as an\nincentive, your grenadiers would one and all have rushed to the\nassault!\"\n\nThe count put his purse in his pocket.\n\n\"Forward!\" cried he--forward went the Irish grenadiers, and out of\n194 who composed the company, 104 left their bodies in the breach.\n\nBut to resume: the moment the soldiers of Grant were within range,\nthe French cannon opened upon them, and under cover of this fire, the\ninfantry made a furious sortie.\n\n\"Sling your muskets!  Dirk and claymore!\" cried the major as the foe\ncame on.  A terrible conflict ensued, the Highlanders fighting with\ntheir swords and daggers, and the Provincials with their fixed\nbayonets; the French gave way, but, unable to reach the fort, they\ndispersed and sought shelter in the vast forest which spread in every\ndirection round it.  Here they were joined by a strong body of\nIndians, and returning, from amid the leafy jungles and dense foliage\nthey opened a murderous fire upon Major Grant's detachment, which had\nhalted to refresh, when suddenly summoned to arms.\n\nA yell pierced the sky!  It was the Indian warwhoop, startling the\ngreen leaves of that lone American forest, and waking the echoes of\nthe distant hills that overlook the plain of the Alleghany; thousands\nof Red Indian warriors, horrible in their native ugliness, their\nstreaky war paint, jangling moccassins and tufted feathers, naked and\nmuscular, savage as tigers and supple as eels, with their barbed\nspears, scalping-knives, tomahawks, and French muskets, burst like a\nliving flood upon the soldiers of Ballindalloch.  The Provincials\nimmediately endeavoured to form square, but were broken, brained,\nscalped, and trod under foot, as if-a brigade of horse had swept over\nthem.  While, in the old fashion of their native land, the undaunted\n77th men endeavoured to meet the foe, foot to foot and hand to hand,\nwith the broadsword, but in vain.  Grant ordered them to throw aside\ntheir knapsacks, plaids, and coats, and betake themselves to the\nclaymore, and the claymore only.  For three hours a desultory and\ndisastrous combat was maintained--every stump and tree, every bush,\nrock, and stone being battled for with deadly energy, and all the\nhorrors of Indian warfare--yells, whoops, the tomahawk and the\nknife--were added to those of Europe, and before the remnant of our\nHighlanders effected an escape, Captains MacDonald and Munro,\nLieutenants Alaster, William and Robert Mackenzie, and Colin\nCampbell, were killed and scalped, with many of their men.  Ensign\nAlaster Grant lost a hand by a poisoned arrow; but of all who fell,\nCharters most deeply regretted Alaster Mackenzie, his friend and\nconfidant, to save whom, after a shot had pierced his breast, he made\na desperate effort and slew three Indians by three consecutive blows;\nbut this succour came too late, and Mackenzie's scalp was torn off\nbefore he breathed his last.\n\n\"Stand by your colours, comrades, till death!\" were his last words.\n\"Farewell, dear Charters--may God protect you for your Emmy's\nsake--we'll meet again!\"\n\n\"Again!\"\n\n\"Yes--again--in heaven!\" he answered, and expired with his sword in\nhis hand, like a brave and pious soldier.\n\nThe Red men were like incarnate fiends, and, amid groans, yells,\nprayers, and entreaties, were seen on their knees in frenzy, drinking\nblood from the spouting veins and bleeding scalps of their victims.\nThe combat was a mere massacre, and seemed as if all hell had burst\nits gates and held jubilee in that wild forest of the savage West.\nThe Provincials were destroyed.  Grant, with nineteen officers, fell\ninto the hands of the French; and of his Highlanders only 150\nsucceeded in effecting a retreat to Loyal Henning, under the command\nof Louis Charters, to whose skill, bravery, and energy, they\nunanimously attributed their escape.  Many of their comrades who were\ncaptured died under agonies such as Indians, Turks, or devils alone\ncould have devised; and the story of one--Private Allan\nMacPherson--who escaped a cruel death by pretending that his _neck_\nwas sword-proof, as related by the Abb\u00e9 Reynal, and General Stewart\nof Garth, is well known.\n\nJames Grant of Ballindalloch died a general in the army in 1806; but\nhe never forgot the horrors of his rashness at Fort du Quesne, which\nwas abandoned to Brigadier Forbes on the 24th November; by this he\nwas deprived of a revenge, and to win it Charters had volunteered to\nlead the forlorn hope.  Poor General Forbes died on the retreat.\n\nCharters's regiment served next in General Ambent's army at\nTiconderoga, at Crown Point, and on the Lake Expedition, where he\nsaved the life of Ensign Grant--now known as Alaster the\nOne-handed--by bearing him off the field when wounded; but during all\nthose desultory and sanguinary operations, he never heard from Emmy,\nnor did she hear from him.  He suffered much; he nearly perished in\nthe snow on one occasion with a whole detachment; he was wounded in\nthe left shoulder on that night of horrors at Ticonderoga, and had a\nnarrow escape from a cannon-ball in the fight with a French ship,\nwhen proceeding on the expedition to Dominique under Lord Rollo and\nSir James Douglas; but though the ball spared his head, the wind of\nit raised a large inflamed spot, which gave him great trouble and\npain.  He was with his corps at the conquest of the Havannah; he was\nat the capture of Newfoundland with the 46th and the Highlanders of\nFraser, and he served with honour in a hundred minor achievements of\nthe brave Highlanders of Montgomery.\n\nRenewed or recruited thrice from the Highland clans, the old 77th\ncovered themselves with glory, and of all the Scottish corps in the\nKing's service, there was none from which the soldiers more nobly and\nrigidly transmitted to their aged parents in Scotland the savings of\ntheir poor pay or the prize money gained by their blood in the\nHavannah.  In one of his (unanswered) letters to Emmy Stuart, Louis\nsays, \"I have known some of our poor fellows, my dear girl, who\nalmost starved themselves for this purpose.\"\n\nOne of the majors being killed at the storming of the Moro, his\nwidow, in consideration of his great services, was permitted to sell\nhis commission.  Louis was now senior captain, and the regiment knew\nwell that he, having only his pay, was unable to purchase it: but so\ngreatly was he beloved by the soldiers, many of whom, in America, had\nthrown themselves before the sharp tomahawks and poisoned arrows of\nthe Indians to save him, that they subscribed each Highlander so many\ndays' pay to purchase his majority; and the plunder of the rich\nHavannah having put these brave souls in good funds, the money was\nall fairly laid on the drum-head in one hour, when the corps was on\nevening parade in the citadel of El Fuerte.\n\nSuch a noble instance of _camaraderie_ and true soldierly sentiment\nnever occurred in the British service but once before; and then it\nwas also in an old Scottish regiment which had served, I believe, in\nthe wars of Queen Anne, before the amalgamation of the forces of the\ntwo kingdoms.*\n\n\n* See \"Advice to Officers.\"  Perth, 1795.\n\n\nThis was the most noble tribute his soldiers could pay to Charters,\nwho was duly gazetted when the regiment was stationed at New York in\nthe summer of 1763, to enjoy a little repose after the toils of the\npast war.\n\nThe services and adventures so briefly glanced at here, had thus\nspread over a period of five years--to Louis, long and weary\nyears--during which he had never heard of Emmy but once; and now he\nhad no relic of her to remind him of those delightful days of peace\nand love that had fled apparently for ever.  The ring she had given\nhim, warm from her pretty hand, had been torn from his finger by\nplunderers as he lay wounded and helpless on the ramparts of Fort\nLoudon, on the confines of far Virginia; her fan was lost when his\nbaggage was taken on the retreat from Fort du Quesne; the locket with\nher hair had been rent from him, when he was taken prisoner and\nstripped by the French, in the attack on Martinique.  He was changed\nin appearance too; his hair once black as night was already seamed by\nmany a silvery thread, yet he was only two-and-thirty.  His face was\ngaunt and wan, and bronzed by the Indian sun and keen American frost.\nHis eyes, like the eyes of all inured to facing death and danger,\npestilence and the bullet, were fierce at times, and keen and\nhaggard; and when tidings came, or it was mooted at mess, that the\nwar-worn regiment of Montgomery was once again to see the Scottish\nshore, poor Louis looked wistfully into his glass, and doubted\nwhether Emmy would know him; for between the French and the Cherokees\nhe had acquired somewhat the aspect of a brigand.\n\nPeace was proclaimed at last, and the Government made an offer to the\nregiment, that such officers and men as might choose to settle in\nAmerica should have grants of land proportioned to their rank and\nservices.  The rest might return to Scotland or volunteer into other\ncorps.  A few remained among the colonists, and on the revolt of\nAmerica in 1775, were the _first men_ to join the standard of George\nIII., who ordered them to be embodied as the 84th or Royal Regiment\nof Highland Emigrants.  The rest--most of whom volunteered to join\nthe Black Watch,--with the band, pipes, and colours, under Louis\nCharters, embarked at New York, and, full of hope and joy, with three\nhearty cheers, as their ship cleft the waters of the Hudson and bore\nthrough the Narrows, saw the future capital of the western world sink\nin the distance and disappear astern.\n\nFive years! .....\n\n\"Emmy must now be nearly nine-and-twenty!\" thought Louis; \"in a month\nfrom this time I shall see her--shall hear her voice--shall be beside\nher again, assuring her that I am the same Louis Charters of other\ndays.\"\n\nBut month after month passed away, and six elapsed after the sailing\nof the transport from New York had been duly notified by the London\nand the Edinburgh Gazettes, and yet no tidings reached Britain of the\nmissing regiment of Montgomery.\n\nDuring all these five long years--those sixty months--those one\nthousand eight hundred and twenty-five days, every one of which had\nbeen counted by poor Louis--how fared it with the beautiful Emmy\nStuart, who was still the belle of the fair city?\n\nSo far as the defective newspapers of those days, when Edinburgh had\nonly _three_ (and those of London seldom came north), supplied\nintelligence, she had traced the operations of Montgomery's\nHighlanders in the Canadas, the States, on the Lakes, and in the West\nIndies, in the despatches of Brigadier Forbes, of Colonel Bouquet,\nLord Rollo, and others; she had frequently seen the name of her lover\nmentioned, as having distinguished himself, and twice as having been\nleft wounded on the field.  I need not dwell on her days and nights\nof sickening sorrow and suspense, which no friendship could alleviate.\n\nSave once, no letter from Louis had ever reached her; yet poor Louis\nhad written many: from among frozen camps and bloody fields--from wet\nbivouacs, and places such as Emmy's gentle mind could never\nconceive--had he written to her the outpourings of his heart,\nbelieving that in due time Emmy would be gazing fondly on the words\nhis hand had traced, and endeavouring to conjure up the tones in\nwhich he would have said all that distance and separation compelled\nhim to commit to paper; but, by a strange fatality, these letters\nnever reached her; yet Emmy, the belle, the coquette, remained true,\nfor she knew the chances of war; and that, until the regiment\nreturned home and he proved false, she could not desert her lover.\n\nBut Willy Douglas of the Black Watch, who had been all this time\ncomfortably recruiting about Perth and Dunkeld (thanks to his uncle,\nthe Duke of Douglas), was wont to remind her that the 40th Regiment\nhad been more than _forty_ years abroad,* and the battalion of\nMontgomery might be quite as long away.\n\n\n* Fact in 1764.\n\n\nAfter three years had passed without letters arriving, Emmy still\nmourned and loved Louis more than ever; while well-meaning friends,\nwho never thought of consulting the army list, assured her that he\nwas killed; but it availed them nought.\n\nThen five years elapsed, and in all that time there came no letter;\nyet, when taunted that Louis had forgotten her, she replied as\nCleopatra did to Alexis when he advised her to deem her lover cruel,\ninconstant, and ungrateful:--\n\n  \"I cannot, if I could; these thoughts were vain;\n  Faithless, ungrateful, cruel if he be,\n  I still must love him!\"\n\n\nBut time changes all things.  A pleasing and sad recollection was now\nbeginning to replace her lively affection for Charters.  Tired of\nworshipping one who had become little more than a beautiful statue,\nher admirers had disappeared gradually, till the assiduous Douglas\nalone remained in the position of a tacit and privileged dangler.\nWilly was an honest-hearted fellow, and with his real love for Emmy\nthere was mingled much of pity for what she suffered on account of\nhis \"devilish neglectful rival,\" as he termed Charters.  Emmy had\nlong been insensible to his addresses; but as Douglas, who was very\nprepossessing, was the nephew of the last Duke of Douglas, and had a\nhandsome fortune, her father frequently, earnestly, and\naffectionately urged her to accept his proposals; while her mother\nreminded her that she was past eight-and-twenty now; and added, that\nin a new and more fortunate attachment--in the love that is supposed\nto follow marriage--she would forget the sorrows of the past.  But\nEmmy, though knowing that this was all mere sophistry, was about to\ngive a silent acquiescence to their schemes, when, turning over the\nleaves of an old periodical, one day, in a dreamy and listless mood,\nher eye fell on the following:--\n\n\"A union of fortunes, _not_ a union of hearts, is the thing generally\naimed at in marriage, and, by those who esteem themselves _prudent_\npeople, is thought the only rational view.  There is no divine\nordinance more frequently disobeyed than that wherein God forbids\nhuman sacrifices, for in no other light can most modern marriages be\nviewed.  Brazen images, indeed, are not the objects of their worship;\na purer metal is their deity.  Every one who reads in ancient history\nof human sacrifices, exclaims against the horrid practice and\ntrembles at the narrative, though there is scarcely one of the female\nreaders, if she is of a marriageable age, who is not ready to deck\nher person, like an adorned victim, in the hope of tempting some\n_golden idol_ to receive a free-will offering.\"\n\nEmmy thought of Douglas's fortune, and the book fell from her hand.\n\n\"No, no,\" she said with a shudder; \"I shall not be the adorned victim\noffered up to this golden idol;\" and from that hour she resolved to\ndecline his addresses.\n\nOn the day succeeding this brave resolution came tidings \"that the\nremnant of Montgomery's Highlanders, under the command of Major Louis\nCharters, had sailed from New York six weeks ago, and were daily\nexpected at Greenock, from whence that gallant corps had sailed for\nthe wars of the Far West in 1758.\"\n\nNow came Emmy's hour of triumph, and already Louis seemed before her,\nloving, trusting, and true; and hourly she expected to have, in his\nown handwriting, assurance of all her heart desired; but, alas! time\nrolled on--days became weeks--weeks became months, and no tidings\nreached Britain of the Highlanders of Montgomery.\n\n\"The lost regiment\" was spoken of from time to time, till even\nfriends, comrades, and relations grew tired of futile surmises, and\ntheir unaccountable disappearance became like a tale that is told--or\na fragment of old and forgotten intelligence.\n\nFor a time a sickening and painful suspense bad been kept alive by\noccasional reports of pieces of wreck, with red coats and tartan\nfluttering about them, having been espied in the Atlantic; vessels\nwaterlogged and abandoned were passed by solitary ships, and averred\nto be the missing transport; craft answering her description had been\nseen to founder in tempests off the banks of Newfoundland; but after\neight months had elapsed nothing was heard of what was emphatically\ncalled _the lost regiment_.\n\nEmmy mourned now for Louis as for one who was dead--one who, after\nall his toil and valour, suffering and constancy (she felt assured he\nhad been constant), was sleeping in the great ocean that had divided\nthem so long.\n\nTired of all this, her friends had arrayed her in mourning as for one\nwho was really dead; and to carry out a plan of realizing this\nconviction, her father had erected in the church of St. John a\nhandsome marble tablet to the memory of Charters; and this cold white\nslab _in memoriam_ met Emmy's heavy eyes every time she raised them\nfrom her prayer-book on Sunday.  So at last Louis was dead--she felt\nconvinced of it, and, with a reluctant and foreboding mind, she\nconsented to a marriage with Captain Douglas of the Black Watch--a\nconsent in which she had but one thought, that in making this\nterrible sacrifice she was only seeking to soothe the anxiety and\ngratify the solicitations of her mother, who was now well up in the\nvale of years, and who loved her tenderly.\n\nEmmy was placid and content; but though even cheerful in appearance,\nshe was not happy; for her cheek was ever pale and her soft hazel\neyes, with their half-drooping lids, failed to veil a restlessness\nthat seemed to search for something vague and undefined.\n\nThey were married.  We will pass over the appearance of the bride,\nher pale beauty, her rich lace, the splendour of all the accessories\nby which the wealth of her father, of her husband, and the solicitude\nof her kind friends surrounded her, and come to the crisis in our\nstory--a crisis in which a lamentable fatality seemed to rule the\ndestinies of the chief actors in our little drama.\n\nThe minister of St. John's Church had just pronounced the nuptial\nblessing, and the pale bride was in her mother's arms, while the\nofficers of the Black Watch were crowding round Douglas with their\nhearty congratulations; a buzz of voices had filled the large\nwithdrawing room, as a hum of gladness succeeded the solemn but\nimpressive monotony of the marriage service, when the sharp rattle of\ndrums and the shrill sound of the fifes ringing in the Southgate of\nPerth struck upon their ears, and the measured march of feet,\nmingling with the rising huzzahs of the people, woke the echoes of\nevery close and wynd.\n\nA foreboding smote the heart of Captain Douglas.  He sprang to a\nwindow and saw the gleam of arms--the glitter of bayonets and\nLochaber axes, with the waving of plumed bonnets above the heads of a\ncrowd which poured along the sunny vista of the Southgate; and, as\nthe troops passed, led by a mounted officer whose left arm was in a\nsling--a bronzed, war-worn, and weatherbeaten band--their tartans\nwere recognised as well as the tattered colours which streamed in\nribbons on the wind, and their name went from mouth to mouth:--\n\n\"The Lost Regiment--the Highlanders of Montgomery!\"\n\nA low cry bunt from Emmy; she threw up her clasped hands, and sank in\na dead faint at her mother's feet.  All was consternation in the\nhouse of Stuart of Tullynairn; and the marriage guests gazed at the\npassing soldiers, as at some fascinating but unreal pageant--but on\nthey marched, cheering, to the barracks, with drums beating and pipes\nplaying; and now the mounted officer, who had been gazing wistfully\nat the crowded windows, stoops from his saddle and whispers a few\nwords to another--Alaster the One-handed, now a captain--then he\nturns his horse, and, dismounting at the door, is heard to ascend the\nstair; and in another moment, Louis Charters, sallow, thin, and\nhollow-eyed, by long toil and suffering, his left arm in a sling and\nhis right cheek scarred by a shot, stands amid all these\ngaily-attired guests in his fighting jacket, the scarlet of which had\nlong since become threadbare and purple.\n\nHe immediately approached Emmy, who had now partially recovered and\ngazed at him, as one might gaze at a spectre, when Douglas threw\nhimself forward with a hand on his sword.\n\n\"What is the meaning of all this?\" said Louis, who grew ashy pale,\nand whose voice sank into Emmy's soul; \"have you all forgotten\nme--Louis Charters of Montgomery's Regiment?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Douglas, \"but your presence here at such a time is most\nunfeeling and inopportune.\"\n\n\"Unfeeling and inopportune--I--Miss Stuart--Emmy--\"\n\n\"Miss Stuart has just been made my wedded wife; thus any remarks you\nhave to make, sir, you will please address to _me_.\"\n\nLouis started as if a scorpion had stung him, and his trembling hand\nsought the hilt of his sword; here the old minister addressed him\nkindly, imploringly, and the guests crowded between them, but he\ndashed them all aside and turned from the house, without a word or\nglance from Emmy.  Poor Emmy! dismay had frozen her, and mute despair\nglared in her haggard yet still beautiful eyes.\n\n\"Half an hour earlier and I had saved her and saved myself!\"\nexclaimed Charters, bitterly; \"the half-hour I loitered in\nStrathearn!\" for he had halted there to refresh his weary soldiers.\n\nAnd now to explain this sudden reappearance.\n\nTempest-tossed and under jurymasts, after long beating against\nadverse winds, the transport, with the remnant of his regiment, had\nbeen driven to 37 and 40 degrees of north latitude, and was stranded\non the small isles of Corvo and Flores, two of the most western and\ndetached of the Azores.  There they had been lingering among the\nPortuguese for seven months, unknown to and unheard of by our\nGovernment; and it was not until Charters, leaving Alaster Grant in\ncommand at Corvo, had visited Angra, the capital of the island, and\nurged the necessity of having his soldiers transmitted home, that he\nprocured a ship at Ponta del Gada, the largest town of these islands,\nand sailing with the still reduced remnant of his corps--for many had\nperished with the foundered transport--he landed at Greenock, from\nwhence he was ordered at once to join the 2nd battalion of the Black\nWatch, into which his soldiers had volunteered, and which, by a\nstrange fatality, was quartered in Perth--the home of his Emmy, and\nthe place where for five long years he had garnered up his thoughts\nand dearest hopes.\n\nThe reader may imagine the emotions of poor Emmy on finding that her\nlover lived, and that her heart was thus cruelly wrenched away from\nall it had treasured and cherished for years.  Then, as if to\naggravate her sorrow, our battalion marched the next day for foreign\nservice, and Louis again embarked for America, the land of his toil,\nwithout relentless fate permitting Emmy to excuse or explain herself.\n\nDouglas left the corps and took his wife to Paris, where he fell in a\nduel with a Jacobite refugee.\n\nEmmy lived to be a very old woman, but she never smiled again.\n\nThus were two fond hearts separated for ever.\n\nThree months after Louis landed in America, he died of a broken heart\nsay some; of the marsh fever say others.  He was then on the march\nwith a detachment of ours up the Mississippi, a long route of 1500\nmiles, to take possession of Fort Charters in the Illinois.  His\nfriend, a Captain Grant--Alaster the One-handed--performed the last\noffices for him, and saw him rolled in a blanket, and buried at the\nfoot of a cotton-tree, where the muskets of the Black Watch made the\nechoes of the vast prairie ring as they poured three farewell volleys\nover the last home of a brave but lonely heart.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nTHE MASSACRE AT FORT WILLIAM HENRY.\n\nWhen the Black Watch sailed for America, in 1706, to serve under the\nheroic Wolfe and fight against the Marquis of Montcalm, the\nlieutenant of the 7th company was Roderick MacGillivray, known in the\nranks by his local patronymic, Roderick Ruadh (or the Red) of\nGlenarrow, a gentleman of the Clan Chattan, who, eleven years before,\nhad been a captain in the army of Prince Charles Edward, and had\nserved throughout the memorable campaign of 1745-6.  In his heart\nRoderick MacGillivray had no love either for the service or sovereign\nof Britain, whom he considered as the butcher of his countrymen, and\nthe usurper of their crown; but his estate of Glenarrow had been\nforfeited; he was penniless, and having a young wife to maintain, he\nwas glad to accept a commission in the Royal Highlanders--a favour he\nprocured through the interest of one who has already been mentioned\nin these pages, Louis Charters, who served at Fort du Quesne, as\nalready related in the legend of the \"Lost Regiment.\"\n\nIn those days there were many soldiers in the ranks of our regiment\nwho had served in the army of Prince Charles, and who deemed his\nfather, James VIII., the undoubted sovereign of these realms, by that\nhereditary right, which, as their Celtic proverb has it, \"will face\nthe rocks,\" and which they deemed as sacred and immutable as if the\nbreath of God had ordained it.  Thus they served George II., not\nbecause they wavered in their loyalty to their native kings, but\nbecause they hated his enemies the French, whom they knew to have\nbetrayed the cause of the clans, and in the hope that a time would\nyet come when the standard which Tullybardine, the loyal and true,\nunfurled in Glenfinnan, would again wave over a field in which God\nwould defend the right.\n\nAnd such thoughts and hopes as these were the theme of many a poor\nsoldier of the Reicudan Dhu, in their tents and bivouacs, on the\nplains of Flanders, on the Heights of Abraham, and by the vast and\nthen untrodden shores of the American lakes.\n\nSimilar thoughts, and the memory of all he had endured at the hands\nof the victorious party, together with the confiscation of his\nestate, which had descended to him through twelve generations of\nmartial ancestors, made Roderick MacGillivray a grave and somewhat\nsombre man.  He had fought valiantly in the first line at Culloden,\nwhere he was one of the guard, the _Leine Chrios_ (_i.e._ Shirt of\nMail, or Children of the Belt) around the Laird of Dunmacglas,* who\nled the Macintoshes, and who was next day murdered by the English\nsoldiers, when found all but dead of wounds upon the field, where\nthey dashed out his brains by the butts of their muskets as he lay in\nthe arms of his distracted wife.\n\n\n* The Fort of the Greyman's Son.\n\n\nAfter that day, MacGillivray became a fugitive and outlaw, but was\nhappy enough to be one of those eight brave men who, with MacDonald\nof Glenaladale--the faithful, the gentle, and the true\nGlenaladale--watched, guarded, and tended by night and by day the\nunfortunate Prince Charles in the wild cavern of Coire-gaoth among\nthe beautiful Braes of Glenmorriston.  There these starving and\noutlawed men made a bed of heather for the royal fugitive, and there\nhe slept and lurked in perfect security, though thirty thousand\npounds were set upon his head by George II., and though the Saxon\ndrum was heard, where the flames of rapine were seen rising on the\nvast steeps of Corryarrack.\n\nThe memory of those stirring days--this companionship with the son of\nhis exiled King, with _Prionse Tearlach Righ nan Ghael_, words that\nwere said and promises made, with all that winning charm of manner,\nfor which the princes of the House of Stuart were so remarkable, sank\ndeep in Roderick's heart; and there were times when in his soul he\npanted for the hour when again the White Rose would shed its bloom\nupon the wasted Highland hills, when the swift vengeance of the loyal\nwould fall on the faithless clans of the west, and the shrill wild\npibroch of the Clan Chattan would ring in fierce triumph above the\nburial mounds at Culloden.\n\nAnd so he hoped and thought, and watched and waited, but that new day\nof battle never came!\n\nHis secret aspirations were shared to the full by his young wife,\nMary MacDonald, who was a grand-daughter of MacVicIan, the chieftain\nof Glencoe, the terrible Williamite episode in whoso history can yet\nmake the brow of every Highlander darken.  But Mary was gentle and\ntimid; she had seen too much of war and bloodshed, of butchery and\nterror in her girlhood, during the time that followed Culloden; and\nthough she prayed in her innocent little heart for the restoration of\nScotland's exiled kings, it was in peace she would have wished it\nachieved.\n\nIn the ancient fashion of the Highlands, Roderick on the day of their\nmarriage had bestowed on Mary--in addition to the espousal ring--an\nantique brooch; one of those old marriage gifts which were usually\ngiven on such occasions.  It had been worn by many matrons of his\nhouse, and thus became invested with many deep and endearing\nmemories: association, old tales of the love, the spirit and virtue\nof the dead, hallowed the gift, for it had shone on many a soft\nbreast that had long since mouldered in the dust.  Being circular, it\nwas the mystic emblem of eternity, and bore the crest of the Clan\nGillibhreac--a cat, with the significant motto in the old Gaelic\nletter--\n\n  \"_Touch not the cat without the glove;_\"\n\nand as her own life Mary prized this old bridal brooch, the dearest\ngift her husband could bestow upon her.\n\nWhen MacGillivray joined the regiment, Mary was in her twentieth\nyear.  She was pale and more than pretty, having that dazzling white\nskin for which the women of her clan are said to excel all others in\nScotland; but of old the same was said of the Campbells and the\nDrummonds.  Her hair was black; her eyes, deep and quiet, were dark\nhazel, and her features were unexceptionable.  She was neither\nbrilliant nor beautiful, but there was a sweetness and delicacy in\nher smile and manner that touched and won the hearts of all who knew\nher.  There was a sadness, too, in her air and tone, for the most of\nher kindred had perished in the Glencoe massacre, or at Culloden.\nShe was thus alone in the world, with none to shield or shelter her\nbut her husband--he who was now beginning a life of war and\nperil--the savage war and double peril of a campaign in America, a\nwild and untrodden land of barbarous hordes and mighty forests.  She\nshrank with a terror of the prospect before them, and viewed with\ndismay the many lesser horrors which surrounded her in a crowded\ntransport of those days.\n\nMacGillivray sailed on board the _Mercury_, the master of which was\nJames Cooke, afterwards the celebrated navigator.\n\n\"Twain of heart and of purpose,\" husband and wife were to each other\nall in all; and the Celtic soldiers, who knew their story well, said\nin their own forcible language, that if the bullet of a Frenchman or\nthe arrow of an Indian brought death to Roderick Ruadh, the daughter\nof MacVicIan would not survive him long.\n\nEach scarcely knew how deep was the love of the other; for the Scots\nare not a demonstrative people, and the most powerful emotions of the\nheart are those which they have been taught, perhaps erroneously, to\nconceal; but of this negative quality we find less in the more\nimpulsive Celt.  The ardour of love had now been succeeded by the\naffection of marriage, and the sincerity of friendship had replaced\nthe glow of passion; but Roderick's enthusiasm in the estimate of\nperfect excellence by which he judged his own little wife was only\nequalled by the standard which she had formed for him.  To make her\nhappy was to be himself happy, and it was the study of his life to\nsurround her with such comforts as a camp and barrack or transport\nafforded upon the pay of a lieutenant of the line in the days of\nGeorge II.  \"England,\" says honest Harry _Coverdale_, \"expects every\nman to do his duty, and occasionally recompenses him for it with\nhonourable starvation.\"  And such was indeed a subaltern's pay in\n1757.\n\nIn their new mode of existence all seclusion was destroyed; and amid\nthe whirl of a military life, the hurry of embarkation for foreign\nservice, and in the narrow recess allotted to her in the transport,\nodious by the odour of tar, tobacco, and bilge water, poor Mary\nsighed for the hum of the summer bee, and for the free, pure breeze\nthat waved the heather bells in Glencoe, or for her husband's once\nhappy home in Glenarrow, roofless and ruined now, as the flames and\nthe devastators of the ducal butcher had left it.\n\n\"We have lost all, Mary,\" said Roderick, bitterly, as one evening she\nsat on deck, nestled in his plaid, and whispering of these things and\nof other times; \"all but the name of our fathers have gone to the\nCampbells of Breadalbane, for they have become the lords of all.\"\n\n\"But a time shall come, Roderick, when these usurpations and another\nstill greater shall end, and then the Clan Donald, the MacGregors,\nthe MacIntyres of Glen O, and the race of MacVicar, like the King,\nshall enjoy their own again.\"\n\n\"Mhari, laoghe mo chri--Mary, calf of my heart,\" replied the husband,\nfolding her, with a smile, to his breast; \"but this will never be----\"\n\n\"Until the _fatal plaid_ floats down Loch Fyne,\" she added, with a\nsmile.\n\nThere is a Highland prophecy, that a time is coming when a plaid of\nmany colours shall float down Loch Fyne from the Ara to the Firth of\nClyde, and then the eagles from a thousand hills shall assemble, and\neach take therefrom a piece of his own colour; and this is to be the\nday of general restoration by the Campbells of all of which they have\ndispossessed the clans of the west.\n\nUnder Colonel Francis Grant of Grant (afterwards a\nlieutenant-general) the regiment landed in America, where the\npeculiar garb of the Highlanders astonished the Indians, who, during\nthe march to Albany, \"flocked from all quarters to see these\nstrangers, who they believed were of the same extraction as\nthemselves, and therefore received as brothers;\" for the long\nhunting-shirt of the Indians resembled the kilt, as their moccassins\ndid the gartered hose, their striped blanket the shoulder plaid, and\nthey too had round shields and knives, like the target and dirk of\nthe Celt; hence, according to General Stewart, \"the Indians were\ndelighted to see a European regiment in a costume so similar to their\nown.\"\n\nAt this period our officers wore a narrow gold braiding round their\njackets, but all epaulettes and lace bad been laid aside to render\nthem less conspicuous to the Canadian riflemen.  The sergeants laced\ntheir coats with silver, and still carried the terrible _tuagh_ or\nLochaber axe, the head of which was fitted for hooking, hewing, or\nspearing an enemy.\n\nAfter remaining in quarters at Albany for some months, during the\nwinter and spring of 1757, the Black Watch were exercised in\nbush-fighting and sharpshooting; and amid the dense copsewood or\njungle which covered the western margin of the Hudson, on the rugged,\nstern, and sterile banks of the Mohawk, among woods of stunted pine,\ndwarf shrubs, and sedge grass, they soon revived the skill they had\nattained as hardy hunters, deerstalkers, and deadly shots on their\nnative hills; but when they fairly took the field, their ardour and\nimpatience often lured them within the fire of the more wary and\ncunning Indians who served the Marquis of Montcalm.\n\nSo expert, brave, and active did the soldiers of the Black Watch\nprove themselves in skirmishing, that when, in the beginning of\nsummer, a plan was formed to reduce Louisbourg, and they joined the\narmy destined for that purpose under Major-General Abercrombie, a\ndetachment of fifty chosen men, under the orders of MacGillivray of\nGlenarrow, departed to reinforce the little garrison in Fort William\nHenry, on the southern bank of the beautiful Lake George, a sheet of\nclear water, which is thirty-three miles long and two miles broad,\nand which, on its northern quarter, near Ticonderoga (that place of\nfatal memory to the Royal Highlanders), discharges itself into Lake\nChamplain.  It is surrounded by high mountains of the most romantic\nbeauty.\n\nHere, then, lay a garrison of nearly three thousand British soldiers,\ncommanded by Colonel Munro, a veteran Highland officer of great\ncourage and experience, who had for some time successfully protected\nthe frontier of the English colonies, and by his cannon covered the\nwaters of the lake, the double purpose for which the fort had been\nbuilt.  Before the departure of MacGillivray, a serious _malheur_ had\noccurred near this place.\n\nMunro having heard that the French advanced guard, composed of\nregulars and Indians, had reached Ticonderoga, sent Colonel John\nParker, with four hundred soldiers, down the lake in bay-boats to\nbeat up their quarters; but three of his boat crews being captured,\nhis design became known to M. Beauchatel, the officer in command.\nParker was lured into an ambush, and the most dreadful scene of\nmassacre and scalping ensued.  His detachment was literally cut to\npieces, only two officers and seventy privates escaping, of the four\nhundred who left the garrison of Munro.\n\nIt was on a beautiful evening when MacGillivray's party of\nHighlanders, marching from the mountains that look down on Lake\nChamplain, came suddenly in view of Lake George.  They had their\nmuskets slung, and were encumbered by their knapsacks, havresacks,\ncanteens, and blankets, and the live-long day had toiled to reach the\nfort ere night fell; for to halt in that woody district, teeming as\nit was with the savage Iroquois of Montcalm, would have been a\nmeasure fraught with danger and death.  MacGillivray came in rear of\nhis little band, leading by the bridle a stout pony, on the pad of\nwhich his wife was mounted, for she was ever the object of his\ntenderest solicitude.  This pony was a sturdy little nag, but the\nlong march from Albany had somewhat impaired its vigour, and now it\nwas beginning to fail when almost at the end of the journey.\n\nWith the detachment of MacGillivray were two of his comrades in the\nlate civil war, Alaster MacGregor, from Glengyle, and Ewen Chisholm,\none of the faithful men of Glenmorriston, who guarded the Prince in\nthe Coire-gaoth.\n\nThe sun was setting, and his gorgeous disc seemed for a time to\nlinger among clouds of saffron, crimson, and purple, that were piled\nin glowing masses above the wooded hills, some of which were a\nthousand feet in height, and surrounded the waters and islets of Lake\nGeorge--named by the Indians of old the Horican, and by the Pilgrim\nFathers the Lake of the Sacrament; for, charmed by the limpid purity\nof the water and the sylvan beauty of the scenery, it had been\nselected, especially by the Jesuits, as a place for procuring the\nelement of baptism.  But now for the old Indian name had been\nsubstituted that of his Majesty George II.; while, to awe the\nMohawks, the Oneidas, the Tuscaroras, and to keep the French in\ncheck, Fort William Henry--named after another prince of the House of\nBrunswick--had been built, as related, upon the southern margin of\nthe lake.\n\nLike all American forts, it was formed with earthen ramparts, covered\nby rich green turf, and defended by tall stockades of dry white\ntimber.  Within were seen the shingle-covered roofs of the low\nbarrack buildings, tarred and painted black, and all glistening in\nthe sunshine.  Two of the lower bastions were faced with stone and\nwashed by the azure water of Lake George, while a deep fosse secured\nthe fort on the landward, and dangerous morasses protected its\nflanks.  Beyond lay a cleared space, where the timber of the old\nprimeval forest had been cut down for garrison purposes.  The\nbayonets of the sentinels flashed like stars on the green ramparts\never and anon, while some thirty or forty lines of steady horizontal\nlight marked where the setting sun shone on the iron guns that peered\nthrough the embrasures, or frowned _en barbette_ above the slope of\nthe parapets.\n\nThe gaudy Union Jack hung unwaved upon its staff.  As evening closed\nin, masses of vapour ascended from the bosom of the deep blue water,\nand wreathed like white and golden scarfs about the summits of the\nmountains, whose tops were mellowed in the distance, and those rocky\nbluffs that start forward from the wooded slopes, as if to break the\nharmony of the scenery by a few darker and bolder features.  As the\nlast vestige of the sun sank, and its rays alone remained to play\nupon the clouds above and the ripples of the Horican below, the boom\nof the evening gun was heard pealing through the wilderness with a\nhundred solemn reverberations; and as the flag descended from its\nstaff on the fort, a sound on the soft and ambient air came floating\nup the mountainside.\n\n\"The drummers are beating the evening _retreat_, Mary,\" said\nMacGillivray to his wife, who was looking pale and weary; \"in\nhalf-an-hour we shall be with old Munro.\"\n\n\"Yonder fort is like some place I have seen before,\" said she,\npressing her husband's hand.\n\n\"Aye, Lady Glenarrow,\" responded Ewen Chisholm, coming close with the\neasy familiarity of a Highlander--a familiarity that is destitute of\nall assurance; \"you are thinking of Fort George, for there are the\nsame palisades and the same fashion of ramparts washed by the waves\nof the Moray Firth; but oich! oich! we miss green Ard-na-saor.\"\n\n\"And the Black Isle, and the Chanonry-ness, Ewen,\" added MacGillivray.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said Mary, thoughtfully, to the soldiers in their own\nlanguage; \"the land is beautiful; but it is not _home_.  Then what is\nit to us?\"\n\n\"Yet,\" said Ewen, \"here is a badge for your bonnet, MacGillivray,\nand, though of American growth, you cannot despise it.\"\n\n\"Thanks, Ewen,\" said the officer, with a kindling eye, as he placed\nthe gift in his bonnet.\n\nIt was a sprig of the red whortleberry, the badge of those of his\nname in Scotland, where they are styled the _Clann Gillibhreac_, \"or\nthe Sons of the Freckled Man.\"\n\nThe elm, the ash, the cypress, the chesnut, the pine, and the beech,\nall mingled their varied foliage above the narrow track or Indian\ntrail the soldiers were pursuing, while a thousand flowers and\nshrubs, to them unknown, flourished in all the rich luxuriance of\nthis new world into which they were penetrating, and the musk-rat,\nthe racoon, and the fox scampered before them from tree to tree as\nthey proceeded.\n\n\"Hark!\" exclaimed Alaster MacGregor, a wary old forester, \"something\non two feet stirs in the bush!\"\n\n\"Dioul! and see, Alaster, the objects are close enough,\" added the\nofficer.\n\nAt a part of the wood where it became more open by the trees having\nbeen cut away, and where the ground shelved abruptly down to the\ndepth of eighty or a hundred feet, they suddenly came in view of two\nIndians gliding stealthily from stem to stem, as if seeking to elude\nobservation.  Their wild and horrid aspect caused the timid wife of\nMacGillivray to utter a faint cry of terror, while the whole\ndetachment halted simultaneously to observe them, and began\ninstinctively to handle their muskets.\n\n\"They are Iroquois,\" whispered MacGillivray to his sergeant; \"I was\ntold that Montcalm had filled all the woods around Lake George with\nthe cursed tribes of that race.\"\n\n\"One of them is carrying something,\" replied the sergeant, as he\nshred away by his Lochaber axe a magnificent azalea, the flowers and\nfoliage of which obscured his view.\n\n\"It is a child--a poor little child,\" exclaimed Mary, piteously.\n\"Listen to its cry of despair!\"\n\n\"The child of a white man, by Heaven!\" added MacGillivray.  \"Come\nhither you that are the best shots, and bring yonder rascals down;\nbut fire one it a time, lest we needlessly alarm the fort, or, what\nis worse, bring all the tribes of the Iroquois upon us.\"\n\nBoth these savages were nearly nude.  Their skins had the deep and\ntawny red of their race, but were streaked with war paint.  One was\ndaubed over red and blue, and the other who bore the child was\nstriped with white lines, and these glaring upon a background so\nsombre, gave him the horrible aspect of a walking skeleton.  Their\nheads were closely shaved, or by some other process divested of all\nhair, save the scalp-lock, in which was tied a tuft of eagles'\nfeathers.  Each had the terrible tomahawk and scalping-knife\nglittering at his gay wampum girdle, and each bore a French musket\nornamented with brass rings.  One wore over his shoulder the fur of a\nwild animal; the other had nothing across his bare, brawny chest but\nthe buff belt of a cartridge-box.  By their weapons they were at once\nknown to be allies of the Marquis de Montcalm, who with a policy,\nalike dangerous and ungenerous, had armed the six nations of the\nIroquois against the British.\n\nOn finding themselves perceived, the savages uttered a wild laugh of\nderision, and the skeleton--he who bore the child, a poor little boy\nof some three or four years--waved him thrice round his head, as if\nwith the intention of dashing out his brains against a tree; then,\nsuddenly seeming to change his mind, he deliberately deposited him on\nthe ground, and grasping a handful of the boy's golden hair in his\nbrown fingers, drew his scalping-knife from the tail-piece of a\nmusk-rat, the skin of which formed his hunting-pouch: but now a wild\ncry of entreaty from Mary MacGillivray made him pause.\n\n\"Ewen Chisholm--Alaster, shoot--shoot, at all hazards!\" exclaimed her\nhusband.\n\nEwen knelt down, took a deliberate aim, and then paused, for the\nIroquois was also on his knees, and had artfully interposed the child\nbetween his person and the soldiers.\n\n\"Fire, Ewen, I command you; fire at all hazards!\" reiterated\nMacGillivray, impetuously; \"'tis better for the poor child to die by\na bullet than by an Indian's knife--a poisoned one, perhaps.\"\n\nThe Iroquois raised his arm for the purpose of giving the knife one\nvigorous sweep round the scalp of the child, who was frozen with\nfear; but at that moment Ewen fired.  The ball pierced the red skin\nnear the shoulder; with a yell of rage he dropped his weapon, and\nplunging into the woods disappeared.  A shot from the musket of\nAlaster MacGregor brought down his companion, who though one of his\nlegs was broken, endeavoured to crawl away, but was overtaken by the\nsoldiers, and roughly dragged up the slope to the forest path.  The\nrescued child clung to his preservers, and to the neck of Mary\nMacGillivray, who placed him on her saddle-bow, and with that\nmotherly tenderness and those caresses which come so naturally from a\nkind and amiable woman, endeavoured to calm the terrors his late\nadventure had excited.\n\nWith a sudden glare of defiance, the wounded Iroquois surveyed those\ncaptors at whose hands he expected immediate immolation.\n\nSeveral bayonets were directed against him, and more than one musket\nwas clubbed butt-end uppermost to close his career, when Mary\ninterposed and begged that his life might be spared, on which the\nHighlanders drew back.  The glittering eyes of the Iroquois were\nfixed upon her, and though he knew not the language in which she\nspoke, he was aware that to her intercession he owed his life, and\nsmiled; for, Indian like, he despised the manhood of men who could be\nswayed by a woman.  Thus he evinced neither surprise nor gratitude,\nnor even pain, though his wounded limb bled freely, and must have\noccasioned him exquisite torment.  By Mary's desire the limb was\nbound up, and in a few minutes the astonished savage found himself\nplaced across four muskets, and borne towards the fort, which was now\nlittle more than a quarter of a mile distant.  From time to time he\nglanced keenly and sharply into the adjacent thickets, as if\nexpecting a rescue, but none appeared; and on finding himself clear\nof the forest he doubtless gave himself up for lost.\n\n\"We are close to the gates,\" said MacGillivray to the piper; \"play\nup, Alisdair Bane.\"\n\n\"Bodoich n' m briogois?\" suggested the piper, assuming his drones.\n\nThe officer assented, and soon the far-stretching dingles of American\nforest were ringing to the stirring notes of Lord Breadalbane's\nmarch, while the tones of the instrument seemed to astonish and\nexcite the terror of the Indian, in front of whom the piper was\nstrutting with that lofty port peculiar to his profession.\nConsidering this to be probably a prelude to his being scalped and\nslain, the Iroquois smiled disdainfully, remembered that he was a\nwarrior, and relapsed into his previous state of apathetic\nindifference, resolved that in the death of torment for which he\ndoubted not he was reserved, to perish with the phlegmatic coolness\nand iron resolution of his race.\n\nThese Iroquois were a confederation of tribes, who supported each\nother in battle in a manner not unlike the sixteen confederated clans\nknown in Scotland as the Clan Chattan.  The chief of the Iroquois\nwere the Mohawks, who resided on the Mohawk River and the banks of\nthose lakes which still bear their name, and from thence they\nextended their conquests beyond the Mississippi and the St. Lawrence,\nsubduing the Eries, the Hurons, the Ottawas and five other tribes,\ntill they became the terror of their enemies by their ferocity and\nvalour; but even these were forced to yield at last to British rule.*\n\n\n* In the Army List of the 15th September, 1816, will be found among\n_officers_ having the local rank of _Major_ in Canada, \"John Norton,\n_alias_ Teyoninhakawaren, Captain and leader of the Indians of the\nFive Nations.\"\n\n\nThe report of the musket-shots had reached the fort, where the\nmainguard and a strong inlying piquet were under arms when the\nHighlanders marched in.  They were received by their countryman\nColonel Munro, who, to his astonishment and joy, discovered in the\nlittle fellow who nestled in the arms of the mounted lady, his own\nson and only child Eachin (or Hector), who had been abstracted--but\nhow, none could tell--from the gate of the fort by some of the\nlurking Indians.\n\nThe colonel was a brave and veteran officer, who had recently been\ndeprived, by death, of a young wife.  She had left him this little\nboy, and the heart of the soldier was filled with lively gratitude\nfor the rescue of one whom he prized more than life.  After pouring\nout his thanks to MacGillivray, he turned sternly towards the\nIroquois.  A sudden glow of anger for the narrow escape of the child\nmade him unsheath his sword, with the intention of passing it through\nthe heart of the Indian, to destroy him, as one might slay a reptile\nor wild animal; but again Mary interposed, saying,--\n\n\"For my sake, spare him, Colonel Munro.\"\n\n\"I cannot refuse you anything, madam,\" replied the old soldier,\ncourteously, lowering the point of his sword; \"and I would that you\nhad something of greater value to ask of me than the life of a\nwretched Iroquois; but it shall be spared--ay, and his wound shall be\ndressed, if such is your wish.\"\n\n\"Thanks, dear colonel.\"\n\n\"But, bear in mind, madam,\" continued Munro, pressing his little boy\nclose to his breast, \"that were the case reversed and we at the mercy\nof the Iroquois, even as this tawny villain is at ours, we should be\nstripped, bound to trees, and put to death by such torments as devils\nalone could devise.  And now, MacGillivray, though doubtless weary\nwith your long march, ere you refresh, tell me (for here amid the\nwilds of the Horican, we hear nothing but the whoop of the wild\nIroquois, the yells of the Mohawks, and, now and then, a rattle of\nmusketry) what news of the war?\"\n\n\"The Earl of London has marched to besiege Louisbourg!\"\n\n\"And delayed his attack upon Crown Point?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I expected so much.  Since the capture of Oswego, the French have\nremained masters of the lakes, and collecting the Indians, force or\nlure them, like the Iroquois, to serve King Louis, and thus all our\nsettlements on the Mohawk River and the German Flats have been\ndestroyed and the land laid as waste and desolate as--\"\n\n\"The Braes of Lochaber after Culloden,\" said MacGillivray, with a\nlouring eye.\n\n\"While here with red coats on us, let us think no more of Culloden,\"\nreplied Munro in a low voice.  \"But what news of Montcalm?  Our\nscouts assert he is moving up this way to besiege me.\"\n\n\"At Abercrombie's head-quarters, all say that, elated by recent\nadvantages, Louis de St. Veran, and his second in command, the Baron\nde Beauchatel, are desirous of attempting something great.\"\n\n\"And that something--\"\n\n\"Will be the destruction of Fort William Henry, as it covers the\nfrontiers and commands Lake George.\"\n\n\"But does the commander-in-chief expect that I, with only three\nthousand regulars, will be able to withstand the whole French army?\"\nasked Munro, with a stern and anxious whisper.\n\n\"No--General Webb--\"\n\n\"Old Dan Webb of the 48th?\"\n\n\"With a column of infantry, was to leave headquarters a day or two\nafter us to succour you, and Fort Edward is to be the base of his\noperations.  Meanwhile, I with my fifty Highland marksmen, pushed on\nas a species of avant-garde.\"\n\n\"Then both Webb and Montcalm are _en route_ for this locality?\"\n\n\"'Tis a race, and he who wins may win Fort William Henry.\"\n\n\"In three days a great game shall have been played here, perhaps,\"\nsaid Munro, thoughtfully; \"but to God and our own valour we must\ncommit the event; and now, madam, a hundred pardons for leaving you\nhere so long,\" he added, bowing to Mary, and with that old air of\nScoto-French gallantry which Scott has so well portrayed in his\n\"Baron of Bradwardine,\" he drew the glove from his right hand, and\nraised his little triangular hat; \"permit me to lead you to my\nquarters until your own are prepared, and wo shall have a cheerful\nevening's chat about poor old Scotland, and the homes we may never\nsee again.  When I first heard the sound of your pipe rising up from\nthe dingles of yonder forest, and saw the tartans waving as your\nHighlanders marched up the gate, I cannot describe the emotions that\nfilled my heart.  The thoughts of home and other times came thronging\nthick and fast upon my memory--kinsmen and friends, father, mother,\nand wife--voices and faces of years long passed away, of the loved,\nthe lost, and the dead, were there with the memory of _all_ that the\nvoice of the war-pipe rouses in the heart of an exiled Scotsman; but\nenough of this!  And now, to you, madam, and to you, MacGillivray, as\nwe say in the land of hills and eagles, a hundred thousand welcomes\nto Fort William Henry!\"\n\nThe wounded Iroquois was consigned to the temporary hospital of the\nfort; the newly arrived Highlanders were \"told off\" (as the phrase\nis) to their quarters, and in one hour after, when the last roll of\nthe drum at the tattoo had died away, and when the rising moon shone\nover the wooded mountains on the clear glassy water and green islets\nof Lake George, all was still in Fort William Henry, and nothing\nseemed moving but the bayonets flashing back the rays of silver on\ntheir tips, as the muffled sentinels trod to and fro upon the\npalisadoed ramparts.\n\nThe fatigue of her journey northwards from Albany to Lake George had\nproved too much for the delicate wife of MacGillivray, as at this\ntime she was on the eve of adding a little stranger to the number of\nthe garrison, and thus the solicitude of her husband for her health\nand safety, in a crowded fort, prepared for a desperate siege, and\nsituated in a wild district, now swarming with hostile Indians,\nbecame at times alike deep and painful.  The issue of the coming\nstrife, none could foretell, and Roderick knew that if aught fatal\nhappened to him, Mary and her babe--the babe he might not be spared\nto see--would be alone, in this far world of the west, exposed to\npenury, to perils and horrors, which his mind could neither\ncontemplate nor conceive.\n\nThe first and second day after their arrival passed without any alarm.\n\nOn the third, Mary visited the wounded Indian, and gave him some\nlittle comforts prepared by her own hands.  His limb had been simply\nfractured, and the wound, which was not so severe as had been at\nfirst supposed, was now healing rapidly.  He received her with a\nbright smile of recognition--perhaps of gratitude, for he remembered\nthat she had twice saved his life--first from the bayonets of the\nHighlanders, and secondly from the sword of Colonel Munro.  His\nfeatures were rather regular and handsome, and save for their deep\ntawny tint and strong lines, not unlike those of many Europeans.  He\nreceived her presents, and then relapsed into moody and sullen\nsilence; but Mary, whose tender nature felt pity for the poor Indian\nwho was deemed and treated little better than a dog by those around\nhim, had learned some of the native language from an old Ottawa woman\nwho had acted as her servant in Albany; and now she made an effort to\naddress the savage in that singular mixture of Canadian-French,\nEnglish, and Indian, which formed the usual medium of communication\nwith the natives.  She asked his name.\n\n\"Orono,\" he replied in a husky voice, while his eyes brightened, and\na red deeper even than the warpaint and the glass beads he wore,\nspread under his tawny skin.\n\n\"And he who accompanied you?\"\n\n\"Ossong, a Mohawk warrior, and a brave one!  Before the door of his\nwigwam a hundred scalps of the Yengees are drying in the wind.\"\n\nMary uttered a faint exclamation of horror, but the savage smiled,\nand said--\n\n\"Are no men ever killed in your country?\"\n\n\"And what meant you to do with the child?\"\n\nThe stealthy and cunning eyes of Orono lowered for a moment; then, as\na gleam of unutterable ferocity spread over his striped visage, he\nanswered--\n\n\"To have kept him till we could get the grey scalp of the white chief\nhis father.\"\n\n\"And then----\"\n\n\"We would have given him to an old pawaw, as a son, to replace one\nslain by the white chief two moons ago; but I will pardon him all\nwrong for the sake of you, the pale-face who have been so kind to me.\"\n\nAs he said this the Indian took the tiny white hand of Mary in his\nstrong brown muscular fingers, and attempted to place it on his bare\nhead near the scalp-lock, in token of amity and future service; but\nshe shrank bock in terror and with a repugnance which she could not\nrepress, and once more the malevolent gleam which always filled her\nwith dread, shone in the glittering eyes of the Red Indian.\n\n\"Have you a wife, Orono?\" she asked, to conciliate him.\n\n\"Orono _had_ a wife,\" replied the Indian, sadly; \"a girl of the\nOneidas, and he had two little children for whom she boiled the rice\nand maize, and wove bright belts of wampum.  Orono had a mother too,\nwho shared his wigwam by the sunny bank of the Horican; but three\nmoons ago the red warriors came, his wigwam was burned, his cattle\ntaken, the trees were cut down, and the mother, the squaw, and the\nchildren of Orono were all destroyed, as we would destroy the big\nsnakes in the reeds or the otter in the swamps.  And they slew his\nfather--an aged warrior, a man of many moons, and many, many days,\nwho remembered when first the great fire-spouting canoes of the\nYengees, with their huge white sails, came over the salt lake from\nbeyond the rising sun; but they slew him also--all, all!  Father,\nmother, squaw, and papoose--cattle and dog; nothing was left but a\nlittle heap of cinders to mark where the wigwam stood: all were gone,\nlike the flowers of last summer--gone to the happy hunting grounds of\nthe Iroquois,\" he added, pointing westward.\n\n\"And poor Orono is left quite alone!\" said Mary, patting his shoulder\nkindly, for the story of the Indian impressed her by its resemblance\nto the fate of her own family in Glencoe, and to many an episode of\nmurder and outrage after Culloden; \"alone,\" she added, \"in this great\nselfish world!\"\n\n\"To revenge them; and for this I have trod on the pipe of peace and\ndug up the war-hatchet!\" he replied in a voice like the hiss of a\nsnake, while his eyes glared like two red carbuncles in the dusk of\nthe evening, as Mary retired in dismay.\n\nEre the night was finally set in her tender sympathies for her new\nfriend received a severe shock.  To her husband, who had just\nreturned from a reconnoitring expedition, she was relating her\ninterview with Orono, when the sharp report of two muskets echoed\namong the logwood edifices which formed the barracks of the fort.\nMary grew deadly pale, and clung to Roderick.\n\n\"The French!\" was his first thought, as he broke away, snatched his\nclaymore, and hurried to the barrack-square, where he heard that a\nsoldier of the Royal American Regiment had been assassinated.\n\nOrono the Indian had abstracted a knife from the basket of his late\nunsuspecting visitor, and springing unseen upon the sentinel at the\nhospital door had slain him, swept the blade once round his head\nabove the cars, and torn away his scalp.  Then though weak and\nwounded, with his knife in one hand, and the ghastly trophy reeking\nin the other, he had bounded over the palisades like an evil spirit,\nglided through the wet ditch like an eel, and, escaping the\nmusket-shots of two sentinels on the summit of the glacis, reached\nthe darkening forest, where all trace of him was instantly lost in\nthe thickness of the foliage and the gloom of a moonless evening.\n\n\"And so, dear Mary, with this terrible episode closes your little\nromance,\" said MacGillivray, with a kind smile, as he put an arm\nround her.\n\n\"I devoutly hope so,\" said she, shuddering, and feeling, she knew not\nwhy, a horrible impression that she would yet see more of this\nIndian, whose lithe but herculean form, sternly sombre face,\nglittering eyes, and scalp-lock were ever before her.\n\n\"The black traitor, to reward our kindness thus!  'Tis a thousand\npities, dearest, you saved him from our men on the march, and from\nold Munro's sword in the fort; for these wretches are no better than\nwild beasts.  Thus it matters little whether wo kill them now or a\nmonth hence.\"\n\n\"Oh, Roderick!\" exclaimed Mary, with her hazel eyes full of tears;\n\"how can you talk thus?\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"For so said King William's warrant to massacre my people in Glencoe;\nand so said that order which was written on the night before\nCulloden.\"\n\n\"True, true; the poor Indian only fights for the land God gave his\nfathers, even as ours, Mary, was given to the children of the Gael,\"\nreplied Roderick, as the usual current of his bitter thoughts\nreturned; \"and a time there was Mary (God keep thee from harm!) when\nI little thought to find myself so far from my father's grave,\nwearing the black cockade of the Hanoverian in my bonnet, and the red\nuniform of those men who trampled on the white rose at Culloden, and\nmurdered the aged men, the women, and the little ones of your race,\nunder cloud of night, at the behest of a bloodthirsty Dutchman!\"\n\n\"Still speaking of Glencoe and Culloden!\" said Colonel Munro, joining\nthem, as they sat on the bastion, at the base of which rippled the\nwaters of Lake George, then flushed red with the last light of sunset.\n\n\"Yes, Munro; I am thinking of the time when the kilt alone was seen\nupon the Highland mountains, and when the breeches of the\nLowlander--the _brat-galla_ (_i.e._ foreigner's rag)--were unknown\namong us.\"\n\n\"Let us have no more of these sour memories, and if my fair friend\nwill favour me with that song which she sang to my little boy last\nevening, it may lighten the tedium of a time which to me, after being\ncaged up here for six months, seems insufferably weary.\"\n\nMary coloured, and glanced round timidly, for several officers of the\ngarrison who had been lounging on the parapets drew near, and she\nknew few songs save those of her native hills, and consequently they\nwere in a language totally unintelligible to the gentlemen of the\nRoyal Americans and Parker's Foot; but on being pressed by the\ncolonel and his little one, who nestled at her feet, she sang the\nonly English song with which she was acquainted.  It was a paraphrase\nof one of the psalms,* and was then a favourite with the Jacobites,\nwho sang it to a beautiful and plaintive old Highland air.\n\n\n* Psalm cxxxvii.\n\n\n  On Gallia's shore we sat and wept,\n    When Scotland we thought on.\n  Robbed of her bravest sons, and all\n    Her ancient spirit gone!\n\n  \"Revenge!\" the sons of Gallia said,\n    \"Revenge your wasted land;\n  Already your insulting foes\n    Crowd the Batavian strand!\n\n  \"How shall the sons of Freedom e'er\n    For foreign conquest fight?\n  For power how wield the sword, deprived\n    Of liberty and right?\n\n  \"If thee, O Scotland! we forget,\n    Even to our latest breath,\n  May foul dishonour stain our name,\n    And bring a coward's death.\n\n  \"May sad remorse for fancied guilt\n    Our future days employ,\n  If all thy sacred rights are not\n    Above our ohiefest joy.\n\n  \"And thou, proud Gaul, O faithless friend,\n    Thy ruin is not far;\n  May God, on thy devoted head,\n    Pour all the woes of war!\n\n  \"When thou, thy slaughtered little ones,\n    And outraged dames shalt see;\n  Such help, such pity mayest thou have,\n    As Scotland had from thee!\"\n\n* * * *\n\nAs Mary sang, many loiterers of the Black Watch had joined the little\ngroup around her, and listened as if turned to stone.  The veteran\ncolonel of the Royal Americans, who had been long, long from the land\nof his birth, felt his grave iron nature melted.  He sat on the\nparapet of the gun-battery, with his chin placed in his right hand,\nand his left nervously grasping the hilt of his sword.  His keen grey\neyes, which roved uneasily from one object to another, began at last\nto moisten and fill, and then tears ran down the furrows of his\ncheeks--old dry channels worn by war and time, but all unused to such\nvisitors.\n\nThe _air_ rather than the words moved MacGillivray and his soldiers\nwho listened.  Their heads were bowed and their eyes were sad, for\ntheir hearts and souls, their memory and their love, were far\naway--away to the land where, at that hour, the silver moon was\ncasting the shadows of the heath-clad mountains on the grassy glens\nbelow; away to the Braes of Lochaber, the shores of Lochiel, and the\ndeep blue lochs that form a chain of watery links in the great glen\nof Caledonia; away to the land of the clans, the soil from whence\ntheir fathers sprang, and where their graves lay under the old\nsepulchral yew, or by the Druid clachan of ages past and gone; away\nfrom the lone woods and mighty wilds of that Far West, which in the\nnext century was to become the home of their children, where the\nexpatriated men of Sutherland, Barra, and Breadalbane were to find a\nrefuge from the avaricious dukes, the canting marquises, and grinding\nfactors of the Western Highlands, and from their infamous system of\nmodern oppression, tyranny, and misrule, which has decreed that the\npoor have no right to the soil of their native country.\n\nAll were hushed and still in the group as the Highland girl\nsang--for, though a wedded wife, and on the eve of being a mother,\nMary was but a girl yet--when hark! the report of a musket on the\nouter bastion broke the stillness of the evening hour, and an officer\nof the mainguard rushed, sword in hand, towards the startled\nlisteners.\n\n\"Munro,\", he exclaimed; \"Colonel Munro--a column of French are in\nsight, and already within range of cannon-shot.\"\n\n\"So close, Captain Dacres?\"\n\n\"And in great strength,\" added the officer.\n\n\"And the Indians--those diabolical Iroquois?\"\n\n\"Fill the woods on every side--they are already at the foot of the\nglacis.  Hark!\" continued Captain Dacres, as a contused volley was\nheard, \"the mainguard are opening a fire on their advanced files.\"\n\nThe colonel kissed his child, and with an impressive glance consigned\nit to the care of Mary.\n\n\"Fall in, Sixtieth!\" he exclaimed, rushing into the barracks, where\nthe alarm was now general.  \"MacGillivray, get your lads of the Black\nWatch under arms, and let them pick me off those brown devils as fast\nas they can load and fire again.  Gentlemen, to your companies; we\nshall have grim work to do before another sun sets on the waters of\nthe Horican.\"\n\nIn ten minutes the troops in the little garrison were all under arms,\nfor the men came rushing, cross-belted, to their colours, while the\nlog huts echoed again and again to the long roll of the alarm\ndrum--that peculiar roll, which, when heard in camp or garrison,\nmakes the blood of all quicken, as it is the well-known warning \"to\narms;\" and now the pipes of Alisdair Bane (a pupil of Munich Dhu, or\nBlack Murdoch MacInnon, the old piper of Glenarrow) lent their\npibroch to swell the warlike din, while the troops loaded, and fresh\ncasks of ball-cartridge were staved and distributed by the sergeants\nin rear of each company.\n\nThe artillerymen stood by their guns, with rammer, sponge, and\nlighted matches; the battalions of the Royal Americans and of the\nunfortunate Colonel Parker, a corps of Provincials, and the fifty\nCelts of the Black Watch, soon manned the ramparts, from whence, in\nthe dim twilight of eve, the white uniforms of the regiments of\nBearn, Guienne, and Languedoc, who formed the flower of Montcalm's\narmy, and the bronze-like figures of the gliding Iroquois, who formed\nthe scourge of ours, were seen at times between the green masses of\nfoliage that fringed the calm, deep waters of Lake George, which lay\nmotionless as a vast mirror of polished steel.\n\n\"Away to the bomb-proofs, Mary; this is no scene for you,\" said\nMacGillivray, giving his weeping and terrified wife a tender embrace;\n\"the vaults are your only place of safety.  Would to God,\" he added,\ngiving her a farewell kiss, \"that you were safe at home, laoighe mo\nchri, even with the humblest of our cottars in Glenarrow.  The\nthought of you alone causes my heart to fail, and makes a coward of\nme, Mary.  Alaster MacGregor, conduct her to the bomb-proofs, and\njoin us again.\"\n\nThe soldier led her to the vaults in which the whole of the women and\nchildren of the garrison were enclosed for safety from shot and\nshell, and where they nestled together in fear and trembling,\npreparing lint and bandages for the wounded; and scarcely had Alaster\nrejoined his commander, when a red flash and a stream of white smoke\ncame from the darkening wood, and the first cannon of the French sent\na sixteen-pound shot crashing through the log barracks and slew a\ncaptain of the Royal Americans.\n\nThen a hearty hurrah of defiance rose from the garrison of Munro, and\nthe fiendish yells and warwhooping of the Iroquois were heard in the\nechoing woods.\n\nMacGillivray envied the lightness of heart possessed at this crisis\nby his unmarried comrades, who had neither wife nor child to excite\ntheir anxiety, compassion, or fear--men who, careless and soldier\nlike, seemed to live for the present, without regret for the past or\ndread of the future; but such is the life of a soldier, while as we\nhave it in \"Don Juan\"--\n\n                    \"Nought so bothers\n  The hearts of the heroic in a charge,\n  As leaving a small family at large.\"\n\n\nAt the head of all the forces he could collect, ten thousand regular\ninfantry of France, and hordes of the wild Iroquois, Louis de St.\nVeran, Marquis of Montcalm, and his second in command, the Baron de\nBeauchatel, Chevalier of St. Louis, now invested Fort William Henry,\nand pushed the siege with a vigour that was all the greater because\nGeneral Webb, with four thousand British troops, was posted at some\ndistance, for the purpose of protecting Munro's garrison, a duty\nabout which he did not give himself the smallest concern whatever.\n\nBefore daybreak next morning, the French artillery opened heavily on\nthe turf ramparts, the wooden palisades and log huts of the fort;\nwhile a fire of musketry was maintained upon it from every available\npoint, and the Indian marksmen, from behind every tree, rock, and\nbush, or tuft of sedge-grass that afforded an opportunity for\nconcealing their dingy forms, shot with deadly precision at the\nofficers, and all who in any way exposed or signalized themselves.\nMunro and his soldiers fought with ardour, and defended themselves\nwith confidence, never doubting that General Webb would soon advance\nto their support, and by a brisk attack in the rear, compel the\nmarquis to abandon the siege.  From their gun-batteries and\nstockades, they maintained an unceasing fire, and thus the slaughter\non both sides became desperate and severe.\n\nIn the gloomy vault to which the humanity and prudence of Colonel\nMunro had consigned the women and children of his garrison, the timid\nwife of MacGillivray could hear the roar of musketry, with the\nincessant booming of the heavy artillery on every side, and ever and\nanon the hiss or crash of the exploding shells.  These and other\ndreadful sounds paralysed her; for she had but one thought--the\nsafety of her husband; and appalled by the united horrors of the\nsiege, she almost forgot to pray, and sat with her arms round the\nchild of Munro, pale, sad, and silent--awed and bewildered.\n\nMeanwhile Roderick, with his party of the Black Watch, proved\ninvaluable to Munro.  As the dispatch of the latter has it, \"Being\nall expert marksmen and deadly shots, they manned a line of loopholed\nstockades, which faced a wood full of the Iroquois, of whom they slew\nan incredible number; for if the foot or hand, or even the scalp lock\nof a warrior became visible for a moment to these quicksighted\ndeer-stalkers from the Highland hills, it revealed where the rest of\nhis body could be covered by their levelled barrels; thus there were\nsoon more dead than living warriors in the bush where the braves of\nthe Five Nations had posted themselves, and the yells and screams of\nrage uttered by the survivors in their anticipations of vengeance,\nwere like nothing one could imagine but the cries of the damned.\"\n\nAmong the savages who swarmed thick as bees upon the skirts of the\nforest, MacGillivray repeatedly recognised the ghastly warrior\nOssong, who was painted over with white stripes; and his comrade\nOrono, who had so recently made an escape from the fort, and who was\nconspicuous alike by his bravery and the tuft of eagle's feathers in\nhis scalp-lock.\n\nMacGillivray relinquished his claymore for a musket, and, as Munro\nsaid, \"Knocked over more Red Indians in an hour, than he could have\ndone red deer in a week, at home.\"\n\nOn the second day, just as the firing was about to re-commence, a\nFrench officer, bearing a flag of truce, and accompanied by a drummer\nbeating a parley, appeared before the gates, and was received by\nMacGillivray, who conducted him, blindfolded by a handkerchief, to\nthe presence of Munro.  He was a tall and handsome man, about forty\nyears of age, and wore the white uniform of the Grenadiers of\nGuienne, with the order of St. Louis, and had a white flowing peruke,\n_\u00e0 la Louis XV_.\n\n\"Your name, monsieur?\" said Munro, bowing low.\n\n\"The Sieur Fontbrune, Baron of Beauchatel,\" replied he, bowing to the\ndiamond buckles at his knees, and then presenting his box of rappee.\n\n\"Indeed--the second in command to the Marquis of Montcalm!\"\n\n\"The same, and Colonel of the Regiment of Guienne.\"\n\n\"We are greatly honoured.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" responded the courteous French noble, \"the honour is mine in\nhaving the privilege of conferring with an officer of such valour as\nM. le Colonel Munro.\"\n\n\"And your purpose?\" asked the latter, drily.\n\n\"The delivery of this letter,\"\n\nIn presence of the senior officers of his garrison, Munro opened and\nread this communication from the French marquis, in which the latter\nwrote, that he deemed himself obliged by the common dictates of\nhumanity to request that M. le Colonel Munro would surrender the\nfort, and cease, by a futile resistance, to provoke the savage\nIroquois, who accompanied the French army in such vast and\nunmanageable hordes.\n\n\n\"A detachment of your garrison, under Colonel Parker, has lately (he\ncontinued) experienced their cruelty.  I have it yet in my power to\nrestrain and oblige them to observe a capitulation, as comparatively\nfew of them have been hitherto killed.  Your persisting in the\ndefence of your fort can only retard its fate a few days, and must of\nnecessity expose an unfortunate garrison, who cannot possibly receive\nrelief, when we consider the _precautions_ taken to prevent it.  I\ndemand a decisive answer; and for this purpose have sent the Sieur de\nFontbrune, one of my staff.  You may implicitly credit all that he\ntells you.\n\n\"MONTCALM.\"\n\n\n\"I will never surrender while we have a shot left,\" exclaimed Munro,\nfuriously.  \"What say you, gentlemen?\"\n\n\"That we and our soldiers will stand by you, Colonel, to the last\ngasp!\" replied Captain Dacres.\n\n\"This, then, is your decision, messieurs?\" said M. Beauchatel,\nplaying with the ringlets of his peruke.\n\n\"It is--it is,\" was the answer on all hands.\n\n\"A most unwise one, permit me to say,\" urged the baron.\n\n\"To yield when General Webb is within less than one day's march of\nus, would be a treason to the King and a disgrace to ourselves.\"\n\nThe French baron smiled with provoking coolness, and said,\n\n\"General Webb beholds our preparations and approaches with an\napparent indifference that originates either in infamous cowardice or\nmiserable infatuation.  In short, M. le Colonel, he has abandoned\nyou.\"\n\n\"M. le Baron,\" replied Munro, with some heat, \"General Webb is a\nBritish officer, and I have no doubt will fully maintain his\nreputation.  If he has not already advanced to raise the siege, he\nmust deem it better for the King's service to remain in position\nwhere he is; but, ere long, you will hear his cannon opening on your\nrear.\"\n\n\"Pardieu, you delude yourself.\"\n\n\"I do not, M. le Baron, and you may inform the Marquis de Montcalm,\nthat he had better have continued to amuse himself with mounting\nguard at Versailles and Marli, than by beating up our quarters here\non the Canadian lakes.\"\n\n\"Oh, he and I have mounted guard at Mons and Tournay, at Lisle and\nFontenoy, Colonel, where men don't play at soldiers, as here in\nAmerica,\" replied the Frenchman, smiling; \"but adieu, mon ami--adieu.\"\n\n\"Farewell--MacGillivray, conduct M. le Baron beyond the gates.\"\n\nSo ended this parley, and in less than five minutes the din of cannon\nand musketry, with the warwhoop of the Indians, again rang along the\nechoing shores of the Horican, and once more the white smoke shrouded\nalike the defences and defenders of Fort William Henry.\n\nThe Baron de Beauchatel led the Regiment of Guienne close up to the\nstockades, which were lined by the fifty Highlanders of the Black\nWatch, and though exposed to a withering fire, he bravely and\nfuriously strove to destroy the barrier by axes and sledge hammers.\nMacGillivray thrice covered the Baron with his deadly aim; but,\ninspired by some mysterious emotion, the origin of which at that time\nhe could not fathom, he spared him and levelled his weapon at others.\nFilled with rage by the resistance they experienced, the soldiers of\nthe Regiment of Guienne encouraged each other by shouts of\n\n\"Vive le Roi!  Tue--tue les sauvages d'Ecosse! \u00e0 la baionette! \u00e0 la\nbaionette!\"\n\nThey soon fell into confusion; but the brave Beauchatel continued to\nbrandish his sword and shout the _mot de ralliement_ of his corps,\nfor it was then usual in the French service to have a war-cry or\nregimental rallying-word.\n\n\"Notre Dame!  Notre Dame de frappemort!\" (Our holy Lady, who strikes\nhome!) he was heard crying again and again; for the Virgin was the\npatroness of the Grenadiers of Guienne; but neither the spell of her\nname nor the fiery spirit of Beauchatel enabled the soldiers to\nwithstand the fire of the Highlanders, whose position was\nimpregnable; and on Captain Dacres' company of the 60th opening a\nflank fusilade upon them, they were swept back into the forest,\nleaving a mound of white-coated killed and wounded before the\nstockades they had so valiantly attempted to destroy.\n\nAlaster MacGregor received a wound from a French soldier, who, on\nfinding himself dying, crawled on his hands and knees close up to the\nstockade, and, with the last effort of expiring nature, fired his\nmusket through a loophole and fell back dead.\n\n\"A brave fellow!\" exclaimed MacGillivray.\n\n\"Yes,\" added Alaster, as the blood dripped from his left cheek: \"but\nI wish he had departed this life five minutes sooner.\"\n\nA third and fourth day of conflict passed away, and the loss by\nkilled and wounded became severe in Fort William Henry; five hundred\ndead men were already lying within the narrow compass of its\nbatteries; but still there was no sign of Webb's brigade advancing to\nthe rescue.  Munro began to have serious doubts of the issue, with\nsecret regrets that he had not accepted the first offers of the\nMarquis de Montcalm, for the blood of the Iroquois was now at boiling\nheat, in their longing to revenge the fall of so many of their\nbraves, who, notwithstanding all their caution and cunning, had\nperished under the deadly aim of the Highland marksmen, and lay in\ndusky piles among the long wavy sedge grass and luxuriant foliage of\nthe forest; but though he confined these thoughts to his own breast,\nhis garrison began to have the same misgivings.\n\nOne day, telescope in hand, he was eagerly sweeping the distant\nlandscape in the direction where it was known that General Webb was\nposted, when Dacres, of his own regiment, approached him.  Not a\nbayonet or musket-barrel were seen to glitter, or a standard to wave\nin the hazy distance in token of coming aid, and he sharply closed\nthe glass with a sigh and turned away; so Dacres addressed him.\n\n\"When smoking a pipe in the bomb-proofs this morning--by the bye, my\ndear colonel, I am always thoughtful during that operation--it\noccurred to me that General Webb----\"\n\n\"Well, sir--well,\" said Munro, irritably.\n\n\"Remains very long in position without advancing to our relief.\"\n\n\"I am too well aware of that, sir.\"\n\n\"But what does such conduct mean?\"\n\n\"God and himself alone know,\" replied Munro, while his keen grey eye\nflashed with passion; \"he would seem to be in league with the enemy\nagainst us; ay, in league with Montcalm, and the words of Beauchatel\nseemed to infer some previous knowledge of his intentions, and hence\nperhaps the friendly warning about the Indians; but we have cast the\ndie with them.  If in the course of one day more Webb comes not to\nour aid----\"\n\n\"By Heaven, I will pistol him with my own hand; that is, if I survive\nthis affair!\" exclaimed MacGillivray, who joined them.\n\n\"Nay, sir,\" replied the colonel, \"I shall claim that task, if task it\nbe; but hark! there is a salvo.\"\n\nA tremendous shock now shook the fort, as a camarade battery of ten\n32-pounders commenced a discharge against it, and showers of\ndestructive bombbelles from small mortars were poured into the heart\nof the place.  Many of these little engines of destruction bounded\nfrom the shingle roofs of the barracks and burst in the waters of the\nlake; others were exploding in all directions, with a sound like the\nroar of artillery, forcing the soldiers, who crept and cowered in\nrear of the parapets and palisades, to lie close, while the heavy\n_hum_ of the round shot, with that peculiar sound which terminates\nits course by piercing the ground, or crashing through a building,\nand the sharper _whish_ of the musket-balls, filled up all the\nintervals by noises fraught with alarm.  The barracks and storehouses\nwere soon unroofed and ruined, for the camarade battery proved very\ndestructive; the stockades were soon swept away in showers of white\nsplinters before its discharges, which resembled nothing but a\nwhirlwind of shot and shell, while vast masses of the earthen works\nwere also torn down, leaving the defenders exposed to the deadly\nrifles of the lurking Indians.  The cannon of Munro were alike\ndefective and dangerous to his soldiers; for two 18-pounders, two\n32-pounders, and two 9-pounders burst in succession, destroying all\nwho were near them, and at last the colonel received intimation that\nonly seventeen bombs remained in the magazine.\n\nOn the _sixth_ day, there was still no appearance of General Daniel\nWebb (who was Colonel of the 48th, or Northamptonshire Foot), though\nhis column was within hearing of the firing, being at Fort Edward,\nwhich was only six miles distant; and now the spirit of the garrison\nbegan to sink; but in that dejected band there was no heart more\nheavy than MacGillivray's, for the condition of his wife at such a\nterrible crisis filled him with the deepest anxiety and the most\ntender solicitude.\n\nAt last Munro, finding the futility of further resisting forces so\noverwhelming, and that all hope of succour from Webb was hopeless, on\nthe 9th day of August, 1757, lowered his standard, and sent forth\nMacGillivray to the French camp, bearer of a flag of truce, to confer\non the terms of a surrender.\n\nImmediately on leaving the gates, he was received by the Baron de\nBeauchatel and a party of the Grenadiers of Guienne, who surrounded\nhim with fixed bayonets, as a protection from the infuriated\nIroquois, who crowded near in naked hordes, leaping, dancing,\nscreaming like incarnate fiends, and brandishing their tomahawks,\nseeking only an opening in the close files of the French escort to\nslay, scalp, and hew him to pieces.  Thus he was conducted to the\ntent of Louis Marquis de Montcalm de St. Veran, Mar\u00e9chal du Camp, and\nLieutenant-General of the Armies of His Most Christian Majesty in\nAmerica.  Before the tent were posted the colours of the Regiments of\nBearn and Languedoc, and around it were a guard of grenadiers in\nwhite coats, with the long periwigs and smart little triangular hats\nof the French line.  These received the flag of truce with presented\narms, while the drums beat a march.\n\nMontcalm, then in his forty-fifth year, came forth, and, presenting\nhis hand to MacGillivray, conducted him within.  Then followed\nseveral officers of the staff whom, with M. de Beauchatel, he had\ninvited to the conference.\n\n\"You perceive, now,\" said the baron, \"that I proved a true prophet!\"\n\n\"In what manner, monsieur?\" asked MacGillivray.\n\n\"When I affirmed that M. le G\u00e9n\u00e9ral Webb would leave Munro to his own\nresources.  Ma foi! but he is a brave fellow, Munro.\"\n\n\"M. le Marquis,\" said MacGillivray, with an air of hauteur, \"I am\nhere to stipulate that our garrison shall be permitted to march out\nwith their arms----\"\n\n\"Unloaded----\"\n\n\"Be it so; but as Christian men you cannot refuse us arms in a land\nso wild as this; the officers to have their baggage, and the men\ntheir kits; that a detachment of French troops shall escort us to\nwithin two miles of the gates of Fort Edward, and that your\ninterpreter attached to the savages will make this treaty known to\nthe Iroquois.\"\n\n\"I gladly agree to these conditions,\" replied Montcalm, \"though I\nfear the _latter portion_ will be achieved with difficulty; for the\ncomprehension of these Red Iroquois is not very clear, and they will\ndespise me for burying the war-hatchet and smoking the pipe of peace,\nfor permitting you to depart with your scalps on, and so forth; but\nthey must be forced to understand and observe our treaty.  For the\nspace of eighteen months every officer and soldier now in Fort\nWilliam Henry must not bear arms against the Most Christian King.  M.\nle Colonel Munro must give me hostages for the safe return of my\ntroops who are to form your escort; and say to him, that in testimony\nof my esteem for his valour and spirit as a soldier, I shall present\nhim with one cannon, a 6-pounder, to be delivered at the moment the\ngrenadiers of my own regiment receive the gates of the fort, and his\ntroops are ready to depart.\"\n\n\"Our wounded and sick, of whom we have many----\"\n\n\"I shall send under guard to General Webb at Fort Edward.\"\n\n\"Thanks, marquis.\"\n\nThe terms were soon drawn up and signed by the staff officers of both\nforces; by Munro in the name of the British Commander-in-Chief, and\nby Montcalm in the name of the Marquis de Vaudreuil,\nGovernor-General, and Lieutenant-General of New France; and after\nably concluding this negotiation, so important for his comrades,\nMacGillivray returned to the fort just as the red round moon began to\nrise like a bloody targe above the eastern skirts of the forest, and\nto tinge with its quivering rays the placid waters of Lake George.\n\nThe first who received him at the gate was his \"dear wee Mary,\" as he\ncalled her, trembling and in tears for his safety.  During the whole\ntime of his visit to the camp of Montcalm, the yelling and whooping\nof the Indians had filled the fort and the woods with horrid sounds.\n\nThe next day passed before Munro had all prepared to leave the\nshattered ramparts he had defended so well.\n\nIt was on a gorgeous August evening when his war-worn and weary\ngarrison paraded, prior to their final departure.  The western\nclouds, as they floated across the sky, were tinged with violet and\nsaffron hues.  The forest and the grass wore their most brilliant\ngreen, and Lake George its deepest blue.  The large golden\nbutter-cups that spotted all the verdant glacis of the ramparts,\nwithin which so many brave men were lying stark and stiffened in\ntheir blood, and the bright-coloured wildflowers that grew amid the\nwaters of the fosse and by the margin of the lake which filled it,\nwere unclosing their petals, to catch the coming dew, and wore their\ngayest tints.\n\nThe whole aspect of the scenery, and of the soft balmy evening, were\nlittle in accordance with the horrors that were passed, and those\nwhich were soon to ensue!\n\nAlready the grenadiers of Montcalm, with all the formality of\nfriends, had received the gates and various posts from the guards of\nthe Royal Americans; the white banner of France, under a royal\nsalute, had replaced the Union Jack, and at that moment sharply beat\nthe drums, as the garrison began to march out, with their _unloaded_\nmuskets slung and their colours cased--the Royal Americans, Parker's\nFoot, and the little band of our old friends, the Black Watch (now\nless by sixteen men than on the day of their arrival), with the piper\nand MacGillivray at their head, defiling from the fort in close\ncolumn of subdivisions, while the French escort was under arms to\nreceive them in line by a general salute, with drummers beating on\nthe flanks.\n\nA faint cheer was heard within the fort.  It came from the log huts\nwhere the wounded lay.  They, poor fellows! were left to the care of\nthe enemy, together with the unburied bodies of those who would never\nhear a sound again until the last trumpet shakes the earth with its\npeal.\n\nThe veteran Colonel Munro, tall and erect, with his quaint\nKevenhuller hat and old-fashioned wig of the days of Malplacquet,\nmarched at the head of his crestfallen column; he was on foot, with\nhis sword drawn, and led by the hand the child, his son, as being the\nonly object he cared about preserving in that hour of bitterness and\ndefeat.\n\nSeated on the tumbril of the 6-pounder, with two other ladies (one of\nwhom had lost her husband in the siege), was the wife of\nMacGillivray, awe-stricken and all unused to such stern and stirring\nscenes as she had daily witnessed in Fort William Henry.  Her\n_marriage brooch_, almost the only ornament she possessed, she had\nconcealed in the folds or tresses of her long black hair, lest it\nshould excite the cupidity of any French soldier or Indian, for she\nhad an equal dread, and nearly an equal repugnance for them both.\n\nA slender escort of French soldiers with their bayonets fixed\nprotected Munro's garrison on both flanks; but as they proceeded into\nthe forest, the savages continued to assemble in dark hordes, till\ntheir numbers, their gestures, and yells of rage became seriously\nalarming.  They were animated by the blindest frenzy on finding\nthemselves deluded of their plunder and the blood--the red reeking\nscalps of the hated Yengees--by a treaty which they could not and\ncared not to understand.  They were rehearsing to each other the\nbravery and worth, the names and number of their warriors who had\nperished, and all continued to scream and shout, but none cared to\nbegin the work of destruction while so near the tents of the pale\nfaces of France.\n\n\"Push on--push on, for God's sake, gentlemen and comrades!\"\n\n\"Forward, my friends--let us lose no time in reaching Fort Edward.\"\n\n\"Step out, comrades--step out, you fellows in front.\"\n\n\"Throw off your knapsacks--let these greedy hounds have them.\"\n\n\"Better lose an old kit than a young life.\"\n\n\"On, on--push on, boys!\"\n\nSuch were the cries that were heard along the column as the rear\nurged on the front, and the dark yelling hordes of the infernal\nIroquois blackened all the woods and grew denser and closer, until at\nlast they insolently jostled and crushed the French guard among the\nimpeded ranks of those they were escorting.\n\n\"This is intolerable--let us attack those dogs,\" said MacGillivray.\n\n\"Beware--beware!\" exclaimed Munro; \"if once blood be shed or the\nwarwhoop raised, all will be over with us.\"\n\nThe leader of this hostile display was the savage whom we have\nalready introduced as Ossong.  A Lenni Lennape, he was almost the\nlast of his ferocious tribe, which, with the Miami, had been\nconquered and exterminated by the Iroquois, with whom he had now\ncompletely identified himself.  His aspect was frightful!  His\nforehead was low; with a short nose of great breadth; his ears were\nhuge, and set high upon his head; his mouth was large, with teeth\nsharp and serrated like those of some voracious fish.  His mantle of\nwoven grass was trimmed with scores of human scalp-locks salted and\ndried, while rows of human teeth intermingled with glass beads and\ngilt regimental buttons and British coins (the relics of Colonel\nParker's force) covered all his brown expansive chest.  On his brawny\nshoulders hung the skin of a black bear; in front, he wore the fur of\na racoon; his girdle, moccassins, and arms were ornamented with\nbrilliant wampum beads, which rattled as he walked, and he brandished\nalternately a rifle, a tomahawk, and scalping-knife.\n\nTwo or three soldiers had already been dragged out of the ranks and\nslain to increase the general alarm; but as yet the _warwhoop_ had\nnot been raised.\n\nPerceiving a savage near him, who was placing his hands to his mouth\nand puffing out his cheeks, previous to raising that dreadful signal\nfor a general onslaught, MacGillivray, unable longer to restrain the\nfury which boiled within him, drew the Highland _tack_ (_i.e._ steel\npistol) from his belt and shot him dead.\n\n\"Rash man,\" exclaimed Munro, \"we are lost!\"\n\n\"Fix your bayonets, my lads, and bear back this naked rabble!\" said\nMacGillivray, drawing his sword.  \"Remember, colonel, you are a\nkinsman of the House of Foulis; in an hour like this belie not your\nname!\"\n\nA thousand throats now uttered the horrible whoop of the Iroquois,\nand from a myriad echoes the vast forest encircling the shores of the\nHorican replied.\n\nIt was the death-knell of the _Yengees_; and now ensued that\nfrightful episode of the war known in American history as the\nMassacre of Fort William Henry.\n\n\"In the name of God and the King, keep together, 60th--shoulder to\nshoulder, Royal Americans!\" cried Munro; but his soldiers, crushed\nand impeded by the pressure, strove in vain to free their muskets and\nbear back the human tide that closed upon them.  In the confusion\npoor old Munro lost his child, and with him all his soldierly\ncoolness and self-possession.  He became a prey to grief and\ndistraction.\n\n\"Lochmoy!  Lochmoy! stand by MacGillivray!\" were the shouts of the\nBlack Watch, as they flung aside their muskets, knapsacks, and\ncantines, and, unsheathing their dirks and claymores, closed\nhand-to-hand with the Iroquois, and hewed them down like children on\nevery side.\n\n\"Dhia!  o Dhia! my wife!\" was the first thought of MacGillivray; and\nwhen last he saw Mary she was standing erect on the tumbril, the\nhorses of which had been shot, wringing her hands in an attitude of\ndespair, as the brown tide of the Iroquois swept round her like a\nliving sea; and the last she saw of her husband was his form towering\nabove all others, when combating bravely and making frantic efforts,\nwith Alaster MacGregor, Ewen Chisholm, Bane the piper, and other\nCeltic swordsmen, to reach her; but by a horde of savages they were\ndriven into the forest, and she saw them no more.\n\nThe French guard offered but a feeble resistance, and fled; then\nensued a thousand episodes replete with horror!  On all hands the\nunfortunate survivors of the siege were hewn down, slashed, stabbed,\ntomahawked, and scalped.  Shrieks, groans, screams, prayers, and wild\nentreaties for mercy, with the occasional explosions of musketry,\nrang through the forest; but above all other sounds, on earth or in\nthe sky of heaven, rose the appalling whoop of the unglutted Iroquois.\n\nOne of Mary's companions--the widow--was literally hewn to pieces in\na moment, while her children were whirled round by the feet, and had\ntheir brains dashed out against the trees; her other friend, the wife\nof Captain Dacres, a fair-haired and pretty young Englishwoman, was\ntorn from her side.  The glittering hatchet of one Indian cleft her\nhead to the nose, while another caught her body as it was falling,\nand by a single sweep of his knife shred off her scalp, and waved the\nsilken curls as a trophy above his head.  Mary was to be their next\nvictim; but ere they could drag her down she flung herself at the\nfeet of Ossong, and, clasping his moccassined legs, said in his own\nlanguage--\n\n\"I will pray the Great Spirit that he pardon you my death; but do not\ntorture me; do not make me suffer--I am a weak woman, and about to\nbecome a mother.\"\n\nOssong grinned hideously, and grasping her by the hair raised his\nscalping-knife; but at that moment his hand was grasped from behind.\nHe turned furiously, and was confronted by Orono.\n\n\"Spare her!\" said the latter, in his guttural tones.\n\n\"For what?  My ears are not as the ears of an ass, therefore I hear\nnot follies; nor of a fox, therefore I hear no lies!\" responded the\nfierce savage; \"spare her for what?\"\n\n\"The wigwam of Orono.\"\n\nOssong laughed scornfully, and turned away in search of other\nvictims, which he found but too readily.\n\nMary clung to her preserver.  She gave a wild and haggard glance over\nthat forest scene, in the recesses of which the shrieks of the\ndestroyer and destroyed were already dying away--over that wilderness\nof red-coated dead, of mothers and their children, gashed, hewn and\ndismembered, scalped and mutilated--over the debris of scattered\nmuskets, torn standards, and broken drums, rifled baggage, open\nknapsacks, hats, and powdered wigs--everywhere blood, death, and\ndisorder!  Then the light seemed to go out of her eyes; she became\nsenseless, and remembered no more.\n\nSaved by the French, Colonels Munro and Young with three hundred\nfugitives reached Albany; and General Webb, when all was over, sent\nout five hundred men from Fort Edward to glean up survivors and bury\nthe dead.  Our soldiers perished in the forest in scores under every\nspecies of torture, wounds, thirst and fatigue; many were flayed and\nroasted alive by the Iroquois; others were stripped nude, scalped,\nand made a mark for bullets or tomahawks till death relieved them of\ntheir misery.\n\n\"Thus,\" says Smollett, \"ended (with the fall of Fort William Henry)\nthe third campaign in America, where, with an evident superiority\nover the enemy, an army of twenty thousand regular troops, a great\nnumber of provincial forces, ana a prodigious naval power--not less\nthan twenty ships of the line--we abandoned our allies, exposed our\npeople, suffered them to be cruelly massacred in sight of our troops,\nand relinquished a large and valuable tract of country, to the\neternal disgrace and reproach of the British name!\"\n\nThree of the Black Watch alone escaped this massacre--viz., Ewen\nChisholm, with Alaster MacGregor--whose adventures were somewhat\nremarkable--and another, of whom hereafter.\n\nDuncan MacGregor, a soldier from Glengyle, and as some averred a son\nof the venerable _Glhun Dhu_, who was captain of Doune Castle under\nPrince Charles, fell mortally wounded by a bullet from the rifle of\nan Indian in the woods.  On finding himself dying, he begged his\nclansman Alaster to convey his little all--a few pounds of back pay\nand prize-money--to his aged and widowed mother.  Faithful to the\ntrust reposed in him by his expiring friend, this poor fellow bore\nthe money about with him, untouched, throughout the most arduous\nstruggles of the American campaign, during a long captivity in\nFrance, and amid the urgent necessities of nearly ten years of\nprivation, until he reached Glengyle, and then he handed to the\nmother of his comrade the money, still wrapped in the moccassin of a\nPawnee, whom he had slain at Fort William Henry.\n\nEwen Chisholm, one of the eight faithful men of the Coire-gaoth in\nGlenmorriston, survived the war in America, but was slain when the\nBlack Watch was at Guadaloupe, in 1759; and his death is thus\nrecorded in the _Edinburgh Chronicle_ for that year, which contains a\nletter from Ensign Grant--known as Alaster the One-handed--detailing\nthe circumstance:--\n\n\"When the troops were to embark, the outposts were called in.  This\nsoldier (Chisholm) had been placed as a single sentinel by his\ncaptain.  When summoned to come off, he refused, unless his captain\nwho had appointed him his post would personally give him orders.  He\nwas told that his captain and most of the troops were embarked, and\nthat unless he came off he would be taken prisoner; he still refused,\nand said he would keep his station.  When the troops were all on\nboard the ships, they saw a party of forty or fifty men coming\ntowards him; he retired a little, and setting his back to a tree,\nfired his gun at them, then, throwing it aside, he drew his sword,\nrushed amongst them, and after making considerable havoc was cut to\npieces.\"\n\nSuch was the end of Ewen Chisholm; but to resume:--\n\nThe noon of the next day--the 11th August--was passed before Mary\nbecame fully alive to the desolate nature of her position--to all\nthat she had lost and suffered--and to the circumstance that in her\ndelirium she had become the mother of a little daughter.\n\nShe was lying on a bed of soft furs of various kinds, within a hut\nformed by branches and matting tied to poles, and covered with broad\npieces of bark.  Upon these poles hung various Indian weapons, at the\nsight of which she closed her swimming eyes as the memory of her\nhusband and the horrors of yesterday rushed upon her.  An old Indian\nwoman, hideous as a tawny skin full of wrinkles and streaked with\npaint could make her, sat near, squatted on the ground like a Burmese\nidol; but this ancient squaw was nursing the new-born infant\ntenderly, and with care placed it in the bosom of Mary, who wept and\nmoaned with sorrow and joy as she pressed it in her arms, and the new\nemotions of a mother woke within her; but again the light seemed to\npass from her eyes, and a faintness came over her.  Then starting,\nshe sought to shake it off that she might look upon her child, and\nstrive to trace the features of Roderick in her face; but the\nweakness she suffered was too great--she sank back upon the bed of\nfurs, and lay still, and to all appearance asleep, though tears were\noozing fast from her long black lashes.\n\nClose by, behind a matting, crouched an Indian warrior.  This person\nwas Orono concealing himself, for the honest creature felt\ninstinctively, that at such a critical time his presence or his\naspect might very naturally excite the terror of the desolate\npatient.  Two terrible questions were ever on the tongue and in the\nheart of the latter.\n\n\"Was Roderick safe?\"\n\nIf so, how were she and her babe to join him?\n\nAt last she remembered Orono, who had preserved her, and on the third\nday, though weak, and though she knew it not--dying--she inquired of\nthe squaw where he was.\n\n\"Here,\" replied the watchful Indian, stepping forward, while his eyes\nbeamed with pleasure, on finding that he was not forgotten.\n\n\"My husband, Orono--know you aught of my husband?\"\n\nThe Indian shook his head.\n\n\"When did you last see him?\" she asked, imploringly.\n\n\"Fighting against a hundred braves in the forest, where the pawaws of\nthe French have put up two trees, _thus_,\" said he, crossing his\nfingers to indicate a cross made by the Jesuits near the Horican.\n\n\"Alas! my mother taught me that the way of the cross was the way to\nheaven.  Oh, my husband!--and that at the foot of that cross I should\ngive up my whole heart.  God, who bringeth good out of evil, will\norder all things for the best; but can this be, if my husband, my\nfriend, my protector, the father of my babe, be slain?  May he not\nhave been preserved for himself and this little one?  Oh, yes--God is\nkind.  His will is adorable,\" continued the poor girl, kissing her\nbabe in a wild rapture of resignation and despair.\n\nShe recalled with sorrow and horror the many whom she had seen so\nbarbarously destroyed, and others whom she believed to have perished;\nthe brave soldiers, the kind old colonel, and the poor little boy,\nhis son, to whom she had been almost a mother, during the terrors of\nthe recent siege.  Their voices lingered in her ear; their faces\nhovered before her.\n\nOrono visited the place where he had last seen the \"white chief,\" as\nhe not inaptly named MacGillivray; but could discover no trace of\nhim.  Many of the dead had already been interred by the soldiers of\nMontcalm, who now possessed the shattered remains of Fort William\nHenry; others had been devoured by wild animals.  No body answering\nthe description of Roderick had been, found or seen among the slain\nby the Iroquois.  He was known to have a gold bracelet of Mary's,\nrivetted round his sword arm; but that might have been cut off, or\nburied with him, undiscovered.\n\nMary felt a great repugnance for the old squaw; yet the poor Indian\nwas kind and attentive in her own barbarous fashion; and the patient,\nwhile her heart was swollen almost to bursting, conversed with her,\nin the hope of obtaining surer protection for her little one, and\ndiscovering some traces of its father.\n\n\"What would it avail you, were he found?\" asked the squaw.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"The Red warriors would immediately take his scalp, for the oracles\nof the pawaws have driven them mad.  After three days of conjuration,\nthey have told us--\"\n\n\"They--are the pawaws a tribe of the Iroquois?\"\n\n\"They are our wise men--our oracles.\"\n\n\"And they told--what?\"\n\n\"That the devils would not hinder the pale faces from being masters\nof our country.  We have fought bravely; but the brandy, the gold and\nsilver of the Yengees are more powerful than the prophesies of the\nlying pawaws or the knives of our warriors.\"\n\n\"Every Red man in the land has dug up the war-hatchet,\" said a\nstrange guttural voice; \"the print of the white moccassins will soon\nbe effaced on the prairies and in the woods--their graves alone will\nremain--their scalps and their bones.\"\n\nThe old squaw started nimbly forward, and poor Mary pressed her\nlittle naked babe closer to her breast, on seeing the towering form\nof Ossong, streaked with his ghastly war paint, appear between her\nand the door of the wretched wigwam in which she lay so helplessly at\nhis mercy.\n\n\"What seek _you_ in the dwelling of Orono?\" demanded the Indian woman\nwith some asperity.\n\n\"Neither the squaw nor the papoose of the white man,\" replied Ossong,\nscornfully.\n\n\"It is well.  You are in your native land, and can find the bones of\nyour fathers; but here the poor squaw of the white chief is a\nstranger.\"\n\n\"And Orono will protect her,\" added the other savage, who bore that\nname, stepping proudly forward.\n\n\"The pawaws say our fathers come from the rising sun, and that we\nmust go towards the place of its setting---that _there_ is the future\nhome of the Red man,\" said Ossong, as a savage glare lit up his eyes\nand he played with his scalping-knife; \"shall even one pale face be\npermitted to live, if such things are said?  Go--Orono has become a\nwoman!\"\n\nWith this taunt, the most bitter that can be made to an Indian,\nOssong waved his hand, and strode away with a sombre air of fury and\ndisdain.\n\nAs he left the hut, a glittering ornament which hung at his neck\ncaught the eye of Mary.  She uttered a faint cry, for she was weak\nand feeble, and while clutching her babe in one arm, strove to raise\nher attenuated form with the other.  She endeavoured to call back\nOssong; but her voice failed, and she sank despairingly on her bed of\nskins.  Among the gewgaws which covered the broad breast of Ossong,\nto her horror, she had discovered the gilt regimental gorget of her\nhusband, which she knew too well, by its silver thistle, as there had\nbeen no other officer of Highlanders but be in Fort William Henry.\n\nThe eyes of Orono gleamed brightly; he, too, had detected the cause\nof her agitation, and he said,\n\n\"It is an ornament of the pale chief, worn by Ossong.\"\n\n\"It was my husband's!  Oh, Orono, ask him--for pity, ask him, where,\nwhen, how he obtained possession of it.\"\n\n\"Ossong is fierce as a Pequot,\" said the Iroquois, sadly.\n\n\"Ask him, lest I die!\" exclaimed Mary, passionately.\n\n\"Ossong in a strong and fierce warrior,\" replied the savage, gently;\n\"I will steal it for you, if I can.  Ossong is cruel.  Listen; he\nfound a pale face on the shore of the Horican; he was wounded and\nfeeble, so Ossong stripped and bound him to a gum-tree, where he\nroasted him with sedge-grass, and, before death, forced him to eat\nhis own ears, which were cut off by a scalping-knife.\"\n\n\"Oh, my husband!\" exclaimed Mary, in despair; \"and a fiend such as\nthis has had his hands on you!\"\n\n\"I fear me,\" said Orono, shaking his head, \"that he you weep for has\ngone to where the sun hides itself at night.\"\n\n\"What mean you, Orono?\"\n\n\"Away beyond the great prairies of the buffaloes--to the place of\nsleep--the wigwam of grass, where the Indian sleeps sounder than even\nthe fire-water of the white man can make him.\"\n\n\"Alas! you mean the grave?\"\n\nThe Iroquois nodded his head, and relapsed into silence, while with a\nlow moan at a suggestion which seemed to fulfil her own fears, and\nseemed only too probable, Mary fell back and became, to all\nappearance, insensible.\n\nSeveral days passed, during which she hovered between time and\neternity; but nothing, even in civilized life, could surpass the\nwatchful kindness and attention of the poor but grateful savage on\nwhose mercy she found herself thrown.  _How_ Ossong became possessed\nof the regimental gorget--whether he had found it in the wood, or\ntorn it from her husband's neck when dead, Orono could never\ndiscover, as his tawny compatriot was animated in no measured degree\nby the worst attributes of the American Indian--craft, timidity,\nfickleness, ferocity, revenge, and quickness of apprehension.  Hence\nthere were no means of wresting the important--perhaps\ndreadful--secret from him.  He was soon after shot in a skirmish by\nthe soldiers of Fort Edward, and the story of the gilded badge\nperished with him.\n\n\"Oh, never to see my dear, dear husband again--never, in this dreary\nworld!  It is a terrible blow--a dreadful and soul-crushing\nconviction!\" Mary continued to exclaim, \"God has required many\nsacrifices of me; but that Roderick should never see the wee pet-lamb\nI have brought into this vale of woe is the bitterest thought of all;\nand to what a fate shall I leave it!  My heart is like a stone--my\nbrain a chaos.\"\n\n\"Remain and be the squaw of Orono; he is good and gentle, and will\nlove the lonely pale face, and will teach her to hoe rice,\" said the\nenterprising proprietor of the wigwam, who also possessed a valuable\nproperty in wampum and scalp-locks.\n\n\"Remain here! a month, yea, a week of this will kill me, Orono.\nRemain here, and so far away from my country--from the deep glens\nwhere the heather blooms so sweetly!  I cannot stay, Orono,\"\ncontinued the poor girl, wildly.  \"I have been taught to love my\nnative land by the voices of my father, who fell in battle, of my\nmother, who died of sorrow, and of my brave husband, who perished in\nthis hated wilderness!\"\n\n\"Orono understands,\" said the Indian, quietly; \"he, too, loves the\nhunting-grounds of the Iroquois; but he will protect the poor pale\nface and her child.\"\n\nSeeing her weep bitterly, after a pause, during which he regarded her\nattentively--\n\n\"Orono,\" said he, \"is but a poor Indian warrior and knows not the God\nof the pale faces; but may he speak.\"\n\n\"Say on.\"\n\n\"Turn to the Great Spirit of the Iroquois, who dwells far away beyond\nthe lakes and the prairies; be resigned to his will.  The lightning\nis not swifter than his wrath; the hunting-grounds are not greater\nthan his goodness.  This Great Spirit knows every leaf in the\nwoods--every ripple on the waters; and doubtless he has removed the\nwhite chief from evils more terrible than yonder battle by the\nHorican; for sudden death is good.\"\n\n\"How think you so?\"\n\n\"I know not; but the pawaws say so.\"\n\nHere was a subject for one who could reflect; but the heart of Mary\nseemed to have died within her.\n\n\"Oh yes,\" continued the Indian, patting her white shoulder gently\nwith his strong brown hand, and pointing south; \"he is gone to the\nabode of the Great Spirit, to the happy hunting-grounds, where the\nsouls of all brave warriors go, and where they seem to live again.\"\n\n\"Oh that I were with him.\"\n\n\"Orono has no squaw now; but the Oneida girl who slept on his breast\nis there.\"\n\n\"Orono,\" said the widow, touched by his tone, and gathering hope from\nhis protection, \"is a good warrior.\"\n\n\"He is a brave one!\" replied the Iroquois, proudly.\n\n\"It is better to be good than brave; and you _are_ good.\"\n\n\"Orono is grateful to the squaw of the white chief, and has given his\npromise to protect her; so the strongest and tallest braves of the\nIroquois must respect that promise.  My brothers say, Let the pale\nface die----\"\n\n\"She will not trouble you long,\" said Mary, weeping over her child,\nfor which she had neither proper nurture nor little garments, nor\neven the rites of baptism.\n\n\"Are we to perish, they cry, that pale faces may gather, and dig, and\nsow, on the sacred banks of the Horican?  Are they sent here to\ninherit the home of the Indian, the hunting-ground of his fathers,\nand the great solemn barrows where their bones lie by the Oswego and\nthe Mississippi, as if the Great Spirit loved them better than his\nchildren the Iroquois.\"\n\nFrom this day fever of mind and body--an illness for which she had\nneither nurse, physician, nor comforts around her--prostrated the\nfaculties of the poor widow, for such she deemed herself.  As each\nlink in the chain of life is broken by death, we are united more\nclosely to those which remain; but to poor Mary all seemed a hopeless\nblank.  The _last link_ was a child, whose feeble life and doubtful\nfuture filled her with dismay.\n\nNow that Roderick was gone, her heart seemed to follow him.  She\nclung with fonder affection to the world that was to come, and where\nshe was to meet him; but her babe, could she selfishly forsake it?\nHer heart was sorely lacerated.  Eternity seemed close--terribly\n_close_ to her; and her husband being there, instituted to her a more\nendearing tie between this world and that mysterious \"bourne from\nwhence no traveller returns.\"  She had no terror of this journey, for\nhe whom she loved with all the strength of her soul had gone before\nand awaited her there.  At times she fancied that he chid her delay;\nshe felt drawn towards that spirit-world by a chord of affection\nwhich made her now yearn for it, as before she had wept and yearned\nfor her Highland home.\n\nBut her babe--so innocent and so deserted--could she die and leave it\namong the Iroquois?\n\nHow did Roderick die--where?  Peacefully or in torture?  Was he\nburied, or lying still unentombed?\n\nThese dreadful questions and thoughts were ever before her in the\nintervals of waking from her fits of delirium, which often lasted for\nhours; and her snatches of sleep were filled by horrible dreams.\n\nIn these intervals a new hope dawned in her heart.  Her husband might\nhave escaped and gained Fort Edward or the army of Montcalm, and she\nmight yet reach him with her child if protected by Orono.  This idea\ngave a new and exciting impulse to her already overwrought frame; but\nit came, alas! too late, for, a few days after the birth of her\nlittle one, she too surely felt herself dying--dying there with none\nto hear her story, or to whom she could bequeath her helpless babe--a\nthought sufficient alone to kill her.  With the last effort of her\nstrength she took from her now matted hair the Celtic marriage brooch\n(the old palladium of her husband's family) which she had kept there\nconcealed since the day of their departure from Fort William Henry,\nand fixing it to a fragment of her own dress, which she had wrapped\nround the infant, pointed to it, that Orono might deem it an amulet\nor talisman--\"a great medicine\"--and expired!\n\n* * * *\n\nIt was about the time of sunset, and before interring the body in a\ndeep grave which he had scooped at the foot of a gum-tree, and lined\nwith soft furs, Orono sat silent and watching in his wigwam.  Near\nthe dead mother her unconscious child slept peacefully.  The poor\nIndian was perhaps praying, and feeling thankful in his heart that he\nhad discharged a debt of gratitude, and would yet do more by\nconveying the little orphan to the nearest white settlement, and\nthere leaving her to her fate.\n\nThe evening was beautiful, like those which preceded the siege and\nthe massacre.  A mellow sunset was deepening on the hills that\noverlook the waters of Lake George, and the setting beams played with\na wavering radiance on the green foliage that was tossed like verdant\nplumage by the evening wind, and on the ripples that ran before it\nover the bosom of that lovely lake.  All was still within the Indian\nhut where the dead woman lay, with her long black lashes resting on\nthe pallid cheek from which they never more would rise: and with her\npure, pale profile, sharply defined against the coarse grass matting\nthat screened her wretched couch.  Crouching on one side was the old\nsquaw, appalled by the marble hue of the strange corpse; on the other\nsat Orono, divested of his plume and all his ornaments in token of\ngrief, with his deep glittering eyes fixed on the rocky bluffs which\nseemed to start forward from the copse-covered slopes, and were then\ntinted with a deep purple by the sinking sun.\n\nAs the last rays died away from the volcanic peaks, the Indian\nstarted up and prepared to inter the remains of poor Mary, when the\nglittering epaulettes and appointments of a French officer, who was\nleading his horse by the bridle, appeared at the door of the wigwam.\n\nHe was the Baron de Beauchatel, with the gold cross of St. Louis\ndangling on the lapelle of the gay white uniform of the Grenadiers of\nGuienne.  Having lost his way in the forest, he now sought a guide to\nthe camp of Montcalm; but the dead mother caught his eye at the\nmoment he peered into the obscurity of the hut.\n\n\"Mon Dieu! what have we here?\" he asked, with surprise.\n\n\"The squaw and papoose of a pale chief,\" replied the apparently\nunmoved Indian.\n\n\"Dead--a lady, too!\" exclaimed the French officer, stooping over her\nwith a commiseration that was greatly increased when he discovered\nthat she was young and beautiful.  He gently pressed her thin white\nhand, and lifted her soft black hair.  \"And this is her child?\"\n\nOrono nodded.\n\n\"Almost newly born--how calmly it sleeps!  The poor infant--alone in\nthis wilderness--T\u00eate Dieu! it is frightful!  Tell me all about this,\nIroquois, and I will reward you handsomely with a new English\nclasp-knife, a bottle of eau de vie, a blanket, or whatever else your\nrefined taste teaches you to prize most.\"\n\nIn his own language, by turns soft and guttural, Orono related to the\nbaron all that he knew of the white woman; that she had twice saved\nhis life, and that he, in gratitude, had protected her from the\nIroquois; but he had no power over the Great Spirit.\n\nThe baron was a humane and gallant French officer of the old days of\nthe monarchy.  He had been a gay fellow some few years before, and\nhad been sent to America (according to Parisian gossip) because he\nhad been too favourably noticed by Madame de Pompadour; but he had a\ngood and tender heart; thus, the story of the poor mother, and the\nhelplessness of her orphan, stirred him deeply.  By the whole aspect\nof the dead, and the remains of her attire, he suspected that her\nrank and position in life had been good--a lady at least.  A ring\nupon the fourth finger of her left hand, bearing the name of her\nhusband in Gaelic, he gently removed; he then cut off some of her\nfine black hair, and, after making a few memoranda descriptive of her\nperson, he bargained with the Indian that he should give up the child\nfor a few francs.  This the Iroquois at once agreed to do, and, with\nthe assistance of the baron, Mary was wrapped in furs and buried\nunder a tree on the sequestered shore of the Horican.\n\nTo Beauchatel it seemed strange and repugnant that a Christian woman\nshould be laid there without a prayer or a blessing, on the rough\nmould that covered her pale attenuated form, her pains and her\nsorrows; but it was long since _he_ had prayed; yet, with an impulse\nof piety, he cut on the bark of the tree, which covered the place\nwhere she lay, a large cross, and raising his hat retired.\n\nThe act was in itself a prayer!\n\n\"Can I now do aught for you?\" he asked of Orono.\n\nThe Indian mournfully shook his head, and then said,\n\n\"Give me a new musket, for the time is coming--the time that has been\nforetold.\"\n\n\"By whom?\"\n\n\"The sachems, the pawaws, and the old men of the Iroquois.\"\n\n\"And what shall happen, _mon camarade_?\"\n\n\"The warriors of the Six Nations will break the pipe of peace and dig\nup the great war-hatchet.\"\n\n\"Against whom?\n\n\"All who come from the land of the rising sun.\"\n\n\"Be it so,\" said the baron, shrugging his shoulders, and looking with\nsome anxiety towards the long shadows, that darkened in the forest\nvistas; \"you shall have your musket; but give me the child, _mon\nami_; and now for the camp of Louis de St. Voran!\"\n\n* * * *\n\nLet us change the scene.\n\nIt is 1778, exactly twenty-one years after the events recorded as\nhaving happened at Fort William Henry.  We are now in France, in the\nsunny province of Guienne, and near the gay city of Bordeaux.\n\nA lady, young and beautiful, is seated at one of the lofty open\nwindows of the turreted Chateau de Fontbrune, which crowns the summit\nof a wooded eminence on the right bank of the Garonne.  Her eyes and\nhair are dark; her complexion soft and brilliant.  Her attire, as she\nis in the country, partakes of the picturesque fashion of the last\ndays of Louis XV.  She reclines on a velvet fauteuil, and forcibly\nreminds us of a languid little beauty in one of Watteau's pictures\nwaiting for some one to make love to her.  As a poet of the time has\nit, her attire\n\n  \"Was whimsically traversed o'er,\n  Here a knot and there a flower;\n  Like her little heart that dances,\n  Full of maggots--full of fancies;\n  Flowing loosely down her back,\n  Fell with art the graceful sacque;\n  Ornamented well with gimping,\n  Flounces, furbelows, and crimping,\n  While her ruffles, many a row,\n  Guard her elbows, white as snow,\n  Knots below and points above,\n  Emblem of the ties of love.\"\n\nHer cheek rested on her hand, and heedless of the too familiar\nsplendour of the apartment in which she was seated, she impatiently\ndrew back the blue satin hangings, which were festooned by cords and\ntassels of silver, and setting her round dimpled chin into the white\npalm of her pretty little hand, gazed languidly upon the beautiful\nlandscape that spread, as it were, at her feet.\n\nThe vine-covered district of the Bordelais, through which wound the\nGaronne; Bourdeaux, clustering on its left bank in the form, of a\ncrescent, with its old walls and towers of the Middle Ages; its\nnineteen gates, through which the tide of human life was ebbing and\nflowing; its long rows of trees casting their lengthening shadows to\nthe eastward; the huge grey ramparts of the venerable Chateau de\nTrompette; the palace of the Dukes of Guienne; the church of St.\nMichel and the cathedral of St. Andr\u00e9, with its two tall and splendid\nspires, which pierced the saffron-tinted sky like stone needles; and\nthen the majestic river sweeping past towards the sea, all bathed in\nthe broad light of a glorious June sunset.  But Therese had seen all\nthis a thousand times before, and it ceased to interest her now.\n\nIn the lap of this noble lady reposed a pretty, but saucy and\nsnubnosed Bologna spaniel, with the long ears and black silky hair of\nwhich the white fingers of one hand played involuntarily.  Statues,\nbronzes, buhl tables, vases of flowers, and a hundred beautiful\ntrifles, decorated this little room, which was her boudoir--her own\npeculiar sanctum sanctorum--and the windows of which overlooked a\nbastion, whereon were sixteen antique brass cannon; for the Chateau\nde Fontbrune, in which we have now the honour of finding ourselves,\nwas an old baronial house, which, after being fortified by Louis de\nFoix, had given shelter to Charles VII., and been beleaguered by the\nMar\u00e9chal de Matignon.\n\nThe productions of the popular men of the day strewed the apartment.\nThe poems of Bernis, the comedies of the Abb\u00e9 Boissy, the music of\nLulli, with drawings and pictures without end, lay near, while a\nvaudeville by Panard was open upon the piano.  Mademoiselle had\nevidently been sorely puzzled in her efforts to get through the long\nhours of this day of June, 1778.\n\n\"Oh, Nanon!\" she exclaimed to her attendant, a pretty girl of\neighteen, who sat near her on a tabourette, sewing; \"I am _so_\nennuy\u00e9--for in this dreary old chateau, which I am not permitted to\nleave, and to which no one comes but prosy old colonels and stupid\nmagistrates, such as M. le Maire, or M. le Maitre du Palais, or still\nworse, those horrid counsellors of the Court of Admiralty, there is\nso little to rouse one from sad thoughts and drowsy lethargy.\"\n\n\"Try another chapter of that new romance by M. de Marivaux.\"\n\n\"Ah, _merci!_ he is a most tiresome fellow, Nanon, and odious, too.\"\n\n\"Odious?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"How, Mademoiselle Therese?\"\n\n\"I judge from his memoir of himself.\"\n\n\"Explain, mademoiselle.\"\n\n\"He was once in love with a young lady--\"\n\n\"Once, only--then he is no true romance writer.\"\n\n\"She had black hair, hazel eyes and long lashes, divine little hands\nand feet--in fact, the counterpart of myself, as the old Abb\u00e9 de\nBoissy told me--and was on the point of paying his most solemn and\nmagnificent addresses to her; when, happening to enter her boudoir\none day unexpectedly, he found--\"\n\n\"Not a lover?\" exclaimed Nanon, becoming suddenly interested; \"not a\nstudent or mousquetaire, I hope?\"\n\n\"_Ma foi!_ no--nothing half so pleasant.\"\n\n\"What, then?\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle studying smiles and postures before her mirror.\"\n\n\"And this--\"\n\n\"So shocked the staid and proper M. de Marivaux, that his passion\npassed away in a moment, and he took to novel writing.\"\n\n\"It was no passion whatever, mademoiselle,\" replied Nanon, disgusted\nto find that a lady should lose a lover by the same arts which she\npractised daily to win one; and now ensued another long pause.\n\nThis young lady--so beautiful, so tenderly nurtured, so accomplished,\nand so splendidly jewelled--was the richest heiress in Bordeaux, a\nward of the young King Louis XVI., _fianc\u00e9e_ of the Comte d'Arcot, a\nhigh military noble, who had covered himself with distinction in\nIndia, and was now on his way home with a fabulous sum in livres,\nand, of course, with the liver complaint.  But this noble demoiselle,\nsuccessor of M. le Baron Beauchatel, Seigneur de Fontbrune and of St.\nEmilion, Seneschal of Bordeaux, and Commandant of the Chateau de\nTrompette, was the foundling of the Iroquois wigwam, the orphan child\nof Roderick MacGillivray and of that lonely and despairing mother who\nfound her grave, uncoffined, in the savage solitude on the southern\nshore of the Horican.\n\nAnd now to solve this mystery.\n\nBeauchatel had conveyed the infant girl to Fort William Henry, and\nconsigned her to the care of the baroness, a lady of gentle and\namiable disposition.  In pity for the helplessness of the child, she\nundertook its care, at first as a mere duty of humanity, but as\nmonths passed on, her regard became a strong love for this lonely\nlittle waif--a love all the stronger that she was herself without\nchildren, and had long ceased to hope that she would ever be a\nmother; so it seemed as if Heaven had sent this infant to fill up the\nvoid in her heart.  She named her _Therese_, after herself; for she\nhad been Mademoiselle Therese de St. Veran, a sister of the Marquis\nde Montcalm, and consequently was a lady of Nismes.  Soon after her\nreturn to France with Beauchatel she died, and her last request was,\nthat he would continue to protect the orphan which fate had so\nstrangely committed to his care.  The good and faithful soldier had\nlearned to love the little girl as if she had been his own, and being\nwithout kinsmen or heirs to his title and estates, he obtained from\nthe young King Louis XVI., then in the fourth year of his unhappy\nreign, as a reward for his services and those of his ancestors,\npermission to adopt her in legal form.  The necessary documents were\naccordingly drawn up, sealed, signed, and registered; and thus the\npoor foundling of the Canadian forest, the child of Roderick\nMacGillivray of the Black Watch, became the heiress of the Chateau de\nFontbrune and of the Seigneurie of Saint Emilion.\n\nOn returning from America, the baron had served five years under M.\nLaw de Lauriston in the East, upholding the interests of the French\nIndia Company against the Nabob of Bengal and the British, under Lord\nClive.  There he had met and become acquainted with Count d'Arcot,\nfor whom he had conceived a sudden and vehement friendship--so much\nso, that, after his return to France, he resolved that, _bongr\u00e9\nmalgr\u00e9_, his young ward should marry this soldier of fortune; for\nsuch he was, having been created Count d'Ascot and Knight of St.\nLouis for his bravery at the recapture of that city of Hindostan, the\ncapital of the Carnatic.\n\nPoor Therese had been told the sad story of the mother she had never\nknown, and of whom no relics remained but some silky black hair, a\nring, and that singular brooch--an ornament so unlike anything she\nhad ever seen, and which was graven with a legend in a language to\nher so strange and barbarous; and her heart yearned for a further\nknowledge of whom she was, and whence she came, and for that mother's\nkiss, of which, though it had been planted a thousand times upon her\nlittle lips, she had no memory; and at times she mourned for that\nfather she had never seen.  Then it seemed so odd, so strange, so\ngrievous that she could have any other father than the dear, kind old\nbaron, for whom she had a love and reverence so filial and so strong.\n\nBut to resume.\n\n\"The evening lags, as if the sun would never set,\" yawned the\npetulant little beauty.  \"What shall we do with ourselves--speak, you\nprovoking Nanon?\"\n\n\"Play,\" was the pithy reply.\n\n\"I have played everything that came last from Paris, and my piano is\nnow frightfully out of tune--the chords are fallen.\"\n\n\"Read.\"\n\n\"I have read MM. Marivaux, Bernis, and Jean Jacques de Rousseau till\nI am sick of them.\"\n\n\"Draw.\"\n\n\"It makes my head ache, and the Abb\u00e9 Boissy says it will spoil my\neyes, in which he seems to take a poetical interest.\"\n\n\"Sing.\"\n\n\"Nanon, you bore me!\"\n\n\"Suppose we pray, then!\"\n\n\"Ma foi!--that would not be very amusing when one is dull and dreary.\"\n\n\"Order out the grey pads and ride.\"\n\n\"M. Beauchatel never allows that, as you know well, Nanon, save when\nhe is with me; and we shall have enough of our horses, I have no\ndoubt, when this odious old count, whom I am to marry, and whom I\nalready hate, and whom I am resolved to tease to death, arrives here.\"\n\n\"I shall retire, mademoiselle.\"\n\n\"You shall not!\"\n\n\"I fear you find me poor company,\" urged Nanon, demurely.\n\n\"Poor or bad company are better than none----\"\n\n\"Here in this huge chateau, perhaps; but one would not think so in\nthe midst of a wood.\"\n\n\"Here I am left all day with no thoughts to rouse me but of that\nhorrible old Comte d'Arcot, who is certainly coming from India, and\nto whom I am to be given like a box of rupees or a bale of sugar.\"\n\n\"It is a long way to India,\" said Nanon; \"away round the end of the\nworld at Cape Finisterre, and perhaps--perhaps----\"\n\n\"Say on, Nanon.\"\n\n\"He may be drowned by the way.\"\n\n\"Ah! don't say so, Nanon!\"\n\n\"Storms may arise, as they frequently do, and then ships are wrecked.\nThere was M. la Perouse, who sailed away out into the wide ocean in\nthe days of the late King Louis XV., and has never been heard of\nsince.  If stout young sailors drown, surely an old soldier like\nComte d'Arcot may.\"\n\n\"I am almost wicked enough to wish it.\"\n\n\"I think I see something that will amuse you, mademoiselle.\"\n\n\"Mon Dieu!  I am glad of that--what is it?\"\n\n\"A party of soldiers.\"\n\n\"Where?--oh, I do so love to see soldiers!\"\n\n\"'Tis a guard conveying prisoners to the Chateau de Trompette, and\nnow they are about to cross the Garonne by boats.\"\n\nThe lady gazed from the window, and saw a mass of armed soldiers\nmarching quickly down the opposite slope towards the river.  As they\nissued from under the green vine trellis which shaded the roads for\nmiles in every direction, she could distinctly discern the scarlet\ncoats of the prisoners contrasting with the white of the French\nlinesmen who formed the escort, and had their bayonets fixed.\n\n\"Red uniforms--they are British prisoners of war!\" exclaimed Nanon;\n\"oh, mademoiselle, we have gained a battle somewhere, and beaten the\nEnglish, as we always do.\"\n\n\"Poor, poor fellows!\" sighed Therese; \"ah, Nanon, I feel sad when I\nsee them, for M. le Baron says my mother was one of these people: yet\nit seems so strange that I should ever have had any other than\nTherese de St. Veran--dear Madame la Baronesse, whom the Blessed\nVirgin has taken to herself.\"\n\n\"See how they crowd into that little boat!  Oh, mon Dieu! the brave\nreckless fellows--it will never hold them all!\"\n\n\"And the stream is deep and rapid there.\"\n\n\"See--see, O Dieu! what has happened!\" shrieked Nanon.\n\n\"Overturned--the boat has overturned.\"\n\n\"No--'tis a man overboard!--he is in the stream, and drowning!\"\n\n\"Oh, I cannot look upon this!\" said Therese, shrinking back and\nburying her face in her hands, while loud cries of alarm ascended\nfrom the river to the windows of the chateau; but Nanon, whose\nnervous temperament was less delicate than that of her mistress,\ncontinued to gaze steadily.\n\nTwo men were swimming or splashing in the water.  One had fallen\noverboard; the other had plunged in to succour or save him; but both\nwere swept away by the stream.  In short, the former was soon\ndrowned, and the latter rescued with the utmost difficulty.  When\ndragged on shore he was quite insensible; but the officer in command\nof the escort, having no time to spare, desired four of his men to\nform a litter with their muskets, and bear him to the Chateau de\nFontbrune, as the nearest place where the usual means might be\nadopted for the restoration of life.\n\nThe half-drowned man, who had perilled life so gallantly to save the\nunfortunate soldier, was an officer, and moreover, one that was sure\nto win favour in French eyes, being young, handsome, and an _Officier\nd'Ecossais_, as Nanon reported minutely to her startled mistress, who\nhad promptly all her household in attendance on the sufferer, though\nshe dared not peep into his room in person.  At last Nanon brought\nthe joyous intelligence that he was \"recovering, and had opened a\npair of such beautiful eyes!\"--so here was a stirring episode for our\nyoung demoiselle, who, a half hour before, had been so dull and\n_ennuy\u00e9_ that she was weary of her own charming self and all the\nworld beside.\n\nFrance and Britain were still, as we last left them twenty-one years\nago, engaged in the lively and profitable occupation of fighting\nbattles, battering fleets and burning towns in America, where the\nsubject of taxation had occasioned hostilities between the mother\ncountry and her colonies, whose forces, led by Washington, were aided\nin the strife by the armies and fleets of France, Spain, and Holland.\n\nSome days elapsed before the young officer, who was on his parole of\nhonour, had sufficiently recovered to appear on the terrace of the\nchateau, where Mademoiselle Therese and the gossiping Nanon received\nhim in due form.  He was pale and thin from the effects of a wound,\nhis long sea voyage, and the severe treatment to which prisoners of\nwar were usually subjected in those days; but all this only served to\nmake him the more interesting to the two girls, who were quite\nflattered by the presence of the chance visitor fortune had sent them\nto enliven the old chateau.  His uniform was sorely dilapidated; the\nlace and epaulettes of his scarlet coat were blackened by powder and\nlong service, and it consorted oddly with a pair of French hussar\npantaloons.  Still, notwithstanding these disadvantages, his bearing\nwas free, gallant, and gentlemanly; and in very good French he\nthanked the lady of Fontbrune for her humanity and hospitality.\n\n\"May I ask your name, monsieur?\" asked Therese, timidly.\n\n\"Munro--Hector Munro.\"\n\n\"And your regiment?\"\n\n\"The Black Watch--Ecossais.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed,\" said Therese, with her dark eyes brightening; for to\nbelong to a Scottish regiment in those days (and even in the\n_present_) was as sure a guide to French favour as if he could have\nanswered, \"The Irish Brigade.\"\n\n\"And you were taken prisoner----\"\n\n\"In America, mademoiselle, on the Acushnet River, where my regiment\nwas serving with the brigades of grenadiers and light infantry then\nordered to destroy a number of pirates who made New Plymouth their\nhaunt.  This we achieved successfully, but not without severe loss.\"\n\n\"Were you not dreadfully frightened?\"\n\n\"I was then under fire for the _first_ time,\" said the young officer,\nsmiling.\n\n\"And how did you feel--oh, pray tell me?\"\n\n\"A tightening of the breast--a long-drawn breath, as the _first_ shot\nwhizzed past my ear; another as the first cannon-ball seemed to\nscream in the air overhead, and then I rushed on fearless, filled by\na fierce and tumultuous joy.  I heard only the din of the bagpipes\nand the cheers of my comrades.  But I lost my way in the wood, and\nfalling among a detachment of the Regiment of Languedoc, was made a\nprisoner.  With many others in the same predicament, I was soon\nshipped off for France, and so have the honour to appear before you.\"\n\n\"And who was the soldier for whom you risked your life?\"\n\n\"A sergeant of the Regiment of Languedoc.\"\n\n\"A Frenchman!\"\n\n\"Yes, mademoiselle; the same man who made me prisoner in America.\"\n\n\"Ah, mon Dieu! and you tried to save him!  How noble!\"\n\n\"Mademoiselle, my father, who was a brave old soldier, taught me that\nwhen the sword was in the scabbard _all men are brothers_.\"\n\n\"And your rank?\"\n\n\"Lieutenant; and now,\" he added, bitterly, \"I may remain a prisoner\nfor ten years perhaps, with my hopes blighted, my promotion stopped,\nand my pay gone.\"\n\n\"It is very sad,\" replied Therese, casting down her fine eyes, which\nshe feared might betray the interest she already felt in the young\nprisoner of war; \"but when the baron comes home from Paris--he will\nbe here in three days--we shall see what can be done for you.\"\n\nThree days--poor little Therese! by that time she was irrevocably in\nlove with young Munro, and Nanon left nothing undone or unsaid to\nconvince her that the passion was quite mutual.  Though they did not\nmeet at meals, they, were constantly together on the terraces and in\nthe gardens of the chateau; thus it was impossible for this young man\nto spend his time in the society of such a girl as Therese, in the\nfull bloom of her youth and beauty (a _fair bloom_ that belonged not\nto France), without feeling his heart influenced; while her artless\nand charming manner, which by turns was playful, sad, earnest, or\nwinning, lured him into a passion against which his better judgment\nstrove in vain; for he knew the danger and absurdity of a\nsubaltern--a prisoner of war--a lad without rank, home, friends, or\nsubsistence--and more than all, in that land of tyranny, bastilles,\nand lettres de cachet, engaging in a love affair with a lady of rank\nand wealth.\n\n\"In three days,\" thought he, \"this deuced old baron returns; but in\nthree days I shall be well enough to be out of the sick list, to\nmarch off from here, and report myself at the Chateau de Trompette.\"\n\nAccording to the author of _Dream Life_, \"Youthful passion is a\ngiant!  It overleaps all the dreams and all the resolves of our\nbetter and quieter nature, and madly drives toward some wild issue\nthat lives only in its own frenzy.  How little account does passion\ntake of goodness!  It is not within the cycle of its revolution--it\nis below--it is tamer--it is older--it wears no wings.\"\n\nSo the evening of the sixth day passed into twilight, and found M.\nHector Munro, of his Britannic Majesty's 42nd Highlanders, still\nlingering by the side of Therese in the garden of that delightful old\nchateau by the \"silvery Garonne,\" when the ominous sound of horses'\nhoofs, and of wheels rasping on the gravel under the antique porte\ncoch\u00e8re, announced the return of the Baron de Beauchatel!\n\nTherese grew deadly pale.\n\n\"Your father--he has arrived, and I must bid you farewell,\" said\nMunro, kissing her trembling hands with sudden emotion.\n\n\"Stay, monsieur,\" said Therese, in an imploring voice.  So \"monsieur\"\nstayed; to go was impossible.\n\n\"M. le Baron!\" exclaimed Nanon, rushing towards them, while her round\nblack eyes dilated with excitement; \"M. le Baron, and oh, mon Dieu,\nM. le Comte d'Arcot is with him!\"\n\n\"M. d'Arcot!\" murmured poor Therese, and stood rooted to the spot,\nthe statue of terror and grief; for, after six days such as the last,\nto meet an old and previously unknown _fianc\u00e9_ with the cordiality\nrequisite, was more than poor human nature could bear or achieve.\n\nThe baron, who was considerably changed in person since we last had\nthe pleasure of seeing him, having become stout and paunchy, abrupt\nand irritable in manner, now approached, leading, and indeed almost\npulling forward a tall, thin, and soldier-like Chevalier of St.\nLouis, whose form and face seemed wasted by inward thought and care,\nby exposure to the burning sun of India and the toils of war, rather\nthan by lapse of time; yet he seemed quite old, though in reality not\nmuch more than fifty years of age.  His hair, which he wore\nunpowdered, was white as snow, and was simply tied behind by a black\nribbon.  He wore the undress uniform of a French Mar\u00e9chal du Camp,\nand leaned a little on his cane as he walked.\n\n\"Mademoiselle de Beauchatel--my daughter--M. le Comte d'Arcot,\" said\nthe baron, introducing them, and kissing Therese.\n\n\"M. le Comte is most welcome to Fontbrune,\" said Therese, presenting\nher trembling hand to the tall old soldier, who kissed it\nrespectfully; and after a few polite commonplaces, muttered\nhurriedly, on the calmness of the evening, the beauty of the chateau,\nits gardens, the scenery, &c., she drew aside to wipe away her tears,\nand desire Nanon to conceal Munro or get him quietly away.\n\n\"What think you of her?\" asked the baron, covertly.\n\n\"She is most lovely; but now, my dear Beauchatel, though I have come\nto visit you, pray forget your project of the marriage.\"\n\n\"Forget the object nearest my heart!\" exclaimed the impetuous baron.\n\n\"To unite an old veteran, a man of a withered heart, to a blooming\nyoung girl--December to May--it is absurd, my dear baron!\" replied\nthe Mar\u00e9chal du Camp, laughing.\n\n\"Absurd--parbleu! do not say so.\"\n\n\"I assure you it is.\"\n\n\"When you know her, you will be charmed.\"\n\n\"I do not doubt it,\" replied D'Arcot; \"but oh! what is this that\nmoves me?  Her face seems more than familiar to me, and recals some\nold friend or relative.\"\n\n\"Impossible, comte; you have been more than twenty years in India,\nand she is barely twenty-one.\"\n\nTherese came forward again, and the comte began to examine her\nfeatures with a fixed and earnest gaze, which filled her timid heart\nwith inexpressible fear and confusion.\n\nAt that moment the baron's eye caught the red coat of poor Munro, who\nhad withdrawn a little way back, and was irresolute whether to\nadvance or retire on finding himself so suddenly _de trop_ where\nhitherto he had been so much at home.\n\n\"Oh, _sacre bleu_!\" exclaimed Beauchatel, drawing his sword in a\nsudden gust of fury and suspicion, as he rushed upon the stranger:\n\"whom have we here?\"\n\nTherese uttered a cry and sprang forward; but she was less alert than\nCount d'Arcot, who, at that moment, threw himself between the baron\nand the object of his jealous anger.\n\n\"Permit _me_ to arrange this matter,\" said the Marshal du Camp,\nunsheathing his sword; \"officer, answer me truly on your honour--on\nyour life--how long you have been here.\"\n\n\"Six days, M. le Comte.\"\n\n\"Oh, _sang Dieu_!\" swore the baron, pirouetting about in a fresh gust\nof fury; \"six whole days.\"\n\n\"How came you here?\"\n\n\"On a litter, insensible--being half-drowned, in attempting to save\nthe life of a French soldier in the Garonne.\"\n\n\"You are a prisoner--\"\n\n\"On my parole,\" interrupted Munro, bowing.\n\n\"One of those who were landed at Castillon from America, and were _en\nroute_ for the Chateau de Trompette?\"\n\n\"Exactly, M. le Comte.\"\n\n\"You are named--\"\n\n\"Munro--Hector Munro, lieutenant in the 42nd Highlanders.\"\n\n\"The old Black Watch!\" said the Mar\u00e9chal du Camp, sheathing his\nsword, while an inexplicable expression came over his grave features;\n\"I once knew well an officer who bore the good old name of Munro.\"\n\n\"My father, perhaps,\" said the prisoner, anxiously; \"he was a brave\nsoldier.\"\n\n\"_Was_--he is, then, dead?\"\n\n\"He fell in action against the Spaniards!\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"At the storming of the Moro Castle.\"\n\n\"And what was his rank?\"\n\n\"Colonel of his Britannic Majesty's 60th Regiment of Infantry.\"\n\n\"Or Royal Americans?\" continued the count, with a kindling eye.\n\n\"The same, M. le Comte.\"\n\n\"Did he command at Fort William Henry, where the defeated troops were\nso shamefully abandoned by General Webb, and were afterwards\nmassacred by the Iroquois?\"\n\n\"He did.  I was saved from that massacre by the wife of a French\nsoldier.  It was my second narrow escape from the Iroquois, then; for\nonce before two Indians bore me into the forest, and my life was\nspared by the luckiest chance in the world.\"\n\n\"You must have been very young,\" said Beauchatel; \"I too, served\nthere, and am quite an old fellow now.\"\n\n\"I was a mere child, messieurs, in those days.\"\n\n\"Ah, they will soon be friends now!\" thought Therese; \"already they\nare comrades.\"\n\n\"And you were saved--\" resumed D'Arcot.\n\n\"By an officer named MacGillivray, who was on his march to join that\nill-fated garrison with a party of the Black Watch, the same regiment\nto which I have now the honour to belong.  Then followed that\nunparalleled massacre, the memory of which seems like a horrible\ndream to me.\"\n\n\"And to me, too, boy; for I, also, was at the siege of Fort William\nHenry, and I was that lieutenant of the Black Watch who saved you\nfrom the Iroquois,\" said Count d'Arcot, taking the hand of Munro in\nhis; \"I had, then, a wife--perhaps a child,\" he added in a troubled\nvoice; \"but both lie buried in the forest by the shore of Lake\nGeorge!\"\n\n\"Your wife, M. le Comte,\" said Beauchatel; \"how did she die?\"\n\n\"Not as the leaves die when the summer is over; for she was torn from\nme by the hands of the accursed Iroquois--my beloved Mary!  After the\nlapse of one and twenty years, baron, her image, so noble, so gentle,\nand so womanly, fills up my past, as once it filled my future.  I was\ntaken prisoner, as you know, and joining the French army in sheer\ndisgust of the British, whose conduct, under Webb, maddened me, I\nhave attained in India the rank I now bear, and which I never could\nhave won in the armies of the House of Hanover.\"\n\n\"Stay--_peste!_ a sudden light breaks in upon me!\" exclaimed the\nbaron, smiting his forehead; \"ah, _mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_ if it should\nbe!\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Excuse me, messieurs, for one moment; a thought has struck me!\" said\nthe impulsive Frenchman, and rushing into the house, he returned in a\nfew moments, bearing in his hands an antique oak casquet, in which he\nkept his commissions, his diplomas, orders of knighthood, and other\nobjects of value; and, drawing therefrom the brooch which had been\nfound upon the dress of Therese when a child, he placed it in the\nhands of the count.\n\nAs Roderick MacGillivray, now M. le Comte d'Arcot, Governor of\nPondicherry, Mar\u00e9chal du Camp, and Colonel of the Regiment du Roi, a\nman grown old by war and thought and time, saw the ancient and\nwell-known heirloom of his house--the marriage-brooch of the brides\nof Glenarrow--the same mystic symbol which, in youth, he had bestowed\nupon his wife, a sudden tremor came over him, and a flush and then a\npallor crossed his wrinkled face.\n\n\"_Lochmoy!_\" he muttered in his native language, which he had so long\nunused; \"_touch not the cat without the glove_.  Oh my God! whence\ncame this trinket, Beauchatel?\"\n\n\"I found it fastened to the dress of a newly-born babe in the forest\nnear Lake George--a babe that lay on the breast of its dead mother,\nin the wigwam of an Iroquois, and on her finger was this ring,\ninscribed--\"\n\n\"Roderaick Ruodh MacGillibhreac--my own name, and my gift it was to\nMary, the grand-daughter of the murdered MacIan of Glencoe,\"\nexclaimed MacGillivray, in an agonized voice, as his eyes filled with\ntears; \"and you buried her--\"\n\n\"By my own hands, at the foot of a tree, which I marked with a\ncross--\"\n\n\"God bless thee, my brave and honest Beauchatel!\" exclaimed Roderick.\n\n\"And there she lies in peace.\"\n\n\"But the babe, baron--the little babe?\"\n\n\"Therese--she stands before you.\"\n\nThe veteran Comte d'Arcot opened his arms, and the pale and agitated\ngirl found herself pressed to the breast of her newly-discovered\nfather.\n\n* * * *\n\nOur readers may guess the sequel.\n\nHector Munro of the Black Watch remained a prisoner of war in France\nuntil the autumn of 1782, when a general peace was concluded.  He was\non parole not to pass beyond two miles from the gates of the Chateau\nde Trompette.  As the mansion of Therese was within that boundary, he\nfound his limits ample enough, and long before that auspicious day\nwhen the cannon on the ramparts of Bourdeaux announced the peace of\nthe two countries, and the independence of America, he had become the\nson-in-law of Count d'Arcot.\n\nThe latter, soon after, seeing the approaching storm of the\nRevolution, transferred himself and all his property to Britain, and\nthus escaped the fate of the loyal and gallant Beauchatel, whose\nnoble chateau was destroyed, and whose fate is thus recorded in a\ndespatch of the Comte d'Artois, dated Coblentz, 10th June, 1793.--\n\n\"M. Beauchatel rivalled his forefathers in glory and in faith.  He\ndied in battle, at the head of his Emigrant Regiment, and lies in the\ntrenches of Lisle, a fitting grave for the _premier Chevalier de St.\nLouis_.\"\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\nTHE WIFE OF THE RED COMYN.\n\nMY GRANDFATHER'S STORY.\n\nThe old gentleman had served in the 42nd Highlanders, or old Black\nWatch, in early life, and could spin to us endless yarns of the\nbloody affair of Ticonderoga, where the regiment had no less than six\nhundred and forty-seven officers and soldiers killed or wounded; the\nexpedition to the Lakes; the surrender of Montreal; the siege of the\nMoro, and the scalping, flaying alive, the tomahawking, and other\nlittle pleasantries incidental to the relief of Fort Pitt in 1763;\nand of that devilish business with the Red Indians amid the swamps\nand rocks at Bushy Run, all of which were \"familiar in our mouths as\nhousehold words;\" while, to the venerable narrator, the smell of\ngunpowder, the flavour of Ferintosh, or the skirl of a bagpipe were\nlike the _elixir vit\u00e6_ of the ancients, and seemed to renew his\nyouth, strength, and spirit for a time; and thus the fire of other\nyears would flash up within him, like the last gleam of a sinking\nlamp, as we sat by our bogwood fire in the long winter nights of the\nNorth.\n\nIn the year 1768, his regiment was cantoned in Galway, where it was\nreviewed by Major-General Armiger, and the old gentleman was wont to\nboast, that except two Lowland Scots, every soldier in its ranks was\nfrom the clans that dwell northward of the Tay, \"and happily for the\ncorps,\" he used to add, \"these two were knocked on the head during\nthe onfall at Long Island.\"  The regiment, then for the _third_ time\nin Ireland, remained there for seven years.  During 1772, it was\nemployed in suppressing tumults occasioned by the complicating\ninterests and adverse views of the Catholic and Protestant landlords\nand tenants in Antrim and elsewhere; and in this delicate service\ntheir Highlanders were found particularly useful, from the knowledge\nof the language and their gentle bearing towards the people, whom by\nold tradition they believed to be sprung from the same stock as\nthemselves.  Though some of the Highland tribes have a proverb which\nsays, _cha b'ionann OBrien is na Ga\u00ebl_--that O'Brien and the Gael are\nnot alike, yet they found many sympathies in common--to wit, a love\nof fun and breaking heads; a jealousy of the English; an aversion to\nstill-hunting, and a just, laudable, and commendable antipathy to all\ngangers and tax-gatherers.\n\nFor the ticklish service of settling disputes in the neighbourhood of\nAntrim, it pleased his Majesty George III. to order that an\nadditional company of the Black Watch should be raised among the\nBreadalbane Campbells; and it was soon seen, that though the\nslaughter of Ticonderoga had carried woe and desolation to many a\nlonely hearth and loving heart in the country of the clans, so far\nfrom extinguishing the military ardour of the Highland youth, it made\nthem more than ever anxious to enrol themselves in the ranks of the\n_Reicudan Dhu_, for so was the regiment named, from the dark colours\nof its plumes and tartans, in contradistinction to the troops of the\nline, who wore scarlet coats, white waistcoats, pipeclayed breeches\nand flour-powdered wigs, with queues, pomatumed curls, and looped-up\nhats, having the true Blenheim cock and the star of Brunswick--_i.e._\nthe black leather cockade of the Protestant succession, which still\nsurvives on the chapeaux of the penny postman.\n\nMy grandfather was popular among the Breadalbane men, to please whom\nhe had, at various times, hanged sundry MacNabs and Mac Alpines,\nwhose ideas of the eighth commandment were somewhat vague; thus on\nbeing sent into \"the marquis's country\" to recruit, he raised the\nrequired company in three days, and marched down from the hills of\nGlen Urcbai with pipes playing, across the dreary Braes of Rannoch,\nand down by the Brig of Tay with a hundred of the handsomest men that\never became food for gunpowder, all clad in their native tartans, and\nwell armed, each with his own sword, dirk and pistols, to which the\nGovernment added the usual arms and accoutrements of the line.  From\nPerth, the captain was ordered to march his company to Glasgow, there\nto embark for Ireland; and proceeding en route, after leaving Falkirk\nand traversing the remains of the Torwood, he found himself, with his\nlittle command, approaching the burgh of Kirkintulloch one dreary\nNovember evening, just as the dusk was closing in, while the rain\nfell in torrents, and the wind swept in gusts through the pastoral\nhollows and hurled the wet and withered leaves furiously before it.\nThere he was compelled to halt, and oblige the authorities to procure\nimmediate quarters for a hundred Highlanders--a race of whom the\nwestland Whigs had harboured a holy aversion and wholesome terror,\nsince the epoch of the Great Montrose and his daredevil Cavaliers,\none hundred and twenty years before.\n\n\"But what has all this to do with the Wife of the Red Comyn?\" the\nreader may ask.  I answer, everything--for had not my grandfather\nhalted on that wet November night in the ancient burgh of\nKirkintulloch, that good lady--though she made some noise in her\ntime--had never been introduced to the reader's notice.  So patience\nyet awhile.\n\nThe soldiers were soon distributed among the people by the town\nconstable, and in a few minutes after seeing the last man off to his\nbillet, my grandfather found himself standing before the gate of the\nCastle of Kirkintulloch drenched through plaid and philabeg, while\nthe rain dripped gracefully from his long feathers into the nape of\nhis neck, and the water spouted from his scabbard as from a syringe\nwhen he sheathed his claymore.  Draggled and weary, he knocked\nfuriously against the gate of the huge mansion, on which, as being\nthe most important in the town, he was billeted as commander of the\nforces.  Being a Celt, and not blessed with overmuch patience, he\nthrust his billet-order almost into the mouth of the servant who\nopened the door, and then swaggered in with all the air of a man who\nhad heard the forty days' cannonade at the Moro; but a couple of good\ndrams from a jolly magnum bonum of Ferintosh, which were given to him\nwithout delay, at once restored his equanimity, and, chucking the\nplump housekeeper under the chin, my grandfather--or, as I shall call\nhim in future, the captain--proceeded upstairs.\n\nThis ancient Castle of Kirkintulloch, which had been stormed by\nEdward I. of England, but re-taken by the Scots, was a good specimen\nof the gloomy mansions of the Middle Ages, when every Scotsman was\nforced to keep watch and ward against his neighbour, and, more than\nall, against Southern invasion; for it was built by the Comyns, who\nflourished in the days of Malcolm III., and were Lords of Linton\nRoderick and of Badenoch, and who made a great figure during the\nreigns of the three Alexanders and Robert I.\n\nIn those turbulent times every Scotsman was a soldier, and a brave\none, too; every house was a fortress, every fortress a citadel, and\nits inmates were a garrison, while the urgent necessity for security\ncaused the Scottish baron literally to found his dwelling on a rock.\n\nA site alike remote and inaccessible was usually selected, on the\nisle of some deep lake, or the brow of a sequestered hill, and there\nthe Scottish feudatory raised the mansion in which his race were to\ndwell, to be married and given in marriage, to be born and to die,\n\"while grass grew and water ran\"--the strong square peel-house, with\nits corbelled battlements, through the openings of which missiles\ncould be shot securely; its stone-flagged roof; its irregular slits\nor windows, all strongly grated, though ninety or a hundred feet from\nthe base, and girdled by a barbican, having an arched gate and\nflanking towers.  Such was unvaryingly the external aspect of the\ndwelling of a Scottish baron, and such was the Castle of\nKirkintulloch.\n\nAbove the gate, which bristled with loopholes for musketry, were the\narmorial bearings of Robert Comyn, who was slain at the battle of\nAlnwick, and the monogram of his descendant, the black Lord of\nBadenoch, who married the Princess Marjorie, daughter of King John\nBaliol, and whose son was the last of his race.\n\nAfter taking a draught from the cup of ale which was filled for him,\nas for all other visitors, from a barrel which stood in a recess of\nthe entrance lobby, the captain ascended the hollow-stepped stair to\nthe common hall of the venerable tower.\n\nInternally the accommodation and construction were of the plainest\ndescription.  A narrow turnpike stair gave access to the various\nfloors of the keep.  The first of these being the levelled rock on\nwhich the edifice was founded, was vaulted, and contained the pit or\ndungeon, with cellars for the stores necessary to a crowded household\nduring the long northern winter, and there was also a deep draw-well\nhewn through the living rock.  The next contained the arched hall\ninto which our wet and weary captain was ushered with much formality.\nIts floor was paved; the fireplace was of stone, and had ingle-seats\nwithin its arch.  The windows were deeply embayed, and were secured\nby shutters within and iron bars without.  The sun, when it shone\nthrough the half-darkened halls of those days, must have imparted to\nthe dwelling of the Scottish baron the aspect of a prison; thus their\nprisons became dungeons, for the good folks of the olden time knew no\nmedium in anything.\n\nA gigantic fire blazed redly on the hearth, and by its light the\ncaptain could discern a number of those unfortunate wights who, as\ncasual guests, trenchermen, or boys-of-the-belt, in that year, 1772,\nshared the old-fashioned hospitality of the Flemings of\nKirkintulloch; but not being of sufficient consequence to have\nseparate apartments, lay rolled up in their plaids on the benches, or\namong the stag-hounds that nestled together on the warm hearthstone.\n\nThe reader may deem my description somewhat minute, but the events\nwhich occurred to my venerable kinsman in the old stronghold of the\nComyns, and a tale which he heard there, served to impress every\nfeature of it on his memory, and thus it bore a prominent place in\nhis narrative.\n\nAs he entered the hall, a stout and jolly-looking old man, who sat\nwith his sturdy legs stretched out before the fire, one hand\nsupporting a long pipe in his mouth, the other resting on a silver\ntankard of mulled claret, rose up at his approach and bade him\nwelcome.  The fashion of this person's dress was old--for still the\nScots are always a year or two behind every innovation; his red vest\nwas deeply flapped, his coat of brown broadcloth was square-tailed,\nwith enormous cuffs and silver buttons; he wore a brown bob periwig\nwith a single row of curls round the bottom thereof; square buckles\non his square-toed shoes, and a hat cocked with great exactness in\nthe form of an equilateral triangle, completed the costume of the old\nchamberlain or castle bailie of the Laird of Kirkintulloch.\n\n\"A cold night, bailie,\" said the captain; \"I am sorely chilled,\nhaving marched from the Torwood amid this tempest of wind and rain.\"\n\n\"The more are you welcome, sir, to the Castle of Kirkintulloch,\"\nreplied the bailie, placing a chair; \"and if a draught from this\ntankard of hot mulled claret will comfort you, take it and welcome,\nwhile something better is preparing.\"\n\n\"A thousand thanks, good bailie,\" replied the captain, as he drained\nthe silver pot which came seething from the glowing hob.\n\nBeing thoroughly drenched, he begged the bailie would have him shown\nto an apartment where he might change certain portions of his attire.\nA boy in the livery of the Flemings, with their goat-head worked on\nhis sleeves, appeared to conduct him, and, taking a candle, the lad,\nwho was evidently displeased at being summoned from the warm fire of\nthe kitchen, which in the Scoto-French fashion adjoined the hall,\nhurried up the staircase before the captain, leaving him to follow as\nhe pleased.\n\nI have already hinted that my grandfather was somewhat\nshort-tempered, so he swore one of those hearty oaths which our army\npicked up so glibly in Flanders, adding, \"Hollo! you young devil--do\nyou mean to leave me here in the dark?\"\n\nWithout heeding him, the lad sprang to the top of the stairs, and\nhastened across the landing-place into an apartment, leaving the\ncaptain to ascend by no other light than the feeble rays that fell\nfrom a candle in a tin sconce, which hung on the wall in the first\nturn of the spiral stair.  Looking angrily up in search of his guide,\nthe captain saw--or thought he saw--a lady cross the landing-place.\n\nShe was tall, and her white profile was stern and grave, and she was\nattended by the most diminutive black dwarf in the world--a little\ncreature who appeared absolutely to perspire under the weight of her\nenormous train, which was of some dark rich stuff, but brilliantly\nbrocaded with white stars.  The captain paused and bowed very low,\nlifting up the end of his long claymore, believing that this stately\ndame might wish to descend; but when he raised his head again she was\ngone!  Her disappearance was so sudden that he was confounded, and\nrubbed his eyes.\n\n\"Can the long march against a chill November wind have affected my\nvision?\" thought he; \"or has that brimming tankard of hot claret\naffected my nerves?  Impossible!  Tush--the dame has been scared by\nmy draggled appearance, and has hastened into one of these\napartments;\" so the old gentleman swore another Flemish oath, and\nreached the top of the stairs.\n\nThe guide now reappeared, and he would certainly have had his ears\npulled, but the captain's mind was strangely agitated by thoughts of\nthe lady, whose tall aristocratic figure, and pure, cold, and almost\nsublime profile seemed to be still before him in the dusk.\n\nHe was shown into a handsome bed-chamber, which was lighted by four\ncandles in brass-mounted holders of carved oak.  The walls were hung\nwith antique leather, of a pale yellow colour, embossed with red\nflowers; the bed was very ancient, and resembled the canopied tombs\none occasionally sees in old churches.  Over the mantelpiece was a\nLatin legend, informing the visitor that in this chamber the wife of\nthe Red Comyn had died a prisoner in the year of our redemption 1310.\n\n\"Four hundred and sixty-two years ago,\" quoth the captain, after\nairing his subtraction a little; \"ugh! how gloomy the place looks,\ncompared to the cheerful hall--so gloomy, indeed, that I shall be\nhere as little as possible before marching to-morrow.\"\n\nHe flung off his belted plaid, badgerskin sporan, and sword-belt,\nwrung the water from his kilt and from the curls of his periwig,\nsmoothed his queue, donned a pair of dry hose, and, after giving a\ncasual glance to the primings and charges of his pistols, which were\na pair of true steel-butted Doune pops, from the armoury of old\nThomas Caddel, he turned to leave the chamber, from the ceiling of\nwhich a dried kingfisher hung by a thread; for it is an old\nsuperstition that the bird will turn his bill to _that_ point from\nwhich the wind blows.\n\nTaking one of the candles, the captain left the chamber, and was\nabout to descend, when by some \"glamour\" he mistook the way; for\nbeing supperless, I am convinced that the hot wine had affected his\nhead; he stumbled against a door; it flew open, and he found himself\nin the dressing apartment of a lady, whose face was turned towards\nhim, and by the lights on a side-table he perceived at a glance that\nshe was the same queenly dame who had recently crossed the\nlanding-place.  She gazed fixedly at the amazed intruder, as she\nstood before a mirror, with her round polished shoulders turned\ntowards him, and her jet black hair gathered up in heavy masses on\nher slender fingers, for she seemed in the act of dressing it.  From\na faultless bust, her dark dress, brocaded with stars, hung in\nmagnificent folds to her feet, where, crouching like a marmoset, the\nhideous little dwarf was sitting.  Her figure was beautiful, but so\nmotionless and still, as she gazed with eyes full of indignation and\ninquiry, that the words of apology hung half arrested on the lips of\nthe bowing intruder, who, in another moment, discovered that he had\nbefore him a--picture--only a picture; but one painted in the first\nstyle of antique art.\n\nNothing artistic could be more beautifully executed than the upturned\nand polished arms, from which the lace that foreign looms must have\nwoven, hung in loops upheld by diamonds.  A necklace of precious\nstones encircled her neck, and a large band of the same formed a\ncoronet round her head, and gave an imperial grace to her lofty\nbeauty of feature and of form.\n\nThe captain gazed on it till the figure appeared to come forward and\nthe canvas to recede, till the eyes seemed to fill with light and the\nproud lips to curl with a scornful smile; and then he turned away,\nfor the strange picture bad a mysterious effect upon him, and hastily\nhe sought the hall, where a hot and savoury supper smoked on the\ncentre table, and where the bailie or castellan of the absent\nproprietor impatiently awaited him.\n\n\"Come awa, sir--come awa; I thought you meant to bide up-stairs a'\nnight.  Here are hot collops, devilled turkey, stewed kidneys, mulled\nclaret, port, sherry, and whisky toddy--draw in a chair, sir, and\nmake yourself at hame.\"\n\n\"I have a hawk's appetite, bailie,\" said my kinsman, applying himself\nassiduously to the devil and the sherry.\n\n\"And I ditto, double--for I have ridden in from Stirling market\nto-day; try the cold gibelotte pie.\"\n\n\"Thank you; I'll rather stick to my old friend--a devilled bone\nsmacks of the bivouac.  Pass the sherry, bailie.  Thank you.\"\n\n\"Try the kidneys; they would serve a king.\"\n\n\"Thanks.  By the bye, who is that noble lady now residing here?\"\n\n\"Noble lady?\" reiterated the bailie, looking up with his mouth full,\nand surprise in his flushed face.\n\n\"Yes; she whom I passed, or rather who passed me, on the staircase\nto-night.\"  The bailie pushed back his chair and plate.\n\n\"A lady, sir!\" he stammered, while his eyes opened wider.\n\n\"She in the black dress brocaded with white stars.\"\n\n\"Gude hae mercy on us!--and a dwarf holding up her tail?\"\n\n\"The same.\"\n\n\"The Lord take us a' into his holy keeping!  Ye have seen _her_?\"\n\n\"Seen who?  What the devil do you mean?\"\n\n\"_The wife of the Red Comyn!_\"\n\n\"Come, that is good; but I am too old a soldier, bailie, to believe\nall this.\"\n\n\"Keep us frae harm!\" continued the old man, as his rubicund visage\ngrew pale, and he glanced stealthily over his shoulder while lowering\nhis voice; \"she hasna' been seen for these ten years past; heaven\nsend it portends nae evil to our family!\"\n\n\"Our family,\" meant the house; so completely were the old Scottish\ndomestics identified with those they served.\n\n\"Lord help you, sir,\" he continued, draining a hot jug of toddy\nalmost at a draught; \"you have seen a wandering spirit.\"\n\n\"It may have been fancy, bailie; but I certainly saw her picture, and\nthat is tangible enough.\"\n\n\"That picture was painted two hundred years and mair after her death;\nand there is a devilish story connected with it too.\"\n\n\"'Pon my honour, bailie, you quite interest me,\" said the captain,\nbrewing a jug of smoking toddy, and drawing a chair nearer to the\nfire; \"the atmosphere of this place becomes full of diablerie.\nPainted two hundred years _after_ her death!  I hope the likeness is\ngood; but tell me all about it.\"\n\n\"She was the wife of the last Comyn to whom this castle belonged, and\nshe was a woman possessing alike the pride and temper of Lucifer; but\nthey cost her dear, for she suffered a sore penance in the yellow\nbedchamber up-stairs, and there 'tis said her spirit walks to this\nhour.  Now it chanced that in the days of King James IV., his Master\nPainter, the famous Sir Thomas Galbraith, the pupil of Quentin\nMatsys, of Antwerp, and the friend of Leonardo da Vinci and of Titian\nVecelli, came here during the lifetime of John Lord Fleming--the same\nwho was so barbarously assassinated by the cursed Laird o'\nDrummelzier, wi' whose folk we have a feud outstanding yet, like an\nauld debt--well, the King's painter slept, or rather, perhaps, passed\nthe night in the yellow room, and from that time he was a changed\nman; from being rosy-faced, he became pale and wan, hollow-eyed and\nghastly; from being as full of fun and frolic as the King himself, he\nbecame sad, woful and thoughtful, and he shut himself up in the\nhaunted-room, where he worked day and night for a whole week, without\neating, drinking, or sleeping, as folks aver, until _that_ awful\npicture was finished; and whether it was done from the memory of\n_one_ vision of the spirit, or whether the wife of the Red Comyn came\nto him nightly from hell, and sat for her portrait, I cannot say; but\nwhen finished by Sir Thomas Galbraith, it was the last work he did on\nearth, for he was found dead, seated before it, one morning, with a\npallet on his left thumb and a brush in his right hand.  Terror was\non his dead face, and the marks of strangulation were round his\nthroat; so the Flemings buried him in the auld Kirk of St. Ninian, at\nthe Oxgang, where his grave is yet to be seen.  I would fain have the\npicture burned, but the family set a high value upon it; yet I verily\nbelieve, if a puir presumptuous auld carle like me dare judge o' sic\nthings, that its presence here may keep the spirit o' that awfu'\nwoman hovering about the walls o' the auld castle she rendered\naccursed by her crimes!\"\n\n\"Well, bailie, tell me the story and----\"\n\n\"Mak' another browst o' toddy while the water is hot, sir,\" replied\nthe castellan, as he stirred up the fire with an enormous poker, and\nas the flames roared in the tunnel-like chimney, the red sparks flew\nup in pyramids.\n\n\"I am charged to the brim,\" said the captain; \"so fire away, my\nfriend, I am all impatience.\"\n\nAfter a few preliminary hems, coughs, and flourishes, with sips of\ntoddy between, the bailie told the captain the following strange\nstory, which I give in my own words, being vain enough to prefer them\nto his.\n\n--------\n\nIn the beginning of the fourteenth century, the Castle of\nKirkintulloch was the principal residence of John Comyn Lord of\nBadenoch, who, as nephew of King John Baliol, was a competitor with\nBruce for the crown of Scotland, and he was called the Red Comyn to\ndistinguish him from his father, the Black Comyn, who was so named\nfrom his swarthy complexion.\n\nIn those days the country around this castle was covered by forests\nof oak and pine, through the secluded hollows of which the Kelvin and\nthe Logie crept with that slow and sluggish current which gives them\nmore the aspect of Flemish canals than streams that roll from\nScottish mountains.  The rising burgh was then roofed with stone, or\nthatched; the Roman fort on the Barhill was nearly entire, as when a\nthousand years before the soldiers of the C\u00e6sars had relinquished it\nbefore the furious Scots; and the now ruined tower of Sir Robert\nBoyd, Baron of Kilmarnock, Hartshaw, Ardneil and Dalry, was still the\nstronghold of his family, who were the sworn enemies of the Baliols\nand all their adherents.  So deep, indeed, was their hatred, that\nthey would not bury their dead in the same church; thus, while the\nBoyds were laid in the Chapel of St. Mary (which is now the parish\nkirk), the Comyns were interred in the Church of St. Ninian.\n\nThe Red Comyn was powerful, cunning, and dissembling; being\nambitious, and though he fought under Wallace at Falkirk, intensely\nselfish, he feared to lose his estates after that disastrous battle\nwas lost; and as usual with Scottish nobles, considering his own\ninterest before the common weal or the national honour, he joined the\nEnglish ranks, and fought against his own country in the army of the\ntraitor-king, John Baliol.\n\nHe was a woful tyrant to the burgh of Kirkintulloch; for, in defiance\nof the old laws of the land, he enforced the bludewit, the\nstingisdynt, the marchet, the herezeld, and other exactions now\nunknown within the ports of a Scottish town; and as all pleas between\nburgesses and travelling merchants must be settled before the third\nflowing and ebbing of the tide, he usually decided them by whipping\nthe burgess and confiscating the goods of the stranger.  Moreover,\nalthough it had been ordained by the kings of old, that on any\nburgess departing on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land or other sacred\nplace, his goods and family should be protected \"vntill God brought\nhim name againe,\" the wives of the absent were often seized by Comyn,\nand their goods by his lady.\n\nAt his mills he exacted exorbitant mulctures, and he hung all who\ndared to complain; if any ventured to grind wheat, mashloch, or rye\nwith hand querns, they were also hanged; and though it was statute\nand ordained that he who stole a halfpenny-worth of bread should be\nscourged, that he who stole a pair of shoes should be pilloried, or\neightpence worth should have one leg cut off, the tyrant hanged them\nall.  Thus his Dule-tree was never without a man hanging from it,\nwith the black gleds flying round him; for Comyn ground alike to the\ndust the burgesses within the walls and the gudemen of the Newland\nMailings without; so that it was generally said in Dumbartonshire,\nthat the devil himself would be a gentler overlord than he; and he\nwas so hated that men remembered the dreadful fate of his father in\nBadenoch, and it came to be whispered about that there was a prophecy\nmade by a weird woman, that he too should _die a violent death_!\n\nHis wife, Lady Gwendoleyne, was esteemed one of the most beautiful\nwomen in Scotland, and none had outshone her at the Court of Queen\nYolande, the consort of Alexander III.  Lovely beyond all comparison,\ntall, stately and magnificent in form, with pale commanding features\nand dark eyes, indicative rather of pride of birth and loftiness of\nmind than of gentleness, she made the people--even those whom her\nbeauty dazzled, and her slightest smile would have won for\never--shrink and quail before her, as beneath the eye of some\nmysterious spirit; for the keen black eye of that imperious lady is\nsaid to have been as dangerous in its beauty as it was terrible in\nits expression.\n\nShe had been wedded early to the Red Lord of Badenoch; they had three\ndaughters, the youngest of whom (according to Andrew Wyntoun) was\nmarried to the traitorous MacDougal of Lorn.  They had also one son,\nwho at the time this history opens, A.D. 1306, was in his eighteenth\nyear, and was said to be a handsome, gallant, and high-spirited\nyouth; but, unfortunately, devoted to the false Baliol, at whose mock\nCourt in the Castle of Perth he resided, and there he had been\neducated.\n\nNotwithstanding her own unparalleled beauty, her husband's rank,\npower, and overweening authority, Lady Gwendoleyne was far from being\nhappy!  A thorn sharper than a poisoned arrow rankled in her heart,\nin the form of a restless jealousy of her husband, to whom she was\npassionately devoted, and whom she loved with all the ardour of her\nimpulsive nature.  And though he seemed to be, in manner, all that\nbefitted a faithful and attached spouse, he was yet an object of\nsuspicion to Gwendoleyne; for some artful minion had skilfully sown\nthe seeds of mistrust between them, and several of Comyn's unguarded\nactions and interferences with the wives of pilgrim-burgesses had\ngiven her every reason to deem her fears were just and true; hence\nher fiery heart became a prey to furious passions and to bitter\nthoughts, and she looked about her, longing for some fitting object\non which to vent her wrath.\n\nHer husband's kinsman and her own dear friend, old Sir Alexander\nBaliol of Cavers, Great Chamberlain of Scotland, to whom she often\nhinted her complaints against Comyn and her suspicions of his\ninfidelity, endeavoured to laugh away her fears.\n\n\"Madam,\" said he, on one occasion, \"jealousy is the soul of a love\nwhich will brook no rival even for a moment.  I mean not to hint that\nyou love Red Comyn too much, but without this jealousy your love for\nhim perhaps would die.\"\n\n\"You are too subtle a casuist for a woman, Sir Alexander of Cavers,\"\nreplied the lady, cresting up her beautiful head; \"but you must be\naware that the disposition and manners of Comyn, your kinsman, are at\nleast but too well calculated to excite my suspicion and distrust.\nTo wit: his passionate and unconcealed admiration for female beauty;\nthis is known over the whole country, and thrice, on vague suspicion,\nI have had to discard certain ladies of my household, and thus make\ntheir families deadly enemies of ours.  And say, my good Lord\nChamberlain, are these wandering sallies not shameful, when\nperpetrated by one who has a son now in his eighteenth year, and tall\nand handsome as himself?\"\n\nSir Alexander thought of Comyn's gigantic red beard, and smiled when\nremembering the handsome youth, who had all his mother's beauty,\nwithout his father's ferocity of aspect and bearing.\n\n\"You smile, Sir Alexander!\" said the fiery dame.  \"You smile--'tis\nvery well, sir!  You know more of the Red Comyn and his secrets than\nyou care to tell me, and that courtier's smile assures me that I am\nan injured wife----\"\n\n\"I beg to assure you, Lady of Badenoch----\"\n\n\"Assure me of nothing, Lord of Cavers, if you cannot assure me of\nyour kinsman's faith and purity.\"\n\n\"Madam,\" said the old Lord Chamberlain, testily, \"there are two kinds\nof jealousy--a pure fear by which the young and restless lover is\nanimated--and a grovelling suspicion, which is jealousy in the worst\nsense of the term.  Your suspicion wounds your self-esteem--it piques\nyour honour--and is but a new phase of selfishness, for you suspect\nyourself an injured woman.\"\n\n\"And justly too, for Comyn's coldness to me during the last month\ncannot be accounted for but by some new fancy.\"\n\n\"Your husband is never jealous of _you_, madam.\"\n\n\"That only proves his indifference.  'Tis shamel, false, and\nunknightly; and I only trust that the presence of our boy, the young\nSir John, whom the King has just knighted, will in some degree recal\nmy wandering husband to a sense of his own honour and the honour of\nhis wife and daughters.\"\n\n\"Madam, how often shall I assure you that the husband of one so\nbeautiful as you could never prove false--I am an old man, your\nfather's friend, and may well say this.\"\n\n\"True, you are an old man, and were my father's friend,\" resumed the\nlady, whose black eyes flashed with dusky fire through their tears;\n\"thus it is the more culpable in you to be in my husband's wicked\nsecrets, and endeavouring thus to blind and to deceive a loving and\ndevoted wife.  But woe to Comyn and to you in that hour when I prove\nthe falsehood of you both!\"\n\nAnd gathering up her long silk kirtle, which was worn without\nsleeves, but was so long in the skirt as constantly to require\nupholding by one hand, she swept away with the air of an offended\nqueen, and with her long and magnificent hair floating over her\nshoulders from under a band of burnished gold.\n\n\"Alas!\" thought the old chamberlain, shrugging his shoulders, \"how\ntrue it is, that love being jealous, maketh a good eye look asquint.\"\n\nIn those days maidens of good family were received into the houses of\nladies of high rank to be delicately nurtured and well educated; for\nwhich, strange as it may now seem, a befitting fee or pension was\npaid.  Now, among the ladies of the _tabourette_, or _dames\nd'honneur_ of the Lady of Badenoch, were the daughters of many noble\nhouses of the Baliol faction, and who were consequently false to\ntheir country.  Thus she had Margaret, daughter of that Lord\nAbernethy who basely accepted from the English King a commission as\nCaptain-General of the Scottish rebels; Muriel, daughter of Sir\nGilbert de Umphreville, the forfeited Earl of Angus; Isabel, daughter\nof David Lord Brechin, who was accused of a design to betray Berwick\nto the English; Rosamond and Alice, the daughters of John Comyn, Earl\nof Buchan, and Lord High Constable of Scotland, another prime traitor\nof the Baliol faction; and Yolande, daughter of William de Gifford,\nLord of Yester, in East Lothian.  All these were beautiful girls,\nand, save the last, were proud, haughty, and reserved; for their\nmanners and bearing were all modelled exactly after those of Lady\nComyn.  Yolande de Gifford, whose father, though a lord, had, strange\nto say, been true to Scotland, was an orphan, and had been taken into\nthe Castle of Kirkintulloch at the request of Bernard, Abbot of\nArbroath, the Lord Chancellor, and almost in pity, as all her\nfather's lands in the shire of Haddington had been seized by John\nBaliol.  She was the most beautiful of Gwendoleyne's attendants, and\nperhaps the most reserved and gentle, for she felt herself friendless\nand alone among the selfish courtiers of the Scottish King.  Blue\neyed, golden haired, and softly skinned, Yolande, who had been so\nnamed after her godmother, the late queen (Yolande, Countess de\nDreux), was, indeed, the most gentle and loveable of all gentle\ncreatures, and she shrank under the bold black eyes of Lady\nGwendoleyne, as a sensitive plant might shrink beneath a hot sun, or\nbefore the keen north wind.\n\nYolande, when the tresses of her rich hair were gathered in the\ngolden crespinette then worn by ladies of the Scottish Court, to show\nthe contour of the neck and shoulders; when her blue kirtle, with its\ntight sleeves, displayed her beautiful form, over which floated her\nsurquayne or velvet mantle, tied with tassels at each shoulder,\nlooked only second in beauty to Lady Comyn herself, for they were\nnearly of a height; and her pretty white fingers were the most expert\nof all the ladies there at the weaving of those endless waves of\ntapestry at which all noble demoiselles then worked daily for the\ncomfort and decoration of their dwellings and churches.  Such was\nthen the industrious custom; and we are told that Matilda, Queen of\nWilliam the Conqueror of England, sewed with her own fair hands\nsixty-seven yards representing the history of the Conquest of South\nBritain, beginning with Harold's embassy to the Norman Court, and\nending with his death at Hastings.\n\nAfter a long absence at King Edward's Court in London, Red Comyn\nreturned to Scotland, which was then groaning under the yoke of the\ninfamous King John Baliol, the tool of the English, and a faction of\ntraitorous Scottish nobles.  On arriving at his home, he gave\npresents to all the ladies of his household--to one a necklace, to\nanother a bracelet, a crespinette, a brooch, and so forth; but to\nYolande de Gifford he gave a golden ring.\n\n_A ring!_\n\nThe restless suspicions of his lady had now discovered a clue to\nsomething real and tangible; and now she had an object on which her\nvague jealousies could settle with security.  Yolande de Gifford, the\nplaymate of her absent son--the viper whom she had taken into her\nbosom at the entreaty of the cunning Abbot Bernard, was doubtless\ninvolved with her husband in one of those intrigues which had\nembittered her whole life, although she had never been able to detect\nthem or discover solid proofs.\n\n\"Let me be wary and watch well,\" said she to herself; \"should it be\nso, by the cross that stood on Calvary, my Lord of Badenoch shall pay\ndear for his fair-haired toy!\"\n\nIago's words have been quoted a thousand times, and none are more\ntrue; for\n\n                          \"Trifles light as air\n  Are to the jealous, confirmation strong\n  As proofs of holy writ.....\n  Dangerous conceits are in their natures poisons,\n  Which, at the first, are scarce found to distaste,\n  But, with a little act upon the blood,\n  Burn like the mines of sulphur.\"\n\n\nLady Comyn suddenly discovered that the timid Yolande had been\nabstracted and thoughtful, neglectful of her apportioned duties, and\ninattentive alike to the conversation of her companions and the\ncommands of her mistress.  Was not this a sign of love and of secret\nthoughts?  She frequently and bitterly reprimanded her, till even the\ngentle Yolande could not forget that she was the Lord Yester's only\ndaughter, and replied with honest pride and proper spirit, asserting\nher own position and rank.\n\n\"This insolence and hauteur are alike unbecoming,\" said Lady\nGwendoleyne; \"and you shall be banished, minion, from my hall and\nbower, though the poorest convent in Scotland be your portionless\nhome!\"\n\nAnd assuredly this harsh threat would have been put in execution, but\nfor the determined intervention of the Red Comyn, whose kindness to\nthe orphan increased with his haughty wife's displeasure; and so she\nset her little black dwarf, who was dumb, to watch Yolande\nconstantly.  This dwarf was a present from Sir Thomas of Charteris,\nthe famous Red Rover and pirate, who afterwards became Lord of\nKinfouns, and was conquered on the high seas by William Wallace.\n\nAbout the time that great preparations were making for the return of\nher son, the young Sir John Comyn, whom--whether the youth was so\ndisposed or not---she meant to wed to his cousin, Alicia Comyn,\ndaughter of the Lord High Constable, she was again imparting her\ngriefs to Sir Alexander of Cavers.\n\n\"Comyn goeth from bad to worse; he braves me now, and dares to keep\nhis minion here, whether I will it or no.  By God's teeth, sir, could\nI but discover aught to prove my suspicions right, I'd slay that\npale-faced Yolande with Red Comyn's own dagger!\"\n\n\"I beseech you, lady, to compose yourself, and to be assured that\nyour suspicions are alike unjust and cruel; for they malign your\nhusband and crush this friendless maiden to the dust.\"\n\n\"I tell you that I hate her!\" responded the imperious dame, grinding\nher beautiful teeth, while her magnificent eyes flashed fire.\n\n\"Then get her married,\" said the Chamberlain of Scotland, pithily.\n\n\"Who in these selfish times will be mad enough to wed the penniless\ndaughter of a forfeited house?  Who would ask her love?\"\n\n\"I for one, were I young as herself; but let her seek a husband\naccording to the ancient law.\"\n\n\"Sir Alexander, you mock me again.\"\n\n\"Heaven forbid, fair kinswoman; I do but remind you of an Act of\nParliament passed in the reign of the late Queen Margaret.\"\n\n\"Pshaw--the Maid of Norway--well?\"\n\n\"Anent spinsters, like this Yolande.\"\n\n\"Well--well,\" continued Gwendoleyne, stamping her pretty foot.\n\n\"In 1288, it was statute and ordained, 'that during the reign of her\nMost Blessed Majesty, _ilk maiden ladye of baith high and lowe estate\nshall have libertie to bespeak ye man she likes_: albeit, if he\nrefuses to take her to be his wyf, he shall be mulctit of ye sum of\none hundred pounds or less, as his estate may be, except and alwais,\nif he can make it appear that he is betrothit to ane ither woman,\nwhen he shall be free.\"\n\n\"Yolande is proud as myself, for she comes of a race that would not\nstoop their crests to kings; and this is but mockery, my Lord\nChamberlain, so--but what is this now?\"\n\nAt that moment the little black dwarf crept close to her side, pulled\nher skirt, and pointed towards the chamber of Yolande Gifford.  The\nyellow glossy eyes of the stunted negro gleamed with malevolent\nlight, as, snatching up her train, the lady swept out of the hall;\nand the Chamberlain shrugged his shoulders and blessed his stars that\nhe was still a bachelor, while he whistled merrily, and resumed his\nemployment of teaching a hawk to shake its little bells and coquette\nwith its wings.\n\nWith all her pride and spirit, her furious will and temper, so\ncompletely had the demon of jealousy taken possession of her soul,\nthat Gwendoleyne stooped to the humility of eavesdropping; and on\nhearing the murmur of voices whispering in the chamber of Yolande,\nshe crept close to the thick arras that covered the door, and\nlistened with all her soul in her ears.\n\n\"Go, I implore you,\" she heard Yolande say, in a stifled voice;\n\"alas! if you are discovered here, what will my tyrannical mistress\nsay?\"\n\n\"Just what she pleases,\" replied a voice, and then there was a\nsound--a kiss--which set the listener's blood on fire.\n\n\"I am watched by that hateful imp her dwarf, and live in daily terror\nof her discovering all,\" continued the sobbing Yolande; \"and you know\nwhat her views are concerning yourself.  Go--go--John Comyn, for the\nlove of God and Saint Mary, go!\"\n\n\"_John Comyn!_\" muttered lady Gwendoleyne; \"oh, wretch! that I had a\ndagger here to avenge this double perfidy!\"\n\nA pause ensued.\n\n\"To-morrow evening be it, then--at the Roman Peel,\" said a low voice.\n\n\"When the moon is over Campsie Fells.\"\n\n\"You will not forget, beloved Yolande.\"\n\n\"Oh, no--no; and let that meeting be our last, for another day will\nchange the face of everything,\" wept Yolande.\n\nUnable longer to restrain her fury, the white hand of Lady Comyn tore\naside the arras, and she rushed into the apartment with all the\naspect of an enraged Pythoness, while at the same moment the figure\nof a man vanished from the open window, and his steps were heard\ncrashing through the bushes and trees without, as he retired hastily\nand in the dusk; but Gwendoleyne saw--or thought she saw--enough, to\nbe convinced that the fugitive was no other than her husband!\n\n\"Alas! madam,\" cried Yolande, sinking on her knees in an agony of\nterror, \"you have discovered us.\"\n\n\"At last--yes, at last!\" exclaimed the fierce, exulting woman, in\nhoarse accents, as she savagely wreathed her slender fingers, which\nrage had endued with triple strength, in the golden hair of Yolande,\nand proceeded to drag her several times across the oak floor;\n\"beggar! viper! outcast!--ha, ha, ha! thou shalt die now!\" and she\nlaughed as she tore out those beautiful tresses in handfuls, till the\npoor girl's shrieks died away, and she sank senseless at her feet.\nThen Gwendoleyne locked her up, and after tying the key of the\nchamber to her silver girdle, retired to her own apartment to still\nthe fierce tumult that swelled her fiery heart, and to lay her plans\nof deeper and surer vengeance.  Alas! they were but too soon formed\nand matured for pity or remorse to arrest them.\n\nThe night passed away, and though she had alternate fits of\ntenderness and tears, with gusts of jealous rage and passion, the\nmorning found her cold, calm, inexorable, and resolved to have a\nterrible retribution on the Red Comyn for this attempt to deceive\nher; and the arrival of a hasty message from him, stating that he was\ncompelled to depart with a slender train on public business to the\ntown of Dumfries, only made her smile the more bitterly, as she\nthought she saw the game her truant husband meant to play; but she\nresolved to checkmate him.\n\n\"Dumfries, my Lord Chamberlain!\" she said, with a scornful smile upon\nher lovely lip; \"now what fool's errand takes him there?\"\n\n\"To hold a conference with Sir Robert Bruce, the young Earl of\nAnnandale,\" replied the other, in a low voice; \"the Bruces have some\nbold project now in hand.\"\n\n\"A project.\"\n\n\"Ay, to root the English faction and all Baliol's people out of\nScotland.  Comyn hath known of this project long, and duly gives King\nJohn and King Edward notice of its progress; thus Bruce ere long must\nperish amid his own plots and follies.\"\n\n\"And without waiting for our boy's arrival from Perth, without even\nbidding me adieu, Comyn has gone to confer with him?  'Tis well--I\nwish him speed on his journey.  But there is _a prophecy concerning\nhim_; so let him beware lest he perish by a violent death like his\nkinsman who died at Craigie, and who had no other grave than his own\ngirdle.\"\n\n\"Now, grace me guide, lady, talk not thus,\" replied Sir Alexander,\ngrowing pale at her words, which referred to a terrible tale; for it\ncame to pass in the days of King Alexander III., that it was foretold\nby Thomas the Rhymer, that Comyn Earl of Buchan, who was ranger of\nthe royal hunting forests of Plater, would die by a violent death; so\nhe mocked the seer, saying--\n\n\"Thou art Sir Thomas the Liar, rather than the Rhymer.\"\n\nBut the aged chief replied solemnly in verse, as was his wont when\ninspired by his mysterious power--\n\n  \"Though _Thomas the Liar_ thou callest me,\n  The sooth, Lord Earl, I tell to thee!\n            By Aikeyside,\n            Thy horse shall ride;\n    He shall stumble and thou shalt fa',\n    Thy neckbane shall be broken in twa,\n    And the hunting dogs thy bones shall gnaw!\n  There, maugre all thy kin and thee,\n  Thine own belt thy bier shall be!\"\n\nAnd so it came to pass soon after, for when the earl was hunting in\nthe gloomy Den of Howie, as he galloped over the green hill of\nArkeybrae, his horse became dazzled by the setting sun, and threw him\nwith such violence that his brains were dashed out by some blocks of\ngrey stone, which to this day are named Comyn's Craigie, and there\nhis bones were found after his hounds had gnawed and torn them\nasunder.\n\n\"So, for God's love, dear lady,\" resumed the Lord of Cavers with a\nshudder, \"refer no more to these dark and terrible predictions.\"\n\nThe white lips of the haughty lady smiled, but a wild expression of\nrage and sorrow filled her eyes, and the glance she gave her kinsman\nwas to him inexplicable, as she had not a doubt that this sudden\njourney was all a device of her husband to meet, or perhaps to elope,\nwith Yolande.  Dark and terrible were the silent thoughts of\nGwendoleyne as the evening drew on.  The old prophecy that like the\nBlack Comyn, the Red one would _die by a violent death_, seemed ever\nbefore her in letters of fire; and she thought that now the time had\ncome.\n\n\"How was I ever weak enough to expect that a fair-haired man could be\ntrue to me?\" she muttered; \"in all old Scripture tapestries are not\nCain and Judas represented with large yellow beards, or red ones,\nlike that of my husband Comyn!  Oh, woe is me! and cursed be the hour\nI forsook Sir John the Grahame to become the wife of his home and the\nmother of his children!\"\n\nAll that day she kept Yolande carefully under lock and key, and\nwithout food or drink, while the black dwarf watched the window and\nthe corridor.  The sunset faded on the green ridges of the Campsie\nFells, evening darkened into sombre night, and the pale light of the\nmoon, long before her rising, was spread across the blue and starry\nsky behind the hills of Lanarkshire.  The woolly-leaved birches that\nfringed the banks of the Logie and Kelvin, diffused a rich fragrance\nas the dew of eve fell on them; and the lonely heron sent up its\nmournful cry at times, as it waded in the pools that gleamed below\nthe castle walls.\n\nAttired as Yolande, in a dress of _dark velvet starred with silver_,\nwith her black locks gathered in a golden crespinette, a veil spread\nover her head and shoulders, and with her little white hand grasping\nthe hilt of a jewelled dagger that was concealed in her bosom, the\nwife of the Red Comyn left the Castle of Kirkintulloch unseen by all,\nand by a little postern on the south, and, skirting the houses of the\ntown, reached the trysting-place, the Caer-pen-tulloch, or old Roman\nfort at the west end of the hill.  The fallen ramparts of the tower\nwere eighty feet square, and the yellow broom, the green whin, the\npurple foxglove, and the sweet wallflower, all flourished together on\nthe masses of fallen masonry which were covered by long grass that\nwaved mournfully to and fro between the pale Gwendoleyne and the\nwhite starlight.  The place seemed very silent, lonely, and desolate.\nAll was intensely still, save the fierce beating of her heart, which\nteemed with passion, as her eyes did with tears she scorned to weep.\nTime stole away.  The moments seemed like hours.\n\nNo one came!  Could she have mistaken the place--the time?\n\nNow the yellow moon began to peep above the distant hills, and its\nlustre glinted on the green mounds and shattered masonry of the\nancient peel.\n\nUp, up it came, and now its whole disc was gleaming above the dark\nmountain-ridge, and tipping each rock and peak with fire.\n\nGwendoleyne prayed in her heart that no one might come--that she\nmight have been deceived--that Comyn, the father of her four\nchildren--but, hark! the hoofs of a horse rang hollowly on the green\nturf, and through the archway of the ruined enclosure rode an armed\nman, who sang merrily the same march to which, eight years after,\nBruce marched his victorious host to Bannockburn.\n\n  \"Hark to the tramp, from yonder camp,\n    Whence the Scottish spearmen come!\n  When they hear the bagpipe sounding,\n    _Tuttie taittie_ to the drum!\"\n\n\n\"'Tis the Red Comyn's favourite song!\" said she, shrinking aside;\n\"now mayest thou be accursed from the bearing cloth in which thou\nwert baptized to that shroud of blood in which thou shalt lie!  Now\nby the soul of him who loved me well, the Grahame who fell at\nFalkirk, and by the life of my son--my dearest hope--I shall have a\nterrible vengeance!\"\n\nThe knight, on whose head was a plumed chapel-de-fer, with a mail\ncoif that concealed the lower part of his face, wore over his armour\nan embroidered cointise, with the cognisance of the Comyns, two\nostriches, with the motto \"Courage.\"  He dismounted, and after\nlooking about him for a moment, discovered Gwendoleyne, to whom he\nhastened with an exclamation of joy, and she recognised on the breast\nof the surcoat some embroidery, on which she had but too surely and\ntoo lately seen the white hands of Yolande Gifford plying the needle!\nWhat other proof of perfidy was necessary?\n\nAn arm was thrown around her, and passionately and joyously she was\npressed to the breast of the new comer.  But while trembling with\nungovernable fury to find herself exposed to embraces intended for\nYolande, she drove her poniard in the heart of the lover twice,\nexclaiming,\n\n\"Die, villain and deceiver--die in your adultery--die!\"\n\n\"_Mother--oh, mother!_\" cried a voice, which froze the marrow in her\nbones; and the frantic and wretched Gwendoleyne discovered that she\nhad slain--not the Red Comyn--but their beloved and only son.\n\nThe plumed _chapel-de-fer_ rang as the wearer sank to the earth.\n\nA gurgling sound was all that followed; the ruined tower swam round\nthat miserable woman, and, multiplied by a thousand times, the horse\nof the murdered knight seemed to career around her; till borne down\nby misery, by a revulsion of feeling, by over-tension of the heart,\nand by horror of what she had done, Gwendoleyne sank senseless on the\nbody of her son.\n\nThe young Sir John Comyn had loved the orphan Yolande, and on his\nreturn had secretly wished to meet--perhaps, for all that we can\nlearn now--to espouse her; but this terrible catastrophe ended his\nlife and intentions together.\n\nMeanwhile, like a true Scottish baron bent on selfish schemes of\nfamily ambition and degrading aggrandizement, Red Comyn had ridden\nfast to meet Robert Bruce, the younger, at Dumfries, and to concert\nwith him a pretended plan to free Scotland from the English and from\nJohn Baliol; but of this scheme the red-headed traitor had duly\ninformed King Edward from time to time.  On Comyn's arrival in\nNithsdale, the gallant Robert, afterwards King of Scotland, had fled\nin safety northward, by reversing his horse's hoofs, as the ground\nwas covered with snow; and being furnished with clear proofs of his\ncompatriot's villainy, he pursued him to the church of the Minorites\nat Dumfries, whither he had fled for sanctuary, being full of\nconscious guilt; but neither the house of God nor its high altar\ncould protect this perfidious wretch, who was false to Scotland and\nher people; and the prophecy that \"Red Comyn should die by a violent\ndeath\" was terribly fulfilled; for there Bruce, Lindsay, and\nKirkpatrick buried their daggers in his heart upon St. William's day,\nthe 10th of February, 1306.\n\nSo perish all who are false to their country!\n\nHe was the last Comyn of the house of Badenoch, and was, moreover,\nthe last of his race--a race which Scotland well could spare.\n\nLady Gwendoleyne never spoke after she was borne into the castle with\nthe dead body of her son.  She lived for five years a close captive\nin that yellow chamber, and during those terrible five years a word,\neven of prayer, never passed her lips; but a period was put to her\nsufferings, for this proud and resentful beauty died on the 10th day\nof February, 1310, at the hour of three in the afternoon, the\nanniversary of the very moment in which her husband died under the\nthree daggers in the Minorite Church of Dumfries.\n\nShe was buried before the Shrine of St. Ninian, with all the grandeur\nof a princess and all the splendour of the Roman ritual; her son\nslept by her side, and Sir Alexander of Cavers reared a stately\nmonument above them; but that fierce woman's restless spirit is still\nsaid to haunt the Castle of Kirkintulloch and the Roman ruins at the\nwest end of the town; for it is supposed that she will never find\nrepose or peace until the day of doom.\n\n----------\n\nSuch was the story told to the captain by the castellan of the old\nfortress of Kirkintulloch, scarcely one stone of which now stands\nupon another, as it was removed about the beginning of the present\ncentury.\n\n\"And Yolande Gifford--what of her?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"She did not die of love or grief either, but lived to be a very old\nwoman, and passed away in about her eightieth year, when Robert III.\nwas King, a prioress of the Bernardine nuns of St. Mary--a convent of\nwhich you may still see the ruins on the north bank of the Avon,\nabout a mile above Linlithgow Bridge.\"\n\n\"A melancholy story!\" said the captain; \"what a devil of a wife that\nGwendoleyne must have been--but no better than such an infamous\ntraitor as Comyn deserved!\"\n\n\"Beware ye, sir,\" said the castle bailie, lowering his voice, and\nlooking furtively round him; \"she is said to walk about--ay, at this\nvery hour, and may pay you a visit that you may never get the better\nof.\"\n\n\"I'll be hanged, bailie, if I go up-stairs to-night--or this morning,\nrather,\" said my grandfather, laughing; \"I would rather face the Dons\nat the Moro again, than meet that dame in black velvet with her devil\nof a dwarf--so make a fresh browst and stir up the fire.\"\n\nThe clock struck four.\n\n\"Four!\" said the soldier; \"four already; and we march in an hour!\"\n\nThe bailie, who was a jolly old fellow, brewed a fresh jorum of hot\ntoddy--by this time they had under their girdles ten jugs each; and\nmy grandfather now began to spin _his_ yarns, and detailed the\nslaughter of Ticonderoga, the scalping and flaying at Fort Pitt, the\nstorming of the Moro, where British musket-butts and the pates of the\nDons tested the hardness of each other; he proceeded on the\nexpedition up the Lakes, and had just opened the trenches before\nMontreal, when he found himself at the bottom of his tenth jug, the\nfire out, the bailie asleep in his easy-chair, and heard the warning\ndrum beaten in the streets of Kirkintulloch--the warning for the\nmarch, while the grey dawn stole through the ancient windows.\n\nIt was daylight now, and fearless alike of Dame Gwendoleyne and her\ndwarf, my grandfather sallied down-stairs, and propping himself\nbetween his claymore and the walls of the houses, or an occasional\npump-well as he passed it, reached the muster-place, and holding\nhimself very erect, gave, with great emphasis, the command to\n\"march.\"  His detachment marched accordingly, and--here ends our\nstory for the present.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nSTORY OF THE GREY MOUSQUETAIRE.\n\nA FRAGMENT OF THE SEVEN YEARS' WAR.\n\nAmong the captains of \"Ours\" who had the honour of serving in the\nSeven Years' War was one named Allan Robertson, a gentleman of the\nclan Donnoquhy, and a cadet of the loyal house of Struan, who bore\nthe singular soubriquet of the _Mousquetaire Gris_, and whose\nadventures during the early part of his military career were very\nremarkable.\n\nIn his latter years, when leading a quiet \"half-pay life\" in the\nScottish capital, Allan was known to all the military loungers about\n\"Poole's Coffee-house,\" at the east end of Prince's Street, then the\ngreat rendezvous of the military idler, as a warlike octogenarian--a\nsilver-haired remnant of other days--and as a brave and warm-hearted\nold Highlander, who was so devoted to the memory of the 42nd, that he\nnever saw those two numerical figures, even on a street door, without\nlifting his hat, and saying, \"God bless the old number!\" for his\nheart swelled at everything that reminded him of the venerable Black\nWatch.\n\nThe manner in which Allan joined the regiment was in itself romantic\nand singular.\n\nAmong the French army at the famous battle of Minden, in the year\n1759, when the Household troops were led by Prince Xavier of Saxony,\nbrother of the French Queen, no cavalry distinguished themselves more\nby the fury and valour of their reiterated charges than the\n_Compagnie Franche_, or \"Free Company\" of the Chevalier Jules de\nCoeurdefer, and two other bands entirely composed of gentlemen of the\nhighest rank and of irreproachable character, who were named from the\ncolour of their uniforms _Les Mousquetaires Gris et Rouges_, led by\nthe Vicomte de Chateaunoir.\n\nIn the fury of their last attack, the gallant Prince Xavier was slain\nby the 51st Regiment, and the leader of the grey troop (for all these\nnoblesse served on horseback) was left behind bleeding on the ground,\nthough a desperate rally was thrice made by the energy of one Grey\nMousquetaire to rescue and carry off the colonel.  These noble\nrallies were made in vain; for, after a third attempt, the\nMousquetaires were swept from the plain of Minden by the terrible\ncharge of the Scots Grey Dragoons, led by old Colonel Preston, the\n_last_ soldier who wore a buff coat in the British service, and who\nhad risen to command from being a kettle-drummer in the old Flanders\nWar.\n\nThe faithful Mousquetaire fell in this flight, being pierced by a\nmusket-shot from one of Lord George Sackville's Dragoons, and he lay\nall night on that sanguinary field, near the leader he had striven so\nvaliantly and in vain to rescue.\n\nA distinguished Highland officer, whose memoirs have been published,\nmentions that on the 2nd of August, the day after the battle, he rode\nover the plain, accompanied by Major Pringle of Edgefield.\n\n\"On one part of the field we saw a French officer, who had been\nwounded in the knee, sitting on the ground, with his back supported\nby a dead horse.  We accosted him, and offered any assistance in our\npower.  He proved to be the commanding officer of _Les Mousquetaires\nGris_, and was distinguished by several orders, which, with a\nhandsome snuff-box, had probably excited the cupidity of some of the\nwretches who are never found wanting in the train of an army.  We\nleft him in high spirits, having undertaken to bring a cart or\ntumbril to carry him from the field; but with the hasty imprudence of\nyoung officers, we rode off together on this duty, instead of one of\nus remaining with the wounded man.  It could not be more than ten or\ntwelve minutes when we returned with the cart, and found--to our\nunspeakable concern--the murdered body of the poor French colonel\n(the Vicomte de Chateaunoir) lying naked on the ground.\"\n\nAnother officer adds, that near the corpse of the unfortunate\ncolonel, which had been so ruthlessly stripped by the German\nmarauders and death-hunters, lay, pistol in hand, the Mousquetaire,\nwho had made such vigorous efforts to save him in the last charge of\nyesterday.  He was still breathing, and after having his wound\nhurriedly dressed by a surgeon of the 51st, he was conveyed to the\nrear, in care of Major Pringle, who was a son of Lord Edgefield, a\ndistinguished senator of the Scottish College of Justice.  At the\nplace where they found him, the adverse artillery had furrowed up the\nplain like a ploughed field by their shot, which lay so thick and\nhalf sunk in the turf, that they resembled on iron pavement, strewn\nwith all the destruction and debris of battle.\n\nThe Grey Mousquetaire was a tall and handsome man, bronzed by the\nweather and scarred by battle.  On the breast of his grey uniform\nglittered those decorations which few of the corps were without--the\ngolden crosses of St. Louis and St. Lazare.\n\nPringle conveyed him to his own tent, for he knew well that the\nMousquetaires were all men of no ordinary rank, and there he supplied\nhim with wine and other comforts.  As yet, he had not spoken; but as\nhe gathered strength, he began to mutter and talk to himself in a\nstrange language.\n\n\"Assuredly this man is not a Frenchman!\" said Pringle, kneeling down\nto listen.\n\nThe Mousquetaire Gris was praying in the Erse tongue!\n\n\"What--are you a Scotchman?\" exclaimed the astonished major.\n\n\"A Highlander,\" sighed the other.\n\n\"I recognised your Ga\u00eblic at once.\"\n\n\"Likely enough,\" responded the other, in a low voice; \"the Gaelic was\nthe first language I heard, and, please God, it shall be my _last_!\nI spoke but the tongue I learned at my mother's breast!\"\n\n\"And you are a Mousquetaire Gris?\"\n\n\"Yes--that grey uniform is all the inheritance which the dark day of\nCulloden has left me.\"\n\n\"Poor fellow!\" said Major Pringle, with commiseration; \"and you are--\"\n\n\"Allan Robertson, of the house of Struan, who, thirteen years ago,\nwas a captain in the Athole Regiment under his Royal Highness Prince\nCharles, whom God long preserve!\"\n\n\"Hush--hush!\" said Pringle, hurriedly; \"remember that you are in the\nBritish camp.\"\n\n\"I care not,\" replied the other, with flashing eyes; \"I have shouted\nhis name at Preston, Falkirk and Culloden, and why should I shrink\nfrom naming him here?\"\n\nMajor Pringle kept the Jacobite officer in his quarters, and in a few\ndays he was able to sit up in a camp bed, and converse with ease and\ncoherence; and many Scottish gentlemen of the army whose political\nsympathies were with the exiled race, frequented the tent, and\nsupplied him with whatever he required and their own necessities\ncould spare.  He asked particularly about the wounds on the breast of\nhis dead colonel, the Vicomte de Chateaunoir, and on being informed\nthat they must have been done with a dagger, he became dreadfully\nexcited, and exclaimed,\n\n\"Jules de Coeurdefer has murdered him!\"\n\n\"Who?\" exclaimed Major Pringle and several officers who were present.\n\n\"A wretch most justly named Coeurdefer, who serves in the French\narmy, to its disgrace; a noble and an outlaw--a soldier and a robber!\na ribaud, with whom the Mousquetaires Gris et Rouges have had more\nthan one sword-in-hand encounter.\"\n\nAmong the mass of papers and regimental memoranda, from which these\nlegends are gleaned and prepared, I find this Chevalier Jules de\nCoeurdefer frequently mentioned us a prominent character during the\nearly part of the Seven Years' War; and some of Robertson's\nadventures with him during his service in the Grey Mousquetaires were\nvery remarkable.  His narrative was as follows.\n\n----------\n\n\"We, the Red and Grey Mousquetaires, by forced marches from Paris,\nquitted the gay Court of Louis XV., and joined the army of M. de\nContades about the end of May, crossed the Rhine with him at Cologne,\nand on the same day the Free Band of the Chevalier de Coeurdefer\njoined us, to the great annoyance of the whole army; for our hitherto\nquiet and well-ordered camp became a scene of incessant disquiet, by\ndrunken brawls, duels, and severe military punishments; for as this\n_Franche Compagnie_, like the wild Pandoors of Baron Trenck, subsist\nonly by gambling and secret robbery in camp, and by open plunder and\nruthless bloodshed in the field, you may imagine our repugnance to\nco-operate with them; and our astonishment that leaders so strict as\nM. de Contades or Prince Xavier of Saxony would tolerate their\npresence among us for a moment.  Their ranks were filled by men of\nall nations--runaway students, spendthrifts, cashiered officers,\ndeserters, fugitive malefactors--in short, by men ready for any\ndesperate work, and being deemed the cheapest food for gunpowder,\nthey had enough of it.\n\n\"Their captain, the Chevalier Coeurdefer, is the representative of an\nancient but decayed family in Lorraine, who spent his patrimony among\nthe gambling-houses, the cabarets and bordels of Paris.  Dismissed\nsummarily from the French line when a captain in the Regiment du Roi\nfor barbarously slaying a brother officer, after severely wounding\nhim in a duel about a courtesan, he has now joined our army against\nthe Prussians, in the hope of winning himself a new name by reckless\nbravery, cruelty, and outrage.  He is handsome and young, but without\nfear of God or man; without religion, and without honour.  Even their\nchaplain--\"\n\n\"What! they have a chaplain?\" exclaimed Pringle, laughing.\n\n\"Yes, a canon of Notre Dame, who was unfrocked by the Archbishop of\nParis for having an affair with a citizen's wife in the Faubourg St.\nAntoine.  He is a burlesque on the clerical character, and fights--as\nI was about to say--more duels than even the chevalier his leader.\nOne of this choice band plundered a church at Cologne, and as\nsacrilege could not be tolerated, Prince Xavier made a great hubbub\nabout it.  The thief had been seen; he wore the tattered uniform of\nthe _Franche Compagnie_, and had huge red whiskers.  The chevalier\nparaded his men next day for inspection.  Bearing a piece of the true\ncross, the holy fathers came along the line in solemn procession to\ndiscover the culprit; but lo! every man was shaven to the eyes, and\nnot a vestige of whisker was to be seen in the whole band of the\nChevalier Jules.\n\n\"On the 2nd June, 1759, with the force of M. de Contades, we joined\nthe Mar\u00e9chal Duc de Broglio near Giessen, and left M. d'Armentieres\nwith twenty thousand men to oppose Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick, in\nthe neighbourhood of the Wesel; and on this important day we had an\nopen rupture with the Free Company of Coeurdefer, for when detailed\ntogether to form the advanced guard of horse, the gentlemen of the\nMousquetaires Gris et Rouges flatly refused to share a post of honour\nwith a corps of outlaws.  Then the chevalier, flaming with\nirrepressible fury, flung his glove in the face of our colonel, Henri\nthe Vicomte de Chateaunoir, with whom he had an old unfinished feud,\nand a duel to the death was only prevented by the determination of\nthe mar\u00e9chal duc, who bound them both down by solemn promises to keep\nthe peace towards each other, at least until the close of the\ncampaign; but the villain Coeurdefer made a vow of vengeance,\nswearing to 'lay the vicomte at his feet, where he had laid many a\nbetter man;' and you see how he has kept that vow, for by him or by\nhis men our wounded leader was murdered on the field on the morning\nafter Minden!\"\n\n\"I do not understand,\" said Major Cringle, in whose tent this\nconversation took place one evening, when, with a few droppers-in, he\nand the now-convalescent Mousquetaire lingered over a few bottles of\nRhenish wine; \"in fact, it seems to me a marvel how a gallant soldier\nsuch as the late Prince Xavier of Saxony could tolerate the presence\nof such a ruffian and bully as this Captain Coeurdefer.\"\n\n\"For various reasons; he is brave----\"\n\n\"Bravery is no strange quality in the French or Imperial armies, I\nthink,\" said one of the 51st.\n\n\"Moreover, he is an expert forager, skilful in war, useful in\ncouncil, and leader of two hundred troopers, who have only one\nvirtue--their devotion to him.  Besides, the brutal qualities he\ndisplays are not singular in the history of wars in Germany.  We have\nhad many such examples as he among the mixed races which make up the\narmies of France and Austria.\n\n\"In the last century there was the terrible Count Merode, a colonel\nof musketeers, whose name has become a proverb for all that is vile;\nand there was the ferocious Jehan de Wart, a colonel of horse, who in\nBavaria spared neither man, woman, nor child, when the lust of blood\nglowed in his fiery heart.\"\n\n\"Thank Heaven! we have no such fellows among us,\" said the officer of\nthe 51st, complacently.\n\n\"Sir,\" said Allan Robertson, with a cloudy brow, \"you forget the nine\nof diamonds--the exterminating order of Cumberland, written on the\nnight before we fought you at Culloden.\"\n\n\"But the assassination of your poor colonel,\" began Pringle, hastily,\nto change the turn the conversation was taking.\n\n\"Ah! that was a frightful episode in this new war; and yet believe\nme, my dear major, Coeurdefer has committed many such acts, and has\nalways contrived to elude the hand of justice.  Witness his vow to\nlay our colonel at his feet, where better men had lain.  Liar that he\nis!  Chateaunoir was the first gentleman in France!  But true it is\nthat, of the many who have lain at the feet of Jules, few have fallen\nin battle or fair combat.\"\n\n\"You seem to have serious cause for disliking him,\" said Pringle.\n\n\"Disliking!\" reiterated Robertson, while his eyes sparkled and his\npale face glowed with anger--\"say abhorring him!\"\n\n\"You had your sword,\" said the officer of the 51st.\n\n\"But it is the sword of a Mousquetaire,\" replied Robertson, sternly;\n\"the chevalier ranks with a field officer.\"\n\n\"True,\" said Pringle; \"you must pardon my friend, who forgets surely\nwhat discipline inculcates.  And the cause of this animosity?\"\n\n\"Is a dark and painful story,\" sighed Robertson, as he drained his\ngreen glass of Rhenish, and tossed it on the turf floor of the tent.\n\n\"Let us hear it.\"\n\n\"Before the rising of the clans in 1745,\" began Robertson, \"I was a\nstudent at the Scottish College of Pontamousson, where I learned\nLatin and the classics under the tuition of old Father Innes.  I had\nthen a dear friend named Louis d'Herblay, a native of Remiremont, at\nthe foot of Mount Vosge in Lorraine.  Louis was handsome, brave, and\ncourteous; an expert maker of verses; a tolerable player on the\nguitar, and a smart handler of his sword, which he had seldom\noccasion to use, for he was beloved by every one; a successful love\naffair with Mademoiselle Annette, a pretty and sprightly girl, had\nput him in the best of humours with all mankind.  Annette was the\nonly daughter of the old Marquis de Chateaunoir, father of the\nvicomte of that title, Great Mar\u00e9chal of Lorraine and Bar-le-Duc.\n\n\"Jules Coeurdefer, the spendthrift, gambler, and rou\u00e9, was then, to\nour great regret, at college with us too, and having not yet come to\nhis estates, his finances being far below his ambition and\nexpenditure, to keep these equal he had betaken him to cards, dice,\nsuccessful bets, to bullying some and cajoling others--and to every\nmeans his wild and wayward course of life permitted--a course which\nwas the scandal of the good fathers of Pontamousson, and soon\nprocured him the only favour he wished at their hands--expulsion.\n\n\"Between him and Louis d'Herblay there grew an aversion--a hatred\nthat waxed stronger daily; an antagonism on his side, but on the part\nof Louis a cold and haughty bearing; for he despised the life and\nhabits of Coeurdefer, whom he had thrice fought and thrice disarmed,\nwhen involved with him in tavern brawls beyond the college gates; for\n_within_ these barriers no sword or other weapon was ever worn.  But\nin the very spirit of a Venetian bravo, Jules was known, or\nsuspected, to bear about his person a small _crystal poniard_, the\nmost savage of all weapons for inflicting a wound; as the blade, when\nbroken off at the hilt, remained like a deadly sting in the body of\nthe victim.  It was a weapon which could be used but _once_ only, and\nthen with terrible effect.\n\n\"I have mentioned that my friend D'Herblay had a successful love\naffair.  As a trophy of it, he wore at his breast an antique cameo of\ngreat size, set round with diamonds, and within it was the hair of\nAnnette concealed by a secret spring.  He was not rich, but was\nsufficiently wealthy and well born to render him an acceptable suitor\neven to the most wary of fathers; thus it had been arranged that, as\nsoon as he left college, his marriage would be celebrated.  Father\nInnes, our old preceptor, was to perform the ceremony; all the\nstudents congratulated Louis, and looked forward to his nuptials as\nto a _f\u00eate_--at least, all save Coeurdefer, who kept ever aloof from\nhim, and smiled with the quiet covert smile of malice and hate, when\nD'Herblay or his affairs were mentioned in his presence.\n\n\"At last came the time appointed for Louis to leave the college, and\nI was to accompany him to Remiremont.  He bade adieu to all the old\nScottish priests of Pontamousson, and severally shook hands with all\nhis brother students--all till he came to where Coeurdefer was\nlounging outside the gates smoking a huge German pipe; and D'Herblay,\nin the happy fulness of his honest heart, being unwilling to leave a\nfoe behind him, approached and held out his hand, saying--\n\n\"'Farewell, M. le Chevalier, though we have not always been the best\nof friends, I nope we do not part as enemies.  Here is my hand to\nyou--my hand, in token of friendship and future amity.\"\n\n\"Despite the honest frankness that beamed in the blue eyes of\nD'Herblay and the confiding generosity of his speech, the coarse\nJules Coeurdefer gave him a sullen frown, and while rudely emitting a\nvolume of smoke full in his face, with a sullen gesture of contempt,\nstrode away.\n\n\"All the students muttered 'Shame!' and for a moment a cloud hovered\non the usually smooth brow of D'Herblay.\n\n\"'Bah!' said he, turning to me, 'one who is so happy as I, can well\nafford to pity the wrath of one so poor in spirit and in Christian\ncharity.  Farewell, Jules,' he added, as we leaped on our horses;\n'when next we meet, we shall part less sullenly.'\n\n\"'Yes--when next we meet, our parting _shall_ be different,' replied\nCoeurdefer, looking over his left shoulder, with a black frown in his\nface, as we trotted from the college gates.\n\n\"'He means me mischief--pooh! let the fool do his worst,' said Louis.\nWe soon dismissed him from our thoughts, and laughing and chatting\ngaily, waving our hats to the old people, and kissing our hands to\nthe young girls, we rode through the old familiar streets of\nPontamousson, and took the road that led direct to D'Herblay's home,\nwhich lay more than twenty leagues distant.  And now, gentlemen,\nobserve that _within one hour_ after we left the college gates, Jules\nde Coeurdefer, alone and unattended, also departed on horseback,\nostensibly to return to his father's house on the French side of the\nRhine.\n\n\"We cantered along the road to Nancy, between the yellow cornfields,\nfeeling happy as boys in our new freedom, and singing together a song\nwhich Louis had composed in honour of Annette de Chateaunoir, and\nthus we pushed on without halting at the capital of the duchy, save\nfor a few minutes at a jeweller's, where my friend bought a diamond\nbracelet for his future bride.  Blaziers and Neufchateau were soon\npassed, and then we reached Epinal, which, in 1466, was bestowed upon\nthe once independent princes of Lorraine; and their castle, now a\nruin, crowns an eminence above it.\n\n\"Epinal is within ten miles of Remiremont, and there we were\ncompelled by the state of our horses to halt, notwithstanding the\nimpatience of my friend, to whom a night spent so near the residence\nof Annette seemed an age, and the ten miles that intervened a\nthousand leagues; but we called for supper and made ourselves\ncomfortable at an auberge.  Louis assumed his guitar, and we sought\nto while away the time; and the hours flew quickly, for we had a\nthousand plans to form and things to talk of.\n\n\"Alas! how little did we dream that Jules de Coeurdefer, like a\nbloodhound, was tracking us swiftly and surely, by Nancy, Blaziers,\nand Neufchateau, and had actually lodged himself in an auberge\nopposite ours, at Epinal.\n\n\"After sitting up late, we retired.  Overcome by an excessive\nlassitude, induced by the long and arduous journey of the past day, I\nfell into a deep and profound sleep--so deep indeed, that the noon of\nthe next day had rung from the church bells ere I awoke, and inquired\nfor my companion.  Thus, you may see, sirs, the difference between\none who is a lover and one who is not.\n\n\"Louis had been up with the lark, as the aubergiste informed me, and\nfull of impatience to visit his mistress, had mounted a fresh horse,\nand set forth alone, leaving a message for me to follow him to the\nmansion of the marquis, near Remiremont; adding, as an apology for\nhis abrupt departure, that he was loth to rouse me from a slumber so\ncomfortable and profound.\n\n\"I ordered my horse, paid my bill, and departed at leisure, for I had\nno hope of overtaking him.  An easy trot of tea miles brought me to\nRemiremont, which is a pretty little town on the left bank of the\nMoselle, and without difficulty I reached Chateaunoir, the fosse of\nwhich was filled by the river.  The edifice was ancient, surmounted\nby heavy turrets and all built of _black_ stone (hence its name), and\nit stood embosomed among fine old trees.\n\n\"I sent up my name, and inquired for M. d'Herblay.\n\n\"'How--is he not with you, M. Allan?' asked the old marquis, with\nastonishment in his tone and manner.\n\n\"'No,' said I; 'he quitted Epinal at least four hours before me,\nleaving a message for me to follow him hither.'\n\n\"'Four hours before you, and he has not arrived yet!'\n\n\"'This is most perplexing, M. le Marquis!' said I.\n\n\"'Oh, mon Dieu! what can have happened?' exclaimed mademoiselle, whom\nI now saw for the first time, and who was a fair blonde, with a\nbeautiful skin and long dark eyelashes, which lent a softness and\ninexpressible charm to her face.\n\n\"I could not reply.  My heart misgave me; for knowing D'Herblay as I\ndid, I feared that something most unusual must have occurred to\nprevent his appearance at the chateau.\n\n\"Noon passed; the sun verged westward, and still he did not appear.\nI became seriously alarmed; the old marquis was perplexed and\nirritated; while Annette wept in silence.\n\n\"Horses were ordered at last, and with Chateaunoir, his son the\nVicomte Henri, afterwards Colonel of the Grey Mousquetaires, and all\nhis servants, I set forth to search the roads and inquire for my\nfriend.  For some time we prosecuted this object in vain; but after\nmuch labour and anxiety, judge of our horror, when in a secluded\norangery, about two miles from Epinal, the young vicomte found a man\nlying on the grass wounded, bleeding and dying, surrounded by a group\nof pitying and terrified vine-dressers.\n\n\"The damps of death were on the brow of this unfortunate, who proved\nto be my friend, poor Louis d'Herblay.\n\n\"He was frightfully pale, having received several wounds--one of\nthese in the bosom occasioned him the most exquisite agony.  From\nthis wound he had bled for some hours undiscovered, and now he was\nbeyond all hope of recovery.  Revived partially by our presence, by a\ncordial poured between his lips, and by the stoppage of the crimson\ntide which had soaked the soil whereon he lay, in broken accents and\nat long intervals, he related what had befallen him; and every word\nhe uttered there, so slowly, painfully, and laboriously, sank deeply\nin our hearts, for they were too surely the last words of the dying.\n\n\"Loth to arouse me untimeously at Epinal, my kind friend had arisen,\nand softly descended the wooden stair, saddled his horse, and left\nthe auberge by dawn.  He departed from Epinal at a canter, and in the\noverflowing happiness of his heart was singing merrily, when at a\nsolitary part of the road, he heard the hoofs of a galloping none,\nand a voice impetuously calling upon him to stop.  Believing this\nfollower was I, who had discovered his secret and hasty departure, he\nturned to find himself confronted by a tall stranger, whose face was\nconcealed by a black velvet mask, and whom he believed to be a\nbrigand or assassin.\n\n\"'Monsieur,' said the strange horseman, in a voice which, by its\nvarying tones, was too evidently disguised as his face, 'you are\nabroad betimes.'\n\n\"'As you also are,' replied Louis; 'but was it you, monsieur, who\ncalled upon me to stop?'\n\n\"'It was.'\n\n\"'For what purpose?'\n\n\"'That you shall shortly see.'\n\n\"'Shortly--nay, as soon as you please, for I am in haste.'\n\n\"'Indeed!' said the other scornfully and slowly.\n\n\"'What is your wish, sir?'\n\n\"Simply, that you measure swords with me in this meadow.'\n\n\"'Why?' asked Louis, with astonishment.\n\n\"'I intended to have pistolled you through the back, _sans\nc\u00e9r\u00e9monie_, at first; but my heart relented; thus, I mean to afford\nyou a chance of saving your miserable life--though I must have your\npurse and valuables.'\n\n\"'You are, then, a robber.\"\n\n\"'If one whose funds are down to zero, and who is desperate, be a\nrobber, then I am one,' replied the mask, still in his feigned voice.\n\n\"'I am no poltroon, yet I will gladly save your soul the commission\nof a double crime,' said poor D'Herblay, who was the very mirror of\ngenerosity; 'here is my purse, good fellow--pray accept it and be\ngone, for I have no time to trifle with you.'\n\nThe unknown coolly put the purse in his pocket and drew his sword,\nsaying, with an ironical laugh--\n\n\"'I thank you, though I would have had it, at all events; but still,'\nhe added, grinding his teeth, 'you must fight with me!'\n\n\"'Leave me until to-morrow,' said Louis; 'there is one awaiting me at\nRemiremont--one expecting me to-day--whom I would not disappoint--a\nlady who loves me, monsieur.'\n\n\"The stranger laughed scornfully.\n\n\"'Let me see her but once again, and I shall meet you with joy.'\n\n\"The stranger laughed louder, and said bitterly--\n\n\"'Why not meet me now?'\n\n\"'I know not,' urged poor D'Herblay, who was anxious to ride on; 'but\nyour presence chills my heart--I have a dark and solemn presentiment.'\n\n\"For a third time the other laughed ferociously, while his eyes\nsparkled through the holes in his mask, and he menaced D'Herblay with\nhis sword, saying--\n\n\"'Fight--fight!'\n\n\"'To-morrow--I tell you, to-morrow.'\n\n\"'Never--be it now or never!'\n\n\"'I am too full of happiness to fight.'\n\n\"'Happiness!'\n\n\"'She whom I love--she whom I am to wed, expects me at Remiremont.'\n\n\"'She whom you love, and whom you hope to wed, shall never see you,\nbut as a breathless corpse, fool!'\n\n\"'If I am slain, who will bear my last words to Annette?'\n\n\"'The spirits of the air or the demons of hell--I care not which,'\nwas the fierce response.\n\n\"'Fool that I was to leave the auberge without my friend.  Moreover,\nI decline to fight with a rascally _ferrailleur_!'\n\n\"This epithet, which is used in France to distinguish a person who,\nwithout provocation, delights in quarrelling and forcing others to\nfight, made this highway brawler tremble with rage.\n\n\"'Coward!' he thundered out.\n\n\"'Hah!' exclaimed Louis, leaping from his horse, and in his passion\nforgetting all but vengeance.\n\n\"'Coward, come on!' reiterated his assailant.\n\n\"Louis pressed to his lips the cameo locket which contained the hair\nof Annette, and with a prayer to Heaven that he might be spared to\nsee her, rushed upon his furious antagonist.  A desperate duel began,\nand so ably were the voice and costume of the masker disguised, that\nnever once did a thought of Jules de Coeurdefer cross the mind of\nD'Herblay.  They had withdrawn from the roadway into an orangery, and\ntaken off their coats and vests to afford them greater freedom.  A\nperfect fencer, Louis stood erect, with his head upright, his body\nforward on a longe, all the weight on his left haunch--feet, hands,\nbody, arm and sword _in a line_, and completely covered by his weapon.\n\n\"Their swords clashed and gleamed in the bright morning sun; both\nwere expert combatants, and most of their passes were skilfully made\nand as skilfully parried.  The masker made a feint to the left, but\nchanging the attack, suddenly ran his weapon through the sword-arm of\nLouis, fairly wedging the blade between the bones below the elbow,\nand covering his shirt with blood in a moment.  Paralysed by this,\nhis future defence was feeble.  He received repeated wounds, and was\nat last laid prostrate on the earth, bleeding and senseless.\n\n\"'Lie there, thou moonstruck fool!' exclaimed his ruthless conqueror,\ngiving him a final stroke in the breast.  Tearing away the cameo\nlocket, he left the unhappy D'Herblay a dying man, for he expired in\nour arms as we were conveying him to Remiremont.\n\nOn examining the wound in his breast, we found that it had been made\nby the blade of a _small crystal poniard_, which was purposely broken\noff from the hilt and left rankling in the orifice to insure by a\nmortal stroke the death of the victim!\n\n\"My first thought was of Coeurdefer, whom I knew to be the possessor\nof such weapons, which he had brought from Venice, where they are\ncommonly used by the bravoes; but the proofs I could adduce were too\nslight for me, a stranger and a foreigner, to accuse the son of a\npowerful baronial family; thus the terrible suspicion remained locked\nin my own breast--a suspicion that grew less, however, when I\nremembered that the victor, like a common footpad, had taken the\npurse and locket of my poor friend.\n\n\"The grief of a kind, warm-hearted, and affectionate girl like\nAnnette may be imagined.  She wept little, but her sorrow was the\ndeeper that it was unrelieved by any external manifestations.  She\nwas long inconsolable.\n\n\"Now came the war consequent to the League formed at Vienna, in 1757,\nto strip the King of Prussia of his dominions, and an alliance was\nformed by France, Austria, Russia, and Sweden, when Britain declared\nwar against the former, and all Europe seemed to 'go by the ears' at\nonce.\n\n\"The old Marquis de Chateaunoir marched as Colonel of Horse under the\nMar\u00e9chal d'Estr\u00e9es, and fell at the passage of the Rhine.  His son,\nthe Vicomte Henri, became a soldier, too, and soon obtained the\ncommand of the Mousquetaires Gris, into which I, then a fugitive from\nthe Scottish Highlands, was admitted by his request; but long before\nall this poor little Annette had become a canoness of Remiremont.\n\n\"This ecclesiastical establishment, by the peculiarity of its\nconstitution, is one of the most singular in the church.  It was\nfounded by St. Romerick, a famous abbot, who lived in the days of\nClotaire II., and who built his first convent on what was then a bare\nand desolate place, at the foot of Mount Vosge.  All the ladies in\nit, the abbess excepted, take certain vows, reserving to themselves\nthe right of quitting the convent and marrying if they please; and\nall must prove their nobility by four descents before admission.  The\nabbess had both spiritual and temporal power under the Pope and Dukes\nof Lorraine.\n\n\"Annette was a canoness for three years, and lived in peace, viewing\nthe world only as a place wherein to practise those little acts of\nkindness and Christian charity which the ladies of St. Romerick\npractised so freely as to make their establishment a boon and a\nblessing to that sequestered little city among the mountains.  There\nher virtues, her attention to the sick, and her charity to the poor,\nexcited the admiration of all, as her sorrowful story, and sad, grave\nmanner won their sympathy.  So three years glided away, until in an\nevil hour Jules de Coeurdefer came to visit his sister, who was the\nsuperior of this remarkable establishment.\n\n\"He saw Annette unveiled in the garden; her pale beauty, her\nexceeding gentleness, and her loneliness raised a passion in his\nbreast.  Impetuous in all things, he at once besought his sister to\nintercede for him with Annette; and after many objections to engage\nin a task so unsuited to the nature of her office, the abbess,\ninspired by a natural regard for her only brother, and a desire to\nobtain for him the object of his choice, whom she justly deemed a\npearl among women, and one whom she loved dearly and highly esteemed,\nleft nothing unsaid to urge his suit.  M. Jules became a regular\nvisitor at the convent parlour, and daily saw Annette in the presence\nof the abbess, who, believing that his conversation and gaiety (for\nhe was fresh from Paris, and the camp of Mar\u00e9chal d'Estr\u00e9es) might\namuse and interest the lonely girl, foresaw that in a second love\naffair she might gradually be drawn from the terrible memory of the\nfirst and of its fatal end.\n\n\"They soon became intimate, and all Remiremont rang with gossip; the\nold condemned the lax discipline of the abbess, and the young\nrejoiced that the pretty canoness Annette de Chateaunoir was to\nbecome the wife of the handsome chevalier.\n\n\"In submission to the stronger will of the lady superior, and to the\nenergetic mind of Jules, and perhaps dazzled a little by the\nbrilliance, the splendid uniform, handsome figure, and gay\nconversation of that redoubtable personage, she passively admitted\nhis addresses.  But this new lover's deep dark eye seemed to exercise\nsome mysterious and magnetic influence over her; for, as the poor\ngirl afterwards told me, there were times when his glance seemed full\nof a terrible fascination, and when she alternately loved and felt a\nstrange coldness--almost an involuntary repugnance for him.\n\n\"She strove to conquer this emotion, the origin of which she failed\nto fathom, and anxious, perhaps, to forget the terrible sequel to her\nfirst love among the gaiety proffered by the second, she consented to\nreceive the chevalier as her husband; and lest she might retract, the\nceremony was hurried on with a haste on his part which the\ngood-natured gossips of Remiremont averred to be somewhat indelicate\nat least.\n\n\"His sister perceived the strange waverings and misgivings that\nagitated the mind of poor Annette, and on the marriage morning she\nembraced and kissed her tenderly.\n\n\"'Beware what you do, dearest Annette,' said she, 'lest you repent\nthe hour you leave us.  In marriage the love of the mind and\ncharacter must be blended with and united to the love of the person,\nor there can never be any duration of tenderness or of mutual\nconfidence.  Oh, I pray Heaven, I may not have acted wrong in this\naffair!'\n\n\"The misgivings of the good abbess came too late.\n\n\"Full of hope, the gentle Annette smiled through her tears; full of\nlove and triumph, the exulting chevalier led her away, and they were\nmarried.  Before leaving the convent, Jules placed in her hand a case\ncontaining a complete set of brilliants--a tiara for her head, a\nnecklace, bracelets, and rings.  Among these jewels was a _cameo\nlocket_, studded with the purest diamonds.\n\n\"On perceiving this well-known trinket, Annette grew pale, and\ntottered to a chair.  It seemed to come like a signal from the grave\nof Louis d'Herblay to reproach her!  Her features became convulsed\nand her voice tremulous, for in a moment she recognised her own gift\nto Louis, previous to his last departure for Fontamousson, and there\noccurred to her a strange, but just and dreadful suspicion, that for\na moment paralysed her and rendered her totally incapable of\nrepelling the chevalier, who held her in his arms, and perceived at\nonce, and with no little confusion, the misfortune or discovery which\nwas impending.\n\n\"'Cursed fatality!' he exclaimed, through his clenched teeth.\n\n\"'Whence come this trinket, Jules?  How came it into your possession?\nSpeak!' she exclaimed, in accents of terror, and with the gestures of\npassion.\n\n\"'I do not understand you, dear Annette,' said he, finding that\nnothing but perfect confidence and a bold falsehood would carry him\nthrough this _malheur_.  'I had that locket made for me by a jeweller\nof the Rue St. Honor\u00e9, in Paris, many years ago, as a gift for my\nmother.\"\n\n\"'It is false all this; for, four years ago, I had it made here in\nRemiremont.\"\n\n\"'Annette!'\n\n\"'Has it any secret spring or clasp?' she asked.\n\n\"'No--none, I am assured,' he answered, boldly.\n\n\"'You are sure of this, Jules?'\n\n\"'I swear to you Annette,' he urged, becoming frightfully agitated,\nwhile the perspiration rolled like beads down his brow.\n\n\"'Swear not--you have lied enough already,' she exclaimed wildly.\n'See, monsieur,' she added, pressing a spring and opening the locket\nby a secret hitherto unknown to Coeurdefer, 'it contains my miniature\nand a braid of my hair--mine, given in a happy, happy hour to Louis\nd'Herblay!  O, Louis! look down on me from heaven, and see how fate\nhas avenged thee!  Away, chevalier--away; come not near me, and touch\nme not!  If other proof were wanting that you were his murderer, it\nis here.'\n\n\"These words were rashly spoken, yet they stung Jules to the soul.\nShe tore her bridal chaplet and veil from her brow, trampled on them\nwith gestures of frenzy, and was borne away insensible in the arms of\nthe canonesses.\n\n\"In one hour after that _d\u00e9nouement_ the exasperated chevalier had\nleft Remiremont for the French camp--left it to return no more.\"\n\n\"And what of Annette?\" asked some one.\n\n\"She took the black veil, and is now nun of the convent of St.\nNicole, seven miles from Nancy.  With that day's discovery began and\nended the wedded life of Coeurdefer; and since then he has led a wild\nand reckless career, committing innumerable acts of daring, which by\nsome strange fatality have passed as yet unpunished; but the\nassassination of D'Herblay--for that he _did_ assassinate him, I have\nnot the slightest doubt--is the blackest of his acts; unless, indeed,\nthat other episode at Minden be a deeper and a darker one.\n\n\"The marriage prevented the Vicomte Henri alike from prosecuting him\nat common law as a felon, and from challenging him to a solemn duel,\nand so time passed on; but he hated my colonel--the handsome young\nMousquetaire--with the hate of a tiger; hence I doubt not that by his\nhand, or the hands of some of his lawless troop at his behest, my\nleader perished on the field of Minden!\n\n\"France has not in all her army a more splendid soldier than that\nMousquetaire Gris!\n\n\"After the junction of the French army under M. de Contades and M. de\nBroglio, as I have related, on their approach Prince Ferdinand\nretreated, first to Lippstadt, and afterwards to Ham, where he\nmustered all the forces in the Bishopric of Munster, and was joined\nby the soldiers of Imhoff, while we advanced and took possession of\nCassel, Minden, and Beverungen.\n\n\"While we lay at Cassel, engaged in repairing and strengthening the\nfortifications, the vicomte, our leader, was engaged in two pieces of\nservice, which savoured of the romance of the Middle Ages in Germany.\n\n\"There came to the colonel of the Mousquetaires, from the Lower Saxon\nside of the Weser, a certain old knight named Otto of Burgsteinfort,\nwho though an adherent of the enemy, implored him as a soldier and a\ngentleman to attempt the rescue of his daughter, an only child, who\nhad been carried off by a party of savage Uzkokes or Hungarian\ninfantry, who had been subsidized by the King of Prussia, and formed\na portion of the column commanded by Prince Ferdinand, but were more\nimmediately under the orders of Count Hatzfeld in Munden, twelve\nmiles distant on the Weser; and these wretches, he added, had borne\nher into a forest in the Bishopric of Paderborn, where he dared not\nfollow them, alone at least.  Pitying the distress of the old man,\nChateaunoir left Cassel on this errand of mercy with forty gentlemen\nof the Mousquetaires Gris.  Of these forty I had the honour to be one.\n\n\"'Will not Count Hatzfeld do this service for you, baron?' I asked.\n\n\"'No--though on my knees I prayed him; I who never have bent my knee\nbefore to aught but a minister of God.'\n\n\"'Why?\n\n\"'Because our families are and have been long at feud.'\n\n\"'Good--I can understand that, for in my country we are not without\nhereditary hatreds.  Yet in this instance his conduct has been alike\nungenerous and wicked.'\n\n\"'True; thus I, a German, appeal to French chivalry.'\n\n\"'In a happy moment, baron,' said Chateaunoir, 'and your appeal shall\nnot be made in vain.  This abduction----'\n\n\"'Occurred three days ago.'\n\n\"'Peste! then we have no time to lose!'\n\n\"We crossed a range of mountains in the night, and entered the\nBishopric of Paderborn, pushed on towards the forest, riding with\nsuch speed, that, to prevent our horses being knocked up, at a\nvillage near Borcholz, we refreshed them in the old Reiter fashion,\nby bathing their nostrils with vinegar, giving them water and wine to\ndrink, and folding round their bits a piece of raw flesh sliced from\na stray cow, which we shot, and cut up for the purpose.\n\n\"Otto, the knight or baron (for we named him both), acted as our\nguide, and such was the deadly treachery so frequently practised by\nthose Germans, that we were not without fear that the whole story of\nthe abduction might be a snare to lure away into ambush those who\nwere considered by the King of Prussia as the right arm of the French\ngeneral; and thus our colonel gave me express orders to keep by the\nold man's side, and on the first indication of treachery, or\nattempted flight, to pistol him without mercy!\n\n\"The harvest moon was shining full and yellow in her placid beauty\nhigh above the steep green mountains that look down on Liebenau; but\nnow it was on the wane, for the east was marked by the coming day, as\nin silence and circumspection we approached the fortress of the\nlawless Uzkokes.  Every leaf was still, the sky was of the purest\nblue, and spread like a starry curtain behind the dark mountain\npeaks, and the sombre forest scenery was reflected like inverted\ntrees of bronze in the calm lakes and tarns which we passed in our\nprogress through this wild region of solitude and old romance.\n\n\"An old servant of the baron, who had been lurking about the forest\nin the vague hope of succouring his young mistress, now joined us,\nand threw himself at the feet of his master.  For two nights and days\nthis faithful fellow had been lurking in the vicinity of these\nterrible depredators, and now he acted most efficiently as our guide.\nHis appearance, his tears, and enthusiasm dissipated our fears of a\nsnare, and made me feel somewhat ashamed of having encouraged them.\n\n\"The Uzkokes, about twenty in number, were deserters from Count\nHatzfeld's garrison in Munden, and had possessed themselves of an old\nand deserted hunting lodge of the Electoral Bishops, built at the\nfoot of a rock; from thence they had been issuing from time to time,\nto plunder the peasantry, to rob wayfarers and to shoot deer.\n\n\"The sound of guttural voices in loud altercation, mingled with\nsavage laughter, informed us that we were in the immediate vicinity\nof those enterprising worthies who had abducted the baron's daughter.\nThen, we saw the gleam of a red wavering light between the stems and\nbranches of the trees.  This came from a huge fire around which they\nwere all bivouacked, drinking, sleeping, or making merry, and being\napparently without any proper watch or scout, as we were enabled to\napproach them by a forest path unchallenged and unseen.  The reason\nof this seeming confidence was soon explained, when we found one of\ntheir number lying across the narrow way stretched upon his musket,\neither sottishly drunk or in profound slumber; but _which_ we never\nhad time to discover, for, quick as thought, the servant of the\nbaron, a bloodthirsty Westphalian boor, dispatched him by one slash\nof his short and sharp _couteau de chasse_.\n\n\"The father was by my side as we advanced.  Bare-headed, he was\npraying with his clenched hands pressed upon his breast.  The poor\nold man was full of agony and terror.\n\n\"'They are twenty in number, you say?' asked Chateaunoir.\n\n\"'Exactly twenty, mein herr,' replied the old servant, wiping his\nhunting-knife on the grass with grim care before he sheathed it.\n\n\"'Then ten of _us_ are enough for them,' replied our heroic young\ncolonel; 'let the ten gentlemen next me dismount and take their\npistols with them.  You are sure, my friend, that your young mistress\nis still among them?'\n\n\"'Sure as I live, mein herr,' replied the boor.\n\nThe baron groaned.\n\n\"'See!' exclaimed a Mousquetaire, 'there is a white dress amid their\ncircle.\n\n\"'_Christi kreutz!_ it is my young lady!' whispered the servant, in a\nbreathless voice.\n\n\"I placed my gloved hand on the baron's mouth lest he might utter a\ncry, and spoil all.\n\n\"'Where--where?' asked Chateaunoir.\n\n\"'At the foot of that elm-tree, and, _mein Gott!_ she is tied to it\nwith a cord.'\n\n\"Creeping forward after Chateaunoir (for he would allow no man to\nprecede him) I saw a very remarkable scene.\n\n\"Around a huge fire of dried branches that crackled, sputtered, and\nblazed, casting a red and lurid glow on the gnarled trunks of the old\noak-trees and on the leafy canopy formed by their twisted and\nentwined foliage overhead, were the twenty Uzkokes, all\nfierce-looking little men, of powerful, active, and athletic figures,\nwith hooked noses, keen eyes, and wild in gesture.  They were bearded\nto the cheekbones, and wore round fur caps and brown pelisses, or\nshort jackets, and wide red breeches, ending in brodequins, or\nhalf-boots.  They had each a short musket, slung across his body,\nwith a crooked sabre, which was worn in front, so that the hilt came\nreadily to the right hand.  A few were asleep, snorting off the fumes\nof the midnight debauch, as they sprawled among staved barrels,\nbroiled bones and broken dishes.  The rest were engaged in a vehement\ndispute, while near them drooped the poor object of their contention,\na pale-cheeked and slender young girl, secured to a tree by two broad\nbuff waist-belts and a cord; her dress was disordered; her flaxen\nhair dishevelled and unpowdered; her face bowed down in her hands,\nwhich rested on her knees.\n\n\"This was the daughter of Otto of Burgsteinfort.\n\n\"Once she looked wildly up to heaven, and then bowed down her face\nagain in hopeless misery.  She was ghastly pale, and had a hopeless\nglare in her blue eyes.  Beauty, if she really possessed it, seemed\nto have been quite scared from her.\n\n\"'_Morbleu!_ how pale she is--'tis quite a little spectre!' muttered\nthe mousquetaires.\n\n\"'Hush, gentlemen,' said the vicomte, cocking a pistol and drawing\nhis sword; 'we have come at a critical time.  These wretches are all\ninsanely drunk, and, if I understand their barbarous jargon aright,\nare now in vehement dispute as to whose property their fair prisoner\nshall be.'\n\n\"All seemed inflamed by the desire of possessing the prize by the\nstrong hand; hence sabres were drawn, and a brawl, which might have\nsaved us all further trouble, was about to ensue, when a corporal,\nwho was leader of the gang, and evinced more brutality even than his\ncomrades, swore 'that none should have her but the wolves,' and\nunslinging his musket, levelled it full at her head; but at that\nmoment a shot pierced his chest and he fell dead upon his face, with\narms outspread upon the earth.  Death had come to him from the ready\npistol of Chateaunoir, who now led us on, and taking them by\nsurprise, we cut down almost the whole party without resistance.\nFour who were asleep and dead drunk we hanged at our leisure, before\nmounting to return.\n\n\"We then, without loss of time, retraced our steps, lest we might be\ndiscovered and cut off by troops of Count Hatzfeld or Prince\nFerdinand, and rode on the spur towards the Weser.\n\n\"To the grateful Baron Otto and his daughter we bade adieu within a\nfew miles of Hatzfeld's headquarters, and sent the count an ironical\nmessage, complimenting him on his chivalry and gallantry to the fair\nsex.  After this we reached our quarters in Cassel next evening,\nwithout the loss of a man, and so ended our adventure in the forest\nat Paderborn.\n\n\"The next affair to which I referred, is as follows:--\n\n\"We remained quietly in our new quarters for a few days until the Duc\nde Broglio devised an attack upon Munden, the fortifications of which\nwere increasing under the eye of Count Hatzfeld.  The Mousquetaires\nGris et Rouges marched on this service, and early that morning, long\nbefore our trumpets sounded, I was roused by the din of the chopping\nblocks, of which every French troop has one, to cut straw for the\nhorses before marching.\n\n\"With the dragoons of Brissac we formed the advanced guard of this\nexpedition, which included the Regiments of Picardie and Normandie;\nand here I may mention that our mounted comrades were not named from\nBrissac in Alsace, but from a little town of the same name in Anjou,\nwhich belonged to the ancient family of Cosse, one of whom, Charles\nde Cosse, was made a peer by Louis XIII., with the title of Mar\u00e9chal\nDuc de Brissac.\n\n\"_En route_ to the scene of our operations, the guide, a wild-looking\ndenizen of the neighbouring forests, clad almost entirely in wolf's\nfur, and having a shock head of flaxen hair, which he seemed to comb\non an average once in a year, left us in a wooded gorge to shift for\nourselves, as he knew full well that the rocks and thickets on both\nsides were manned by his Prussian friends.  We were thus caught in an\nambush of infantry led by Count Hatzfeld in person!  From both sides\nof the path there suddenly opened a destructive fire upon us.  Night\nwas just closing, and an immediate confusion ensued.  After a short\nand feeble resistance the Dragoons de Brissac, believing themselves\nto be, as the French say, _\u00e9charpe_, or cut to pieces, fell back in a\npanic on our infantry, who were about a mile in the rear, and we,\nfinding ourselves alike bewildered and unsupported, retired, leaving\nseveral of our comrades shot or unhorsed.  Among these, unnoticed and\nunseen, was our Colonel, the Vicomte de Chateaunoir, whose horse had\nbeen killed by a musket-shot.  The animal, after plunging thrice,\nfell heavily, and severely bruised the rider's right leg, which was\ncrushed by its weight in his jack-boot, though the latter was lined\nby ribs of tempered iron.  Thus he lay helpless and unable either to\nrise or extricate himself.  Close by him lay a chevalier of the\nGolden Fleece, gorgeously attired, with silver aiguilettes on his\nshoulders.  The blood was oozing from a wound in his breast.\nChateaunoir strove to staunch it, and ultimately succeeded.\n\n\"'Leave me, monsieur,' said the sufferer, who was in great agony;\n'leave me that I may die, and go to that God who for you and me\nsuffered more than I this night endure!'\n\n\"With these pious words he became insensible, and this chevalier, so\ndaring and devout, was poor Prince Xavier of Saxony, who was\nafterwards slain on the field of Minden.\n\n\"The moon rose above the mountains to light the scene of this\nmisfortune, and while stretched on the ground, enduring great pain\nand thirst, Vicomte Chateaunoir had the horror of beholding many of\nhis wounded companions butchered (even as he, perhaps, was butchered\nat Minden!) by the sabres of some prowling Jagers in search of\nplunder; and though he lay still, feigning death, such would too\nprobably have been his own fate, had not a sudden torrent of rain\nmercifully driven them into an adjacent wood for shelter.\n\n\"Believing himself to be now altogether lost--for if not rescued by\nhis French comrades, he was certain when day dawned to be slain by\nthe Jagers or the Westphalian peasantry--he lay bruised, sore, and\nhelpless under the drenching rain, and was on the point of becoming\ninsensible from exhaustion and suffering, when the tremulous light of\na lantern gleamed along the wet grass, and glinted on the scattered\nweapons, the shot-riven soil, and the pale faces of the dead.  Two\ndark figures approached noiselessly, and then he heard a female\ncrying--\n\n\"'Hatzfeld--Count Hatzfeld;' and near him there passed a young woman\nof great beauty, muffled to her chin in a mantle of furs, and\nattended by an old man bearing a lantern, the light of which, (while\nshuddering at the terrors it revealed), they turned from aide to side\non the faces of the dead and wounded among whom they threaded their\nway.\n\n\"'If you seek Count Hatzfeld, madame, you seek in vain,' said the\nvicomte, faintly.\n\n\"'Who spoke?' said the lady, pausing in terror.\n\n\"'I--a wounded Frenchman!'\n\n\"'And wherefore say you so, monsieur?' asked the lady, while her\nlarge dark eyes seemed to dilate with alarm; 'is he wounded--slain?'\n\n\"'Nay, I hope not, as _you_ are interested in his safety; but he has\nsimply fallen back with his victorious infantry towards the town of\nMunden.'\n\n\"'Thanks--thanks,' said she, turning away; and then, seeing by the\nlight of her lantern that the speaker was a young and very handsome\nman, she added--'Pardon my selfish anxiety, for Count Hatzfeld is my\nhusband; but you--who are you?'\n\n\"'To-night I am your humble servant, madame; this morning I was\ncolonel of the brave Mousquetaires Gris, under Louis XV.'\n\n\"'Your name----'\n\n\"'Henri, Vicomte de Chateaunoir.'\n\n\"'Who was the first to cross the Rhine at Cologne?'\n\n\"'I had that honour, madame.'\n\n\"'Oh, monsieur, I have heard of you very often.'\n\n\"'Then I would pray you, madame, a Prussian though you be, to give me\nbut a cup of water; for even under this falling rain I am dying of\nthirst.'\n\n\"The Countess of Hatzfeld hastened to give him some wine from a flask\nborne by her attendant, and she even proposed to remain beside him.\n\n\"'I would rather perish of cold and exhaustion, or die by the knives\nand sabres of those rascally Jagers or Uskokes, than have you remain\nhere in such a pitiless night as this, lady,' replied Chateaunoir.\n'I am a Mousquetaire Gris.  I thank you, Madame la Comtesse; but\nleave me to my fate, I have done my duty to God and his Most\nChristian Majesty, and am quite willing to leave the event to chance.'\n\n\"But this dame with the gentle eyes and black tresses was one of the\nDouglases of Esthonia,* and was resolved to leave the event in the\nhands of one quite as fickle as fate, to wit, herself, and she\nprotested that she would not and could not quit the vicomte; but with\nthe assistance of her old valet, whose silence and fidelity could\nevidently be relied on, she succeeded in extricating him from his\nfallen charger; she bound up the bruises of his limb, and, supported\npartly by the hard paw of the old German valet on one side, and by\nher soft arm on the other, he was conveyed to an adjacent mansion, of\nwhich the Prussians had taken possession.  It stood about a mile from\nthe field; and there the lady laid him on a couch, and attended him\nwith every care, while her attendant a cunning old fellow--kept\nwatch, to announce when the count, a young and fiery soldier who had\nvowed extermination to the enemies of the Great Frederick, should\nreturn.\n\n\n* Where the ruins of their castle are still to be seen on the\nDouglasberg.  They were descended from a Scottish Douglas who served\nthe Teutonic knights.\n\n\n\"When Chateaunoir found himself in a luxurious bed, within a handsome\napartment, hung with green silk festooned by golden cords and massive\ntassels, and having buhl toilet-tables, covered with Mechlin lace\nfestooned with white and silver; large oval mirrors, lighted by\nrose-coloured candles in girondoles of glittering crystal, and vases\nof flowers between, he believed himself to be in a dream, the more\nso, as with half-closed eyes he saw a beautiful woman, with\nremarkably white hands, long tremulous eyelashes, and fine eyes,\ngliding noiselessly about his couch, and from time to time watching\nover his slumbers and recovery.  So he thought,\n\n\"''Tis a spirit-woman, and this is some enchanted castle on the\nRhine, or _under_ it, perhaps.  In Paris, I have often heard tales of\nsuch adventures in this land of diablerie, and seen them, too, in the\ntheatres.'\n\n\"But the hands and arms of this 'spirit woman,' when they touched the\nvicomte were remarkably unlike those of a spectre or spirit;\nmoreover, she had a bright roguish eye, and, by her manner, seemed\nnot at all reluctant to receive compliments, or to indulge in a\nlittle innocent coquetry, being, as most pretty women are, charmed by\nthe admiration she excited.  She had resided long at Berlin, and as\nour young colonel was almost fresh from the King's antechamber at\nVersailles, she was charmed to find a chevalier so gallant in that\nsequestered district which lay between the Weser and the (then) wild\nforests of Paderborn.\n\n\"Three days slipped pleasantly away at that quiet old German chateau.\n\n\"On the evening of the 3rd, the galloping of horses was heard in the\navenue, and Count Hatzfeld, still flushed by the success of his\nambuscade, which, for a time, had completely delayed the advance of\nthe Mar\u00e9chal Duc de Broglio towards Munden, accompanied by a squadron\nof Blue Prussian Hussars, arrived at the mansion, and, without\nremoving his soiled and blood-stained uniform, hastened to embrace\nhis countess.  Pale and confused, the latter had barely time to\nconceal the vicomte in a secret alcove, or ancient hiding-place which\nshe had discovered, and which opened by a sliding panel at _the back_\nof the couch, whereon he had been reposing when Hatzfeld entered, and\nafter a few gay words of greeting, threw aside his hussar cap,\ngloves, sabre, and rich pelisse, and with an exclamation of pleasure,\nsatisfaction, and weariness, stretched himself on the same place and\nthe same pillow where the vicomte had lain but a moment before!\n\n\"Trembling with apprehension, and paler than ever, the poor little\ncountess sat near a mirror, dreading even the expression of her own\nface, and scarcely trusting herself to speak.\n\n\"And now scarcely a long, tedious, and terrible hour had elapsed,\nwhen a casual sound, or some vague suspicion excited by her peculiar\nmanner, prompted Hatzfeld suddenly to unclose the long panel of the\nalcove, wherein lay the stranger almost side by side with himself.\nWith a shout of angry astonishment, the count leaped up, and sprang\nto his lately relinquished sabre.\n\n\"'Stay,' exclaimed the countess, throwing herself upon his sword-arm;\n'he is only a poor wounded man, whom I have saved and concealed.'\n\n\"'In my bed--or beyond it--could you find no more fitting place,\nmadam?' exclaimed her husband, endeavouring to free himself from her\nimpetuous grasp, while sombre fury and fierce suspicion sparkled in\nhis eyes.\n\n\"'Hatzfeld--believe me--Hatzfeld, I speak the truth!'\n\n\"'Swear that you do,' said he, menacing her white neck with the\ngleaming weapon.\n\n\"'I swear it,' she exclaimed, 'by our Lady of Oetingen, I swear----'\n\n\"'What?'\n\n\"'That he is only a poor stranger.'\n\n\"'And that you never saw him before?'\n\n\"'Never before the night of the ambush.'\n\n\"'And that he is----who?' queried the count, sternly.\n\n\"'A mousquetaire of King Louis.'\n\n\"'O Christi Kreutz! a soldier of King Louis!' reiterated the count;\n'what matters it--Frenchman or Austrian--one can reach hell as soon\nas the other!'\n\n\"He made a thrust at Chateaunoir, who though weak from his bruises,\nsprang from the alcove, and would infallibly have been slain had not\nthe countess hung upon her fiery husband's sword-arm, praying him by\nall he held sacred and dear to spare her the horror, the disgrace,\nand lifelong reproach of an act so cruel as this man's slaughter in\nher chamber; but she spoke to one who heeded and who heard her not.\n\n\"In his blind fury or suspicion, the count disdained to hear her, and\ncoarsely strove to thrust her from him, bruising her tender breasts\nand hands, as she clung about him wildly.  Though so faint that he\ncould scarcely stand, Chateaunoir had now reached and drawn his\nsword; and how this matter might have ended, there are no means of\nknowing, had it not at this crisis been cut short by the ball of a\nfield-piece passing through the house with a frightful crash, and\nthen they heard the sharp shrill notes of the Prussian trumpets\nsounding to horse, as a party of the Duc de Broglio's Cavalry, who\nwere again advancing towards Munden, approached the mansion, and\nseeing a squadron of Blue Hussars in the lawn with a standard\ndisplayed, had suddenly opened a fire on them from three pieces of\nflying artillery.\n\n\"Leaving our colonel to the care of his advancing friends, Hatzfeld\nhad to depart on the spur for Munden, which was his head-quarters and\nnearest fortified post, while his fair young countess became the\nlawful prisoner of the Mousquetaires Gris.  The vicomte treated her\nwith every courtesy, and she was escorted with all honour to the\nquarters of the Duc de Broglio, whose timely approach had arrested an\nact of assassination.\n\n\"In his anger at Count Hatzfeld, and anxiety to remain with us,\nChateaunoir, immediately on procuring a new horse, assumed once more\nthe command of the Grey Musketeers, and marched at our head, on the\nexpedition against the town of Munden.\n\n\"The sun was setting when we, who formed the advanced guard, came in\nsight of Munden, at the confluence of two streams, which there unite\nand are named the Weser; and its current rippled in pink and gold as\nthe tints of evening deepened on the laden barges that floated by the\nquays, on the spires of the churches, and the quaint architecture of\nthe streets.  The scenery was neither bold nor striking; but the sun\nseemed to linger for a time 'at the gates of the west,' casting\nupward his rays through cloud and sky, diverging like the fiery\nspokes of a mighty wheel, and these continued to waver and play, to\nfade and gleam again from below the dark line of the horizon, long\nafter the sun himself had disappeared from our eyes.\n\n\"As the last bright vestige of his flaming disc went down, a\ncannon--the solitary evening gun--boomed from the fortifications of\nMunden, and the Prussian standard was slowly lowered for the night;\nand this was to us a significant notice that as yet our approach was\nunseen.\n\n\"Munden we considered one of the most important places on the Weser.\nOn one side it had eight solid bastions faced with stone, full of\nearth and impenetrable to cannon-shot.  A half-moon lay before every\ncurtain and the ditch was broad.  The counterscarp, covered way and\npalisadoes were all in the best order, and the town was garrisoned by\nthree thousand men, five hundred of whom were Irish, whose backs had\nnever been seen by an enemy.  Count Hatzfeld commanded the whole, and\nhis second was the Baron O'Reilly, a soldier as resolute and\ndetermined as himself, consequently we had every reason to expect\nthat broken heads would be numerous enough.\n\n\"If my warlike friends expect a detail of the siege and capture of\nMunden, I regret that I can afford them but a brief note of the\noperations, which were pressed by M. de Broglio with great vigour.\nThe battalions de Picardie blockaded it on one side, while those of\nNormandie enclosed it on the other.  M. de Contades broke ground\nbefore the strongest bastions, and M. de Broglio undertook to storm\nand destroy the works and bridges on the Weser, while the Vicomte de\nChateaunoir, with the Mousquetaires Gris et Rouges and the cavalry,\ncovered the roads and collected supplies.\n\n\"The fire of our artillery, which was heavy, was neutralized by the\nelevation at which they were discharged, and by the compactness of\nthe earthen parapets; but ultimately a breach was effected in two\ndays, and a host of brave fellows volunteered for the assault.  Among\nthese were all the Grey Mousquetaires and about a hundred of the\nDragoons of Brissac, dismounted.  The honour of leading the stormers\nat midnight was assigned to the vicomte, who appeared in his\nbrilliant state uniform, with all his orders sparkling on his breast.\n\n\"'Is this wise, vicomte?' asked the old Duc de Broglio.\n\n\"'Wherefore, mar\u00e9chal?'\n\n\"'You will be the mark of every musket to-night.'\n\n\"'So much the better for others,' replied the gay noble.  'Allow me\nto please myself, Monseigneur le Duc.  I may as well be killed in my\nbest coat to-night as have it sold at the drum-head to-morrow.'\n\n\"The second volunteer for the storming party was a mere child--a son\nof the Comte de Brille, who had been unjustly executed for losing a\nmilitary post under General Lally, in India.  The boy was serving as\na private soldier under M. de Contades, and was burning for an\nopportunity to distinguish himself; thus when we advanced towards the\nbreach mingling together pell-mell, men of all ranks and arms united\nin a mass, and falling fast on every side, with shot of every sort\nand size passing us with an incessant _hum_ or _whistle_, tearing up\nthe turf, shattering stones, and rending huge branches off the trees\nthat grew on the banks of the river, the vicomte turned, with an\nemotion of pity, and said to the boy--\n\n\"'M. de Brille, my young brave, return while there is yet time.'\n\n\"'My father perished innocently on the scaffold in the Place de\nGr\u00eave, vicomte,' replied the boy, on whose pale cheek glowed the\nlight of the fireballs, which filled the air above and sputtered in\nthe muddy ditches below; 'and I shall to-night redeem his coronet\nfrom the temporary tarnish it has suffered, or die.  I, too, am a De\nBrille!'\n\n\"'But the breach is just before us.'\n\n\"'Well!'\n\n\"'And you have no fear; pardon me, boy, I am your senior officer,\nand, believe me, your sincere friend.'\n\n\"'I thank you,' said he, haughtily; 'fear--I have none.'\n\n\"'Thou art a brave chick--Vive M. le Comte de Brille!' exclaimed the\nstormers, and the eyes of the lad flashed fire.\n\n\"'I know, vicomte' said he, 'that at this moment my poor old mother,\nthe widowed countess, is praying for me at home; and God,' he added,\npointing with his sword to the starlighted heaven, 'will spare the\nwidow's son!'\n\n\"'Bravo; forward, then, to the assault--to the assault!  France and\nVive Louis le Roi!'\n\n\"But he was not spared; he fell, pierced by a mortal wound.  Like a\nswollen surge the stormers swept over him, and through the ghastly\ngap in the shattered rampart hewed a passage into the heart of the\nplace, driving the foe before them.  Count Hatzfeld was among the\nfirst who fell, for, after a brief encounter, Chateaunoir slew him at\nthe third pass.  After this the Prussians gave way, and the only\nresistance we experienced was from O'Reilly and his Irishmen, who\ntook possession of a Lutheran church, where they fought like\nincarnate devils, swearing to blow themselves up, if they had powder\nenough, but never to surrender.\n\n\"By noon, however, they hoisted a white flag on the steeple, and\nagreed to leave the place with the honours of war, which we were glad\nto accord them.  By this time there were only two hundred left alive;\nand at their head the gallant O'Reilly marched out, With one standard\ndisplayed; it bore the Irish harp and Prussian eagle.  One drum was\nbeating before them; and, in the old fashion, each man had a bullet\nin his mouth and four charges of powder in his pouch.\n\n\"We cheered them heartily and saluted them with all the honours of\nwar, and then the drums of the Regiment de Normandie were beaten\nbefore them down through that terrible breach, which was strewn with\ndead and wounded, and where the blood was battening in the sun or\noozing and trickling between the stones; and from thence they crossed\nthe Weser, and marched to Beverungen.\n\n\"On our advance towards the latter place, they were soon compelled to\nretire again; for, when we carried the town by assault, they retired\nfrom it on the Prussian side.\n\n\"My next service was on the field of Minden, where--but, gentlemen,\nyou know the rest.\"\n\n----------\n\nSuch was the varied narrative of Allan Robertson, the Grey\nMousquetaire.\n\nOn his recovery, being sick of exile and of the French service, he\nexpressed a great desire to join any of our Highland regiments, even\nas a volunteer.  His wish was warmly seconded by the officers of the\n51st Regiment, and his hopes were realized beyond his expectations;\nfor, by their desire and the recommendation of Prince Ferdinand of\nBrunswick, he was gazetted to an ensigncy in the Forty-second--the\nold Black Watch--then serving under General Amherst on the American\nLakes; but before leaving the camp of the Allies, from whence he was\nfirst sent home in charge of sick and wounded soldiers, he had the\nsatisfaction of seeing the strange career of his enemy, the Chevalier\nde Coeurdefer, terminated with abrupt ignominy.\n\nAt Fellinghausen--a severe battle, the name and results of which are\nnow absorbed and forgotten in the greater glories of the previous\nencounter at Minden--the Free Company of the chevalier charged our\n51st or Second Yorkshire Regiment, to which Allan Robertson had for a\ntime attached himself as a volunteer.  This occurred among those\ndense and ancient forests which surround Fellinghausen, and which, on\nthis day in particular, rendered the operations of the cavalry on\nboth sides almost futile.\n\nIssuing from a jungle, heedless of the shells which exploded in the\nair or roared and hissed along the ground, and of the leaden rain\nthat sowed the turf about them, the wild troopers of the _Franche\nCompagnie_ fell _sabre \u00e0 la main_ on the 51st, who formed square in a\ntrice, and by a withering fire swept them back in disorder.  Then the\nBlack Prussian Hussars, led by Count Redhaezl, a dashing noble, in\nhis twentieth year, by a furious flank movement, cut them wholly to\npieces.  Beneath the sabres of the hussars a hundred men and horses\nrolled upon the earth, and many prisoners were taken.  Among these\nwere the Chevalier Jules, his chaplain, and a score of his troopers,\nall of whom were more or less wounded.  They were immediately\nenclosed by the square of the 51st, and were soon after transmitted\nto the rear.\n\nAfter the battle, the chevalier and his ghostly friend, the late\ncanon of Notre Dame de Paris, were deemed such desperate characters\nthat their paroles were not accepted, and they were placed in a\nsecluded house with the other prisoners, under a guard of Keith's\nHighlanders, commanded by Captain Fotheringham, of Powrie, an officer\nwho had covered himself with distinction in the late battle.  There\nthey remained for some time without Mar\u00e9chal Broglio, who was\nprobably but too glad to be rid of them, making the least effort for\ntheir ransom or exchange, until Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick, to\nwhom a report was made on the subject, declared \"that to supply such\nfellows with rations was simply feeding what ought to be hanged.\"\n\nIn an evil moment over their cups, the chaplain informed the\nchevalier that he had, concealed about him, notes and gold to the\nvalue of fifty thousand francs, the plunder of various persons and\nplaces.\n\n\"Fifty thousand francs!\" said the chevalier; \"_mordieu!_ with that\nsum I should soon gild over the most watchful eyes and achieve my\nliberty.\"\n\nThis thought haunted him day and night, and with one so unscrupulous\nthe sequel may easily be guessed.\n\nOne night the chaplain was roughly wakened by a hand being heavily\nlaid on his throat, and he found a masked man standing over him,\narmed with a bayonet, and commanding him to yield his ill-gotten\nwealth on pain of instant death!\n\nA loud cry, cut short by a death-stab in the throat followed, and, in\nless than a minute, the chevalier found himself a prisoner in the\nhands of the startled quarter-guard, beside the dead body of his\ncomrade and with a blood-dripping bayonet, as a terrible testimony\nagainst him.\n\nA court-martial next day made short work with him, and he was\nsentenced to death--a doom which he met with the most singular\ncoolness and contempt.  His fate was announced to him at night, and\nhe was chained to a tree lest he should escape before _reveille_ next\nmorning, when the sentence was to be put in execution.  He conversed\nwith his guards, smoked, laughed and sang catches, and was\nprovokingly cool and gay to the last.  On perceiving his old brother\nstudent, Robertson, loitering near him, he said,\n\n\"You have the odds of me to-night, _mon ami_; but a Prussian bullet\nere long may, perhaps, enable you to overtake me _en route_ to the\ninfernal regions.\"\n\n\"Be thankful, chevalier, that you end your life in camp, and not in\nParis,\" replied the Mousquetaire, quietly.\n\n\"Wherefore?\"\n\n\"Because a soldier's death and a soldier's grave are a better fate\nthan a felon's on the dissecting-table.\"\n\n\"Perhaps so--_peste!_ unpleasant thought to have a parcel of medical\n_gamins_ amusing themselves with one's intestines and arteries.\"\n\n\"Think, sir,\" said Allen, gravely and with pity, \"you are to die\nto-morrow morning.\"\n\n\"Better then, than to-morrow night, if it is to be.  _Allons!_\ncomrade, another light; for, _sang Dieu!_ my pipe has gone out!\"\n\nSo passed his last night on earth.\n\nGrey morning came and the great-coated guard got under arms.  The\nchevalier was unchained from the tree and marched to a secluded spot,\nwhere his grave, which the pioneers of the 51st had dug overnight,\nyawned in the damp mould among the bright green grass, he walked\ncalmly round it and looked down with all the curiosity of an amateur\nor mere spectator.  He then stood erect opposite the\nprovost-marshal's guard, with a scornful smile and with folded arms.\n\n\"I thank you, M. le Prevot,\" said he, smiling gaily; \"all is as it\nshould be--'tis just my length; five feet ten inches.\"\n\nThe guard, or firing party, which was composed of twenty men of the\n61st, were confounded, and, perhaps, disgusted by his unparalleled\ncoolness.  He declined to have his eyes bound up.\n\n\"Make ready!\" said the provost-marshal, and his guard cocked their\narms at the _recover_, according to the position of those days.\n\n\"_Pardonnes moi_,\" said the unmoved chevalier; \"I have a little\nrequest to make of you, M. le Prevot.\"\n\n\"What is it, sir?\"\n\n\"Don't bury that devil of a friar near me.\"\n\n\"You mean your victim?\"\n\n\"_Peste!_ so you name an avaricious monk, who wanted fifty thousand\nfrancs all to himself.\"\n\n\"Your chaplain.\"\n\n\"Yes--so don't bury him near me, I say.\"\n\n\"Why, chevalier?\"\n\n\"He might trouble me in the night, for he has been a worse fellow in\nlife than I, and is not likely to sleep so sound in that dark hole as\npoor Jules de Coeurdefer; so now with your permission, I shall end\nthis scene myself.  Once more, _soldats, appretez-vous armes_!\"\n\nThe muskets were levelled at him, and steadily he looked at the\ntwenty iron tubes before him.\n\n\"_Joue!_\" he added rapidly, \"FEU!\"\n\nThe report of twenty muskets rang sharply on the still morning air,\nand pierced by eleven bullets the chevalier fell dead.\n\nHis body, shattered and covered by the blood that spouted from his\nwounds, was lowered, while warm, into the grave by the pioneers of\nthe 51st; but before they covered it up, an officer stepped forward\nand took the cloak from his own shoulders to wrap up his miserable\nremains.\n\nHe who performed this last act of kindness to the earthly tenement of\nthe wild and reckless spirit that had fled, was Allan Robertson of\n\"Ours,\" the _soi-disant_ Mousquetaire Gris.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nTHE LETTRE DE CACHET.\n\nIn the ancient church of St. Germain de Prez, at Paris, is a stone\nwhich bears the following inscription in English:--\n\n  M.S.\n  ADAM WHITE, OF WHITEHAUGH,\n  MAJOR IN THE ROYAL REGIMENT OF SCOTTISH HIGH-\n  LANDERS, 1789.\n  R.I.P.\n\n\nOn that stone, or rather on its inscription, the following legend,\ncompiled from the traditions of the regiment, was written.\n\n\nLately, every mess-table in the service rang with a romantic story\nthat came by the way of Calcutta.  It was reported and believed, that\nan officer of Sale's gallant brigade, who was supposed to have been\nkilled at Cabul, thirteen years ago, had suddenly re-appeared, alive,\nsafe and untouched.  He had been all that time a prisoner in Kokan;\nhis name had long since been removed from the Army List; and on\nreaching Edinburgh, his native place, he found that his wife had\nerected a handsome monument to his memory, was the mother of a brood\nof little strangers, and had become the \"rib\" of one of his oldest\nfriends.\n\nThis reminds me of the adventures of Adam White of Ours, who served\nwith the Black Watch under Wolfe and Amherst.\n\nIn the year 1757 three additional companies were added to our\nregiment, which, the historical records say, \"was thus augmented to\nthirteen hundred men, all Highlanders, _no others being recruited for\nthe corps_.\"  These new companies were commanded by Captains James\nMurray, son of Lord George Murray, the Adjutant-General of Prince\nCharles Edward Stuart, James Stewart of Urrard, and Thomas Stirling,\nson of the Laird of Ardoch.  The two subalterns of the latter were\nLieutenant Adam White, of the old Border family of Whitehaugh, and\nEnsign John Oswald, one of the most remarkable characters in the\nBritish service--and of whom more anon.\n\nWhite's father had been a major in the army of Prince Charles; he had\nbeen wounded at the battle of Falkirk, taken prisoner near Culloden,\nmarched in chains to Carlisle, and was hanged, drawn, and quartered\nby the barbarous laws of George II., while his old hereditary estate\nwas forfeited and gifted to a Scottish placeman of the new r\u00e9gime.\n\nAdam White was a handsome and dashing officer, who had served under\nClive in the East; and on the 9th of April, 1751, when an ensign, led\nthe attack on the strong pagoda named the Devil's Rock, when six\nmonths' stores of Ali Khan's army were taken with all their guards.\nLike many others who were ordered on the American campaign, Adam\nWhite had left his love behind him; for in those days a lieutenant's\npay was only a trifle more than that of the poor ensigns--for they\n(Lord help them!) when carrying the British colours on the frozen\nplains of Minden, and up the bloody heights of Abraham, had only\n_three shillings and threepence_ per diem.\n\nThus, for White to marry would have been madness; and as he had only\nhis sword, and that poor inheritance of pride, high spirit, and\npedigree, which falls to the lot of most Scottish gentlemen--for he\nwas descended from that Quhyt, to whom King Robert I. gifted the\nlands of Stayhr, in the county of Ayr--poor Lucy Fleming and he had\nagreed to wait, in hope that his promotion could not be far distant\nnow, when he had served six years as a subaltern, and the army had\nevery prospect of a long and severe war with France for the conquest\nof North America.  With the minstrel he had said--\n\n  \"Have I not spoke the live-long day,\n  And will not Lucy deign to say\n    One word her friend to bless?\n  I ask but one--a simple sound,\n  Within three little letters bound,\n    Oh let that word be YES.\"\n\nLucy answered in the affirmative, and so they parted.\n\nLucy Fleming, the only daughter of a clergyman of the Scottish\nChurch, lived at her father's secluded manse in Berwickshire, among\nwoods that lie on the margin of the Tweed, in a beautiful and\nsequestered glen, where tidings of the distant strife came but\nseldom, save when the Laird of Overmains, and Rowchester, or some\nother neighbouring proprietor, sent \"with his compliments to the\nminister\" an old and well-read copy of the _London Gazette_, or more\nprobably the_ Edinburgh Evening Courant_, \"sair thumbed by ilka coof\nand bairn;\" for newspapers were few and scarce in those days, and the\ntidings they contained were often vague, marvellous, or\nunsatisfactory.  But Lucy was only eighteen; and she lived in hope,\nwhile her lover in a crowded and miserable transport was ploughing\ndown the North Channel, making a vain attempt to remedy sea-sickness\nby brandy and water, endeavouring to forget his melancholy among\ncomrades who were full of bilious recollections of the last night's\nhock and champagne, and were seeking to drown their sense of\ndiscomfort in rough practical jokes, mad fun, and fresh jorums of\n_eau de vie_.\n\nDone in the best style of Sir John de Medina, a famous foreign\nartist, who in those days resided in Edinburgh, and who now sleeps\nthere in a quiet corner of the old Greyfriars Kirk-yard, a miniature\nof Lucy in a gold locket, with a braid of her black hair, was White's\nbest solace; and for many an hour he lay in his swinging hammock,\napart from all, gazing upon the soft features Medina's hand had\ntraced.  This miniature cost our poor subaltern half-a-year's pay;\nbut the prize-money of Trichinopoli had paid for it; and now when\nrocking far, far at sea, oblivious of the ship's creaking timbers,\nthe groaning of blocks, and jarring sounds of the main-deck guns, as\nthey strained in their lashings; the whistling of the wind through\nthe rigging; and the varied din of laughter, occasional oaths and\nhoarse orders bellowed from the poop, he abandoned himself,\nlover-like, to the sad and pleasing employment of poring over that\nlittle memento, until the dark hazel eyes seemed to smile, the red\nlips to unclose, the light of love and joy to spread over all her\nfeatures, and her parting tears seemed to fall again, hot and\nbitterly from her cheek upon his; yet the last recollection of his\ndear little Lucy was her pale, wan face, with eyes red and swollen by\nweeping, as she stood on the stone stile of the old kirkyard wall,\nwhen he bade her farewell, just as the lumbering stage from Berwick\nbore him away, perhaps--for ever.\n\nIn the same spirit did he brood over the thousand trifles that the\nlover treasures up in memory, and on none more than the love-music of\nLucy's voice, which he might never hear again.\n\nNever again!--he shrank from those terrible words, and, trusting\nthrough God's grace to escape the chances of the war that were before\nhim, he endeavoured to reckon over the days, the weeks, the months,\nand it might be the years (oh what a prospect for a newly separated\nlover!) that must pass, before he should again see the little\nsecluded kirk-hamlet, with its blue-slated manse, half buried among\nthe coppice; the Tweed brawling over its pebbled bed in front, under\nthe white-blossomed hawthorns and green bourtree foliage; the ancient\nchurch with its stone spire, its old sepulchral yews, and black oak\npulpit, where for more than forty years the father of his Lucy had\nministered unto a poor but pious flock.\n\nHe was an old and white-haired pastor, whose memory went back to\nthose terrible times, when Scotland drew her sword for an oppressed\nkirk and broken covenant--\n\n  \"When the ashes of that covenant were scattered far and near,\n  And the voice spoke loud in judgment, which in love she would\n        not hear.\"\n\n\nAdam White saw in fancy the dark oak pew, where on Sunday Lucy sat\nnear her father's pulpit, and close to a gothic window, from which\nthe sun, each morning in the year, cast the red glow of a painted\ncross on her pure and snow-white brow; and so, with his mind full of\nthese things, with a tear in his eye and a prayer of hope on his lip,\n\"rocked on the stormy bosom of the deep,\" our military pilgrim went\nto sleep in his cot, as the Lizard light faded away, and word went\nround from ship to ship that Old England had sunk into the waste of\nsky and water, far, far astern.\n\nBy the many casualties of foreign service, Adam White, on joining the\nregiment in America, found himself junior captain.\n\nIt was now the spring of 1758, and George II. was King.\nLieutenant-General Sir Jeffry Amherst, K.C.B., was proceeding on the\nsecond expedition against L'Isle Royale, now named Cape Breton, which\nhad belonged to the French since 1713, and was deemed by King Louis\nthe key to Canada and the Gulf of St. Lawrence.\n\nMeanwhile, Major-General James Abercrombie of Glassa, a gallant\nScottish officer, with the 1st Scots Royals, the Black Watch, the\n55th, or Westmoreland Regiment, the 62nd, or Royal North Americans,\nand other troops, to the number of seven thousand regulars and ten\nthousand provincials, landed from nine hundred batteaux, and one\nhundred and thirty-five whale-boats, with all their cannon,\nprovisions, and ammunition, on the 6th of July, at the foot of Lake\nGeorge, a clear and beautiful sheet of water thirty-three miles long,\nand surrounded by high and verdant mountains.  That district, now so\nbusy and populous, was then silent and savage.  No sound broke the\nstillness of the romantic scenery, or the depths of the American\nforest, but the British drum or Scottish pipe, as the troops formed\nin four columns of attack, and advanced against the Fort of\nTiconderoga.\n\nOur regiment, then styled \"Lord John Murray's Highlanders,\" was\ncommanded by Lieutenant-Colonel Francis Grant; his second was Major\nDuncan Campbell of Inveraw, and never did two better or braver\nofficers wear the tartan of the old 42nd.  Viscount Howe, a brilliant\nofficer of the old school of puffs, pigtails, knee-breeches, and\nRamilie wigs, led the 55th.\n\nTiconderoga is situated on a tongue of land extending between Lake\nGeorge and the narrow fall of water that pours with the roar of\nthunder into Lake Champlain, a hundred feet below.  Its ramparts were\nthirty feet high, faced with stone, surrounded on three sides by\nwater, and on the fourth by a dangerous morass that was swept by the\nrange of its cannon and mortars.  The approach to this morass--the\n_only avenue_ to the fort--was covered by a dense abattis of felled\ntrees of enormous size, secured by stakes to the ground, and having\nall their branches pointed outward.\n\nThe garrison, which consisted of eight battalions, was five thousand\nsix hundred strong; and as the assailants advanced, it was the good\nfortune of our hero, Adam White, to learn from an Indian scout that\nthree thousand French, from the banks of the Mohawk river, were\nadvancing to reinforce Ticonderoga.  These tidings he at once\ncommunicated to General Abercrombie, and orders were given to push on\nwithout delay.  The praise he obtained for his diligence made the\nbreast of our poor \"sub\" expand with hope; and with a last glance at\nhis relic of Lucy Fleming, he shouldered his spontoon, and hurried\nwith his company into the matted jungle.\n\nThe officer who commanded in Ticonderoga was brave, resolute, and\ndetermined.  Twenty-four years before he had been a grenadier of the\nRegiment de Normandie, and served with the army of the Rhine under\nthe famous Mar\u00e9chal the Duke of Berwick.  At the siege of Philipsburg\nin 1734, the Prince of Conti was so pleased by his intrepid bearing,\nthat he placed a purse in hu hand, apologizing for the smallness of\nthe sum it contained; \"but we soldiers, mon camarade,\" continued the\nprince, \"have the privilege to plead that we are poor.\"\n\nNext morning the young grenadier appeared at the tent of Conti, with\ntwo diamond rings and a jewel of great value.\n\n\"Monseigneur le Prince,\" said he, \"the louis in your purse I presume\nyou intended for me, and I have sent them to my mother, poor old\nwoman! at Lillebonne; but _these_ I bring back to you, as having no\nclaim to them.\"\n\n\"My noble comrade,\" replied the prince, placing an epaulette on his\nleft shoulder, \"you have doubly deserved them by your integrity,\nwhich equals your bravery; they are yours, with this commission in\nthe Regiment de Conti, which, in the name of King Louis, I have the\npower to bestow.\"\n\n\"Bravo, prince, this is noble!\"\n\n\"Bravo! it equals anything in Scuderi!\" exclaimed two officers, who\nwere at breakfast with the prince.\n\nThe first of these was Maurice Count Saxe, general of the cavalry;\nthe second was the famous Victor Marquis de Mirabeau, the future\npolitical economist, who was then a captain in the French line.\n\nIn twenty-four years this grenadier became a general officer and peer\nof France by the title of Comte de Montmorin; and in 1758, he\ncommanded the French garrison in Ticonderoga, where he left nothing\nundone to render that post impregnable.  Thus a desperate encounter\nwas expected.\n\nFormed with the grenadiers in the reserve, the 42nd marched with\nmuskets slung, and their thirteen pipers, led by Deors MacCrimmon\ntheir pipe-major, made the deep dark forests ring to that harsh but\nwild music, which speaks a language Scotsmen only feel; and the air\nthey played was that old march, now so well known in Scotland as the\n\"Black Watch;\" and loudly it rang, rousing vast flocks of wild birds\nfrom the lakes and tarns, and scaring the Red men from their wigwams\nand camps in the dense forests of pine that covered all the then\nunbroken wilderness.\n\nThe day was hot--the sun being 96\u00b0 in the shade; the shrubs were all\nin blossom, and the wild plum and cherries grew in masses and\nclusters in the jungle, through which the heavily-laden columns of\nattack forced a passage towards Ticonderoga, leaving their artillery\nin the rear, as the officer commanding the engineers had reported,\nthat without employing that arm, the works might be carried by storm.\n\nWhile the reflection of all Lucy might suffer, should he fall, cost\npoor White a severe pang, he was the first man who sent his name to\nthe brigade-major, as a volunteer to lead the escalade.\n\n\"But,\" thought he, \"if successful, my promotion is insured; and if I\nmiss death, I shall, at least, be one step nearer Lucy.\"\n\nJack Oswald, who volunteered next, consoled himself by some trite\nquotation from Bossuet (he was always quoting French writers), that\nhe had not a relation to regret in the world.\n\nThe country was thickly wooded, and the guide having lost the track\nthrough those hitherto almost untrodden wastes, the greatest\nconfusion ensued.  Brigadier-General Viscount Howe, who was at the\nhead of the right centre column, suddenly came upon a French\nbattalion led by the Marquis de Launay, who was in full retreat, and\na severe conflict ensued.  The viscount, a young and gallant officer,\nwhom Abercrombie styles \"the Idol of the Soldiers,\" fell at the head\nof his own regiment, the 55th, as he was calling upon the French to\nsurrender.  A chevalier of St. Louis rushed forward and shot him by a\npistol ball, which pierced his left breast.  The chevalier was shot\nby Captain Monipennie, and received three musket balls as he fell.\nThe French were routed; many were slain, and five officers with one\nhundred and forty-eight privates were taken.\n\nMeanwhile, the column of which the Black Watch formed a part, had\nbeen brought to a complete halt in a dense forest, where the rays of\nthe sun were intercepted by the lofty trees; the guides had deserted,\nand the officer in command was at a loss whether to advance or\nretreat, when Adam White, who had been famous for beating the jungle\nand tigerhunting in India, found a war-path, and boldly taking upon\nhim the arduous and responsible office of guide, conducted the troops\nthrough the wilderness; and thus, on the morning of the 8th July, the\nwaters of Lake Champlain, long, deep, and narrow, appeared before\nthem, shining in the clear sunrise, between the stems of the opening\nforest.  Beyond rose the solid ramparts of that Ticonderoga which had\nproved so fatal to the British arms in the last campaign, faced with\npolished stones, grim with shady embrasures and pointed cannon,\npeering over trench and palisade; and over all waved slowly in the\nmorning wind the white banner, with the three fleurs de lis of old\nFrance.\n\nFire flashed from the massive bastion, and then the alarm-gun pealed\nacross the water, waking a thousand echoes in the lonely woods; and\nthe drum beat hoarsely and rapidly the call to arms, as the heads of\nthe four British columns in scarlet, with colours waving and bayonets\nfixed, debouched in succession upon the margin of that beautiful\nlake; and there a second time Captain White of Ours was warmly\ncomplimented by General Abercrombie for his skill in conducting his\ncomrades through a country of which he was totally ignorant.\n\n\"And if I live to escape the dangers of the assault, believe me,\nsir,\" continued the general, \"this second service shall be recorded\nto your advantage and honour.\"\n\nBut poor White thought only of his betrothed wife, and far away from\nthe shores of that lone American lake, from its guarded fortress and\nwoods, where the stealthy Red man glided with his poisoned shafts,\nand from the columns of bronzed infantry, wearied by toil and stained\nby travel, his memory wandered to that sweet sequestered valley,\nwhere the pastoral Tweed was brawling past the windows of the old\nmanse; and to the honeysuckle bower, where, at that moment, perhaps,\nLucy Fleming, with pretty foot and rapid hand, urged round her\nivory-mounted spinning-wheel; for, in those days of old simplicity,\nevery Scottish lady spun, like the stately Duchess of Lauderdale, so\nfamous for her diamonds and her imperious beauty.\n\nBut now the snapping of flints, the springing of iron ramrods that\nrang in the polished barrels, the opening of pouches and careful\ninspection of ammunition by companies at open order, gave token of\nthe terrors about to ensue; and old friends as they passed to and fro\nwith swords drawn to take their places in the ranks, shook each other\nwarmly by the hand, or exchanged a kindly smile, for the hour had\ncome when many were to part, and many to take their last repose\nbefore the ramparts of Ticonderoga.\n\n\"Stormers to the front!\" was now the order that passed along the\ncolumns, as the arms were shouldered, and the companies closed up to\nhalf-distance, while the grenadier companies of the different corps\nwere formed with the Highlanders, as a reserve column of attack; for\non them, more than all his other troops, did the general depend; and\na fine-looking body of men they were, those old British Grenadiers,\nwhom Wolfe ever considered the flower of his army, though they wore\nthose quaint, sugar-loaf Prussian caps, which we adopted with the\nPrussian tactics, and though their heads were all floured and\npomatumed, with a smart pigtail trimmed straight to the seam of the\ncoat behind, their large-skirted coats buttoned back for service and\nto display their white breeches and black leggings--their officers\nwith triple-cocked hats and sleeve-ruffles, just as we see them in\nthe old pictures of Oudenarde and Fontenoy.\n\nAs Colonel Grant had been wounded by a random shot, Major Duncan\nCampbell of Inveraw, a veteran officer of great worth and bravery,\nled the regiment, and Adam White was by his side.\n\nThe cracking roar of musketry, and the rapid boom-boom-booming of\ncannon, with the whistle and explosion of mortars, shook the echoes\nof the hitherto silent waste of wood and water, and pealed away with\na thousand reverberations among the beautiful mountains that overlook\nLake Champlain, as the British columns rushed to the assault; but\nalas! the entrenchments of the French were soon found to be\naltogether impregnable.\n\nThe first cannon-shot tore up the earth under the feet of Ensign\nOswald, and hurled him to the ground; but he rose unhurt, and rushed\nforward sword in hand.\n\nThe leading files fell into the abattis before the breastwork, and on\nbecoming entangled among the branches, were shot down from the\nglacis, which was lofty, and there perished helplessly in scores.\n\nThe Inniskillings, the East Essex, the 46th, the 55th, the 1st and\n4th battalions of the Royal Americans, and the provincial corps, were\nfearfully cut up.  Every regiment successively fell back in disorder,\nthough their officers fought bravely to encourage them, waving their\nswords and spontoons; but the French held the post with desperate\nsuccess.  Proud of their name, their remote antiquity and ancient\nspirit, the Scots Royals fought well and valiantly.  At last even\nthey gave way; and then the Grenadiers and Highlanders were ordered\nto ADVANCE.\n\nWhile the drums of the former beat the \"point of war,\" and the pipes\nof the latter yelled an onset, the reserve column, led by Inveraw,\nrushed with a wild cheer to the assault, over ground encumbered by\npiles of dead and wounded men, writhing and shrieking in the agonies\nof death and thirst.\n\nImpetuously the Grenadiers with levelled bayonets, and the Black\nWatch, claymore in hand, broke through a bank of smoke, and fell\namong the branches and bloody entanglements of the fatal abattis.\n\n\"Hew!\" cried White, \"hew down the branches with your swords, my lads,\nand we will soon be close enough.\"\n\n\"Shoulder to shoulder!  Clann nan Gael an guillan a chiele,\" cried\nold Duncan of Inveraw; but at that instant a ball pierced his brain,\nhe fell dead, and on White devolved the terrible task of conducting\nthe final assault.  Oswald was by his side, with the King's colours\nbrandished aloft.\n\nHewing a passage through the dense branches of the abattis by their\nbroadswords, the Black Watch made a gallant effort to cross the wet\nmorass and storm the breastwork by climbing on each other's\nshoulders, and by placing their feet on bayonets and dirk-blades\ninserted in the joints of the masonry.  These brave men were totally\nunprovided with ladders.\n\nWhite was the first man on the parapet, and while exposed to a storm\nof whistling shot, he beat aside the muzzles of the nearest muskets\nwith his claymore, and with his left hand assisted MacCrimmon, the\npipe-major, Captain John Campbell, and Ensign Oswald, to reach the\nsummit; and there stood the resolute piper, blowing the _onset_ to\nencourage his comrades, till five or six balls pierced him, and he\nfell to rise no more.\n\nA few more Highlanders reached the top of the glacis, but they were\nall destroyed in a moment.  White fell among the French, and was\nrepeatedly stabbed by bayonets.  And now the Grenadiers gave way; but\nstill the infuriated Black Watch continued that bloody conflict for\nseveral hours, and \"the order to retire was _three times_ repeated,\"\nsays the historical record of the regiment, \"before the Highlanders\nwithdrew from so unequal a contest.\"\n\nAt last, however, they _did_ fall back, leaving, besides Adam White\nand Major Campbell of Inveraw, Captain John Campbell (of the fated\nhouse of Glenlyon, who had been promoted for his valour at Fontenoy),\nLieutenants Macpherson, Baillie, and Sutherland; Ensigns Rattray and\nStuart of Banskied, with three hundred and six soldiers killed;\nCaptains Graham, Gordon, Graham of Duchray, Campbell of Strachur,\nMurray, and Stewart of Urrard, with twelve subalterns, ten sergeants,\nand three hundred and six soldiers, wounded; making a frightful total\nof _six hundred and forty-eight_ casualties in one regiment!\n\nOswald received a ball through his sword arm, but brought off the\ncolours, tradition says, in his teeth!\n\nThe last he saw of his friend White was his body, still, motionless,\nand drenched in blood, under the muzzle of a French cannon, but\nwhether he was then alive or dead it was impossible for him to say.\n\nFour hours the contest had continued, and then Abercrombie retired to\nthe south side of Lake George, leaving two thousand soldiers and many\nbrave officers lying dead before Ticonderoga.\n\nThe regiment deplored this terrible slaughter, but the loss of none\nwas so much regretted as Inveraw, Adam White, and old MacCrimmon the\npipe-major; and as the shattered band retired through the woods\ntowards a bivouac on the shore of Lake George, the pipers played and\nmany of the men sang \"MacCrimmon's Lament,\" which he had composed on\nthe fall of his father, Donald Bane, who had been piper to MacLeod of\nDunvegan, and was killed in a skirmish with Lord London's troops near\nMoyhall thirteen years before, in the dark epoch of Culloden; and the\neffect of this mournful Highland song, as it rose up sadly from the\nleafy dingles of the dense American forest, was never forgotten by\nthe spirit-broken men who heard it:--\n\n  \"The white mountain-mist round Cuchullin is driven,\n  The spirit her dirge of wailing has given;\n  And bright blue eyes in Dunvegan are weeping,\n  For thou art away to the dark place of sleeping.\n        Return, return---alas, for ever!\n        MacCrimmon's away to return to us never!\n        In war or in joy, to feast or to fray,\n        To return to us never, MacCrimmon's away!\n\n  \"The breath of the valley is gently blowing,\n  Each river and stream is sadly flowing;\n  The birds sit in silence on rock and on spray,\n  To return on no morrow, since thou art away!\n        Return, return, &c.\n\n  \"On the ocean that chafes with a mournful wail,\n  The birlinn is moored without banner or sail,\n  And the voice of the billow is heard to complain,\n  Like the cry of the Tar' Uisc from wild Corriskain.\n        Return, return, &c.\n\n  \"In Dongevan thy pibroch so thrilling, no more\n  Will waken the echoes of mountain and shore;\n  And the hearts of our people lament night and day,\n  To return on no morrow, since thou art away!\n        Return, return, &c.\"\n\nFor many a year after, this lament was used by the regiment as a dead\nmarch.\n\n\"With a mixture of grief, esteem, and envy, I consider the great loss\nand immortal glory acquired by the Scots Highlanders in the late\nbloody affair,\" says a lieutenant of the 66th, in a letter dated from\nLake George, July 10.  \"I cannot say for them what they really merit;\nbut I shall ever fear the wrath, love the integrity, and admire the\nbravery of these Scotsmen.  There is much harmony and good regulation\namongst us; our men love and fear us, as we very justly do our\nsuperior officers; but we are in a most d--nable country, fit only\nfor wolves and its native savages.\"--_Caledonian Mercury_, Sept 9,\n1768.\n\nFor many a year after, Ticonderoga found a terrible echo in the\nhearts of the Highlanders; a cry for vengeance, as if it had been a\ngreat national affront, went throughout the glens, and in an\nincredibly short space of time more than a thousand clansmen\nvolunteered to join the regiment.  So the King's warrant came to form\nthem into a second battalion; and it was further enacted that \"from\nhenceforth our said regiment be called and distinguished by the title\nand name of our 42nd, or _Royal Highland Regiment of Foot_, in all\ncommissions, orders, and writings.  Given at our Court of Kensington,\nthis 22nd day of July, 1758, in the thirty-second year of our reign.\"\nBlue facings now replaced the buff hitherto worn by the corps.\n\nThis warrant was issued while the survivors of Ticonderoga were\nencamped on the southern shore of Lake George.\n\nIn due time the tidings of this second repulse of the British troops\nbefore that fatal fortress reached the secluded manse on Tweedside;\nand from the cold and conventional detail of operations, as given in\nthe official despatch of General Abercrombie, poor Lucy turned, with\na pale cheek and anxious and haggard eyes, to the list of killed and\nwounded; and the appalling catalogue that appeared under the head of\n\"Lord John Murray's Highlanders\" struck terror to her soul.  Her\nheart beat wildly, and her eyes grew dim; but mastering her emotion,\nthe poor girl took in the fatal roll at a glance, and in a moment her\neye caught the doubly distressing announcement--\n\n\"_Wounded severely, and since missing, Captain Adam White._\"\n\n\"God help me now, father!\" she exclaimed, and threw herself on the\nold man's breast; \"he is gone for ever!\"\n\n\"Missing!\"\n\nThat term used in military returns and field reports to express the\ngeneral absence of men dead or alive, struck a vague terror, mingled\nwith hope, in the heart of Lucy Fleming.  But then White was also\n_wounded_, and the dread grew strong in her mind that he might have\nbled to death, unseen or unknown, in some solitary place, with no\nkind hand near to soothe his dying agony or close his glazing eyes;\nand expiring thus miserably, have been left, like thousands of\nothers, in that protracted war, unburied by the Red Indians--a prey\nto wolves and ravens, with the autumn leaves falling, and the rank\ngrass sprouting among his whitened bones.\n\nThese thoughts, and others such as these, filled Lucy with a horror\nover which she brooded day and night; and it was in vain that her\nonly surviving parent, the old minister,\n\n  \"A father to the poor--a friend to all,\"\n\nsought to encourage her by rehearsing innumerable stories of those\nwho had returned, in those days of vague and uncertain intelligence,\nafter being mourned for and given up, yea, forgotten by their dearest\nfriends and nearest relatives; but in the first paroxysm of her grief\nand terror Lacy refused to be consoled.\n\nThe name of the missing man was still borne in the Army List; and by\nthe slaughter of Ticonderoga he was gazetted to the rank of\nbrevet-major, and Oswald to a lieutenancy.\n\nThen weeks and months slipped away, but Adam White was heard of no\nmore.\n\nEvery hope that inventive kindness could suggest, or the uncertainty\nof war, time, and distance could supply, were advanced to soothe the\nsufferer, who caught at them fondly and prayerfully for a time; but\nsuspense became sickening, and day by day these hopes grew fainter,\ntill they died away at last.\n\nThe colonel of the regiment, Lieutenant-General Lord John Murray (son\nof John Duke of Athole, who, after the revolution, had been Lord High\nCommissioner to the Scottish Parliament), an officer who took a vivid\ninterest in everything connected with his regiment, spared no\nexertion or expense to discover the missing officer; but, after a\nlong correspondence with the Marquis de Montcalm, who commanded the\nFrench in America, M. Bourlemarque, who commanded near Lake\nChamplain, and the Comte de Montmorin, commandant of Ticonderoga, no\ntrace of poor White could be discovered, as all prisoners had long\nsince been transmitted to France.\n\nAt Chelsea, Lord John Murray appeared in the dark kilt and scarlet\nuniform of the regiment to plead the cause of its noble veterans who\nhad been disabled at Ticonderoga; and becoming exasperated by the\nparsimony, partiality, and gross injustice of the Government of\nGeorge II., a monarch who abhorred the Scots and loved the English\nbut little, he generously offered \"the free use of a cottage and\ngarden to all 42nd men who chose to settle on his estates.\"  Many\naccepted this reward, and the memory of their gallant colonel--the\nbrother of the loyal and noble Tullybardin, who unfurled the royal\nstandard in Glenfinnan--was long treasured by the men of the Black\nWatch.\n\nBut this tale, being a true narrative, though enrolled among our\nregimental legends, will not permit of many digressions.\n\nWhite's name disappeared from the lists at last; another filled his\nplace in the ranks, and after a time even the regiment ceased to\nspeak of him, in the excitement of the new campaign in the West\nIndies, where, in the following year, 1759, the most of his friends\nfell in the attack on Martinique or the storming of Guadaloupe; and\nJack Oswald, who was a strange and excitable character, becoming\ndisgusted with the slowness of promotion, after being \"rowed\" one\nmorning for absence from parade, sold out, left the service in a pet,\nbecame an amatory poet, and then a dangerous political writer, under\nthe well-known _nom de plume_ of Sylvester Otway.\n\nLong, sadly, and sorely did Lucy Fleming pine for the lost love of\nher youth.  The mystery that involved his fate, and the snapping\nasunder of the hopes she had cherished for yearn, the shattering of\nthe fairy altar on which she had garnered up these hopes, and all the\nsecret aspirations of her girlish heart, affected her deeply.  She\nhad all the appearance of one who was dying of a broken-heart; and\nyet she did not so die.  Many have perished of grief and of\nbroken-hearts, but our fair friend with the black ringlets and the\nblack eyes was not one of these.\n\nIn time she shook off her grief, as a rose shakes off the dew that\nhas bent it down, and like the rose she raised her head again more\nbeautiful and bright than ever; for her beauty was now chastened by a\ncertain pensive sadness which made her very charming; and thus it\nwas, that in the year 1761--three years after the fatal repulse of\nthe British troops before Ticonderoga--she attracted especial\nattention at the Hague, whither her father, the amiable old minister,\nhad gone for a season, leaving his well-beloved flock and sequestered\nmanse upon the Scottish border, to benefit the health of his pale and\ndrooping daughter.  Being furnished with introductory letters from\nhis friend Home, the author of \"Douglas,\" who was then conservator of\nScottish privileges at Campvere, the best society was open to them.\n\nAt the balls and routs of the Comte de Montmorin, the French\nresident, Lucy soon eclipsed all the blue-eyed belles of Leyden and\nthe Hague.  Enchanted by the charms of the beautiful brunette, their\ncountry-woman, a crowd of gay fellows belonging to the Scots brigade\nin the Dutch service followed her wherever she went; and those who\nsaw her dancing the last cotillion by M. Brieul of Versailles, the\nfashionable composer of the day, or the stately and old-fashioned\n_minuet de la cour_, with the bucks of Stuart's regiments or\nMacGhie's musketeers, might have been pardoned for supposing that\npoor Adam White of Ours, and the dark days of Ticonderoga, were alike\nforgotten--as indeed they were; for Time, the consoler, was fast\nsmoothing over the terrible memories of three years ago; and again\nLucy could listen with a downcast eye and a half-smiling blush to the\nvoice that spoke of love and admiration.\n\nThrice the Comte de Montmorin asked her hand in marriage, and thrice\nshe refused him; but again monseigneur returned to the charge.\n\n\"Ah! mademoiselle,\" said he, \"I am lured towards you as the poor moth\nis lured towards the light--as an eaglet soars towards the glorious\nsun--soars, but to sink panting and hopeless down to earth again.\nNever did a Guebre worship the sacred fire with half the tremulous\nardour I worship you; for mine is a worship of the heart and\nsoul--the love of father, lover, husband, and brother--all combined\nin one!\"\n\n\"And so, M. le Comte, you do admire me,\" said Lucy, trembling.\n\n\"In that, Mademoiselle Fleming, I would only be as other men.\"\n\n\"I love you, mademoiselle.\"\n\n\"But so do many more.\"\n\n\"Mon Dieu!  I know that too well; but none love as I do.\"\n\nIt was not in bombast like this that poor Adam White had wooed and\nwon her love; yet in six months after her arrival at the Hague, to\nthe dismay and discomfiture of six entire battalions of the Scots\nbrigade--at least the officers thereof--she became the wife of M. le\nComte Montmorin, Peer of France, Knight of St. Louis, and all the\nroyal orders--he who in former days had been the trusty grenadier of\nPhilipsburg and the resolute general at Ticonderoga; and though the\nold minister sorrowed in his heart for the brave and leal-hearted lad\nshe had loved in other days, and who was buried in his soldier's\ngrave so far away; and though he deemed, too, that the old manse by\nTweedside would be lonely now, without her, as the count belonged to\nan ancient Protestant house in Lillebonne, and had a magnificent\nfortune, et cetera, he had no solid objection to offer; and so he\npronounced the irrevocable nuptial blessing, and handed over his last\ntie on earth--the last flower of a little flock who were all sleeping\n\"in the auld kirkyard at hame,\" to the titled stranger.\n\nOn the occasion the Scots brigade consoled themselves by giving a\nmagnificent ball; and none danced more merrily thereat than the\nfriend of the lost lover, Jack Oswald, late of Ours, who had been\ntaken prisoner during some of his wanderings, and sent to France; but\nhad made his escape in the disguise of a poissard, and was wandering\nhome, _vi\u00e1_ the Hague and Rotterdam.\n\n\"Poor Adam fell at Ticonderoga,\" said he, in a pause of the\ndancing--\"I saw him knocked on the head--'tis well he lived not to\nsee this day!\"\n\n\"But the count is so rich!\" said a disappointed man of the Scots\nbrigade.\n\n\"Tush!\" snarled Oswald, \"the fellow is a mere Frenchman--a heartless\nfool, who would laugh in the face of a corpse, as old Inveraw of Ours\nused to say.\"\n\n\nLet us change the scene to a period of thirty-one years after.\n\nIt is now the year 1789.\n\nM. le Comte de Montmorin, a venerable peer, was then the secretary of\nstate for the foreign department under Louis XVI.  Madame la\nComtesse, after being long the mirror of Parisian fashion, had become\na staid and noble matron, with a son in the French Guards, and two\nmarriageable daughters, the belles of Paris.  The old minister, their\ngrandsire, had long since been gathered to his fathers, and was\nsleeping far away, among the long grass and the mossy headstones of\nhis old grey kirk on bonny Tweedside.  Another occupied his humble\nmanse, another preacher his pulpit, and other faces filled the old\noak pews around it.\n\nThe horrors of the French Revolution were bursting over Paris!\n\nThe absolute power of the crown of the Louis; the overweening\nprivileges of a proud nobility and of a dissipated clergy, with their\ntotal exemption from all public burdens, and the triple tyranny under\nwhich the people groaned, had made all Frenchmen mad.  A determined\nand fierce contest among the different orders of society ensued; the\nmobs rose in arms, and the troops joined them.  A new constitution\nwas demanded, and equality of ranks formed its basis; for the cry was,\n\n\"Vive the people! down with the rich, the noble, and the aristocrats!\"\n\nThe flower of the French nobles either perished on the scaffold or\nfled for safety and for foreign aid; the King himself became a\nfugitive, but was arrested on the frontiers and brought back to\nParis.  The streets of that city swam in blood, and the son of Lucy\nFleming, a brave young chevalier, perished at the head of his company\nin defending the beautiful Marie Antoinette, and his head was made a\nfoot-ball by the rabble along the Rue St. Jacques.  A thousand times\nLucy urged her husband to fly, for Paris had become a mere human\nshambles, but the determined old soldier of Ticonderoga and Quebec\nstood by his miserable king, and coolly proceeded each day to the\nforeign office on foot; for the mobs systematically murdered every\naristocrat who dared to appear in a carriage, sacrificing even the\nvalets and horses to their mad resentment.\n\nIn July, a vast armed multitude assailed the Bastille, and foremost\namong the assailants was a Scottish gentleman--known by many as the\nnotorious Sylvester Otway; by others as Jack Oswald of the Black\nWatch.\n\nAfter quitting the regiment, this remarkable man (whose father was\nthe keeper of John's coffee-house at Edinburgh) had made himself\nperfect master of the Greek, Latin, and Arabic languages; and he\nbecame a vegetarian, in imitation of the Brahmins, some of whose\nopinions he had imbibed during service in India.  He became a violent\npolitical pamphleteer, and on the outbreak of the French Revolution\nrepaired at once to Paris, where his furious writings procured him\nimmediate admission into the Jacobin club, in all the transactions of\nwhich he took a leading part, and was appointed to the command of a\nregiment of infantry, which was raised from the refuse, the savage\nand infamous population of the purlieus of Paris; and they marched\nsans breeches, shoes, and often sans shirts, with their hair loose,\nand their arms, faces, and breasts smeared with red paint, blood, and\ngunpowder.\n\nAt the head of this rabble, on the evening of the 14th of July,\nOswald appeared with other leaders before the walls of the terrible\nBastille; and bearing in his hand a white flag of truce, summoned the\ngovernor, the Marquis de Launay, \"to surrender in the name of the\nsovereign people;\" but that noble proudly and recklessly despised\nthis motley rout of armed citizens, and opened a fire upon them.  The\ncannon taken from the Hotel des Invalides soon effected a breach, and\na private of the French Guards, with John Oswald, the _ci-devant_\nlieutenant of the Black Watch, were the two first men who entered the\nplace.  The poor garrison were all slaughtered or taken prisoners;\namong the latter were De Launay, his master-gunner, and two veteran\nsoldiers, who were dragged to the Place de la Gr\u00eave and ignominiously\nbeheaded.\n\nThe terrible Bastille, for centuries the scene of so many horrors,\nand the receptacle of broken hearts, was demolished, sacked, and\nruined!  The most active in that demolition was the author of\n\"Euphrosyne,\" and the \"Cry of Nature\"--the wild enthusiast, John\nOswald.  Intent on releasing the suffering captives who were believed\nto be immured there, he hurried, sword in hand, from tower to tower,\nfrom cell to cell, and vault to vault; through staircases and\ncorridors, dark, damp, and horrible, where for ages the bloated\nspider had spun her web, and the swollen rat squattered in the damp\nand slime that distilled from the massive walls to make a hideous\npuddle on the floors of clay, amid which the bones of many a hapless\nwretch, forgotten and nameless now, lay steeping with their rusted\nchains.\n\nIn one of these, the darkest, lowest, and most pestilential--for it\nwas subject to the tides of the Seine, where the oozing water dropped\nfrom the vaulted roof, where the cold slimy reptiles crawled, and\nwhere the massive walls were wet with dripping slime--he found a\nhuman being, almost an idiot, chained to a block of stone.  He was\nold; his hair and beard were white as the thistle-down: he seemed a\nliving corpse; his aspect was terrible, for existence seemed a\nmiracle, a curse in such a place; and on being brought to upper earth\nand air by these blood-steeped men of the people, he became senseless\nand swooned.\n\nThree other prisoners were found, and then, to its lowest vaults, the\ninfamous Bastille was levelled--even to its base, and its records of\ntyranny, torture, suffering, human crime, and inhuman horror perished\nwith it.\n\n\"The only State prisoners, where so many were supposed to have\nentered,\" says the _Edinburgh Magazine_ for that year, \"the only\nprisoners that were forthcoming in the general delivery amounted to\nfour!  Major White and Lord Mazarine were two out of that number.\nThe first gentleman, a native of Scotland, was in durance for the\nspace of twenty-eight years; he had never in that time been heard of\nby his friends, nor in the least expected thus to be enthralled.\nWhen restored to liberty, he appeared to have lost his mental powers,\nand even the vernacular sounds of his own language.  The Duke of\nDorset has taken him under his direct protection; this is unasked,\nand therefore the more honourable.\"\n\nSo this miserable wreck, aged, pale, and wan, worn almost to a\nskeleton, nearly nude, with his limbs fretted by iron fetters, and\nall but fatuous; insane, and with scarcely a memory of his native\ntongue or past existence; in whose eyes the light of life and\nintelligence seemed dead, and who had forgotten the days when he\ncould weep or feel, was our long-lost comrade, the soldier of\nTiconderoga?\n\nInspired by just indignation, and determined to unravel this terrible\nmystery, the Duke of Dorset took him in a fiacre to the hotel of the\nComte de Montmorin, the only minister then in Paris, to demand the\nreason of this outrage upon the laws of war, of peace, and of common\nhumanity; but the official of the unfortunate Louis could only shrug\nhis shoulders, make the usual grimaces and apologies, and plead, that\nas the records of the Bastille had perished in the sack of that\nprison, it was totally beyond his power to explain the affair; for\nnot a scrap of paper remained to show how or why this brave officer\nof the Black Watch, who had been wounded and taken prisoner in action\nin 1758, should have been found in that dreadful place thirty-one\nyears after.  The Duke of Dorset perceived, with surprise, that while\nspeaking the Comte de Montmorin was ghastly pale, and that his eyes\nwere filled with terror.  It would have made a fine subject for a\npainter, but a finer still for a novelist--the delineation of this\ninterview, as it took place in the drawing-room of the Hotel de\nMontmorin on the morning after the demolition of the Bastille.\n\nThe unfortunate victim of a government which had long made that\ninfamous prison an engine of tyranny, was introduced by our proud and\ndetermined ambassador, who spoke for him in no measured tones; for\nalas! the poor major could scarcely put three words together, and for\nsome hours seemed to have forgotten the sound of his own voice.\n\nIn the stately and now elderly French lady seated on the gilt\nfauteuil, between her shrieking and pitying daughters, clad in her\nhigh stays, hooped petticoat, and figured satin, with an esclavage\nround her neck, and her white hair powdered and towered up into a\nmountain of curls, flowers, and feathers, \u00e0 la Marquise de Pompadour,\nit was impossible for Adam White to recognise the once beautiful and\nblack-eyed Lucy of his youth--the simple Scottish girl of the quiet\nold manse on Tweedside, for whom his sorrowing heart had yearned with\nagony, in the long and dreary days of captivity, and in the longer\nwatches of the silent night, until love and youth and blessed hope\nall passed away together.\n\nIt was as difficult for her to trace in that wan, aged, and\nresuscitated man, the handsome young officer who had left her side to\nfight Britain's battles under Amherst and the hero of Quebec.  She\nwas now a white-haired matron, and he a wild-eyed, haggard old\nman--old by premature years, for eight-and-twenty in the Bastille had\ncrushed him by a load of unavailing care and sorrow.  How many\nseasons had passed over that dark and vaulted solitude during which\nhis pained and weary eyes had never met a friendly smile, or his ear\nwelcomed a kindly greeting.\n\nEight-and-twenty summers had bloomed and withered, and eight-and\ntwenty winters had spread their snows upon the hills!  In that long\nspace of time, how many had been wedded and given in marriage, or\nbeen laid in their last homes?--how many of the brave and good, the\nnoble and the beautiful, had gone to \"the Land of the Leal,\" where\nthere is no dawning or gloaming, where the sun shines for ever, and\nthe flowers never die!\n\nFor eight-and-twenty years all the pulses of life had seemed to stand\nstill; and now, under their changed aspect and character, and\nignorant of each other's presence, Lucy Fleming and Adam White stood\nwithin the same apartment, without a glance of recognition.  Weak,\ntottering, and frail, White was placed in a chair, and the countess\nbrought wine to him from a side table.  His aspect was that of a\ndying man; her eyes were full of pity, and her daughters wept to see\nthis poor old man, whose wandering faculties were awaking to a new\nexistence after the long and dreamless sleep of eight-and-twenty\nyears, and to whom the upper air, the blessed sunshine, and the\ntwitter of the happy birds, were all as strange and new as if he had\nnever known them.\n\n\"Your name, monsieur le prisonnier?\" asked her husband, coldly, and\nwith averted eye.\n\n\"Adam White--yes, yes--I am sure it was so--Adam White; once a major\nin the 42nd Regiment of his Britannic Majesty George II.,\" he\nreplied, with great difficulty and long pauses.\n\n\"George II. has been dead these twenty-eight years, sir,\" replied the\nDuke of Dorset, kindly placing an arm upon his shoulder, while, with\noutspread hands and eyes dilated with terror, the countess started\nback as if a spectre had risen before her.\n\n\"Dead! dead!\" muttered the major.  \"I too have been dead, I\nthink--and who now is on the throne?\"\n\n\"His grandson, George III.\"\n\n\"Know you the crime for which you were arrested, monsieur?\" asked the\ncount, who did not seem to notice the agitation of the countess.\n\nThe sunken eyes of Major White flashed, but the emotion died at once,\nfor his heart seemed broken and his spirit crushed.\n\n\"Crime!\" said he; \"I was wounded and taken in the assault on\nTiconderoga by the Comte de Montmorin.\"\n\n\"I commanded there, and I am he.\"\n\n\"This was thirty-one years ago--my God! oh, my God!\"\n\n\"Be calm, dear sir,\" said the Duke of Dorset.\n\n\"And you have been all that time in the Bastille?\"\n\n\"Yes, monseigneur.\"\n\n\"Horrible!\" exclaimed the duke.\n\n\"You were arrested\"--\n\n\"One night in the streets of Paris, near the Port St. Antoine, when I\nwas at liberty upon parole, as a prisoner of war.\"\n\n\"When was this?\"\n\n\"In 1761--three years after Ticonderoga.\"\n\n\"Ah, we had peace with Britain in 1768,\" said the count, averting his\neyes, and endeavouring to assume a composure which he did not feel\nunder the keen scrutiny of Dorset's eye.  \"And so we meet\nagain--fortune has cast us together once more.\"\n\n\"Fortune--say rather fatality,\" replied White, as some old memory\nshook his withered heart.\n\n\"Did you ever hear how or why you were arrested?\"\n\n\"Once, and once only--I was told--I was told that it was on the\nauthority of a _lettre de cachet_, filled up by King Louis in the\nname of the Comte de Montmorin.\"\n\n\"It is an infamous falsehood!\" exclaimed the count, passionately.\n\n\"Perhaps so,\" sighed White, meekly; \"the man who told me so has been\ndead twenty-three years.\"\n\n\"And this arrest was\"--\n\n\"On the anniversary of Ticonderoga--the night of the 15th of July,\n1761.\"\n\n\"The 15th of July!\" exclaimed the countess, wildly, and in a piercing\nvoice; \"on the morning of that very day my desk was rifled of your\nletters, and your miniature, Adam White!--O my friend--I see it\nall--I see this horrible mystery!\"\n\nWhite turned his hollow eyes and haggard visage towards her in\nwonder.  He passed a hand repeatedly across his eyes, as if to clear\nhis thoughts, then shook his white head, and relapsed into dreamy\nvacancy.  After a painful pause, \"That voice,\" said he, \"is like one\nwhich used to come to me often--very often--in the Bastille; in my\ndreams it used to mingle with the rustle of the straw I slept on.\"\n\nHe smiled with so ghastly an expression that the Duke of Dorset grew\npale with anger and compassion.  He had gleaned from White the story\nof his life, and discovered in a moment that the countess was the\nLucy Fleming of his early love; and that the count, on discovering\nthe wounded and long-missing major to be in Paris in 1761, to\npreclude all chance of the lovers ever meeting again, had consigned\nhim to the Bastille, there to be detained for life, as it was termed\n\"IN SECRET.\"\n\n\"Monseigneur,\" said he, sternly, \"I see a clue to this dark story;\nand believe me, that the king, whom I have the honour to represent,\nwill take sure vengeance for this act of more than Italian jealousy,\nand for an atrocity which cannot be surpassed in the annals of yonder\naccursed edifice, which the mob of yesterday have happily hurled to\nthe earth.\"\n\nWith these words he retired, taking with him Adam White, who seemed\nreduced to mere childhood, for recollection and animation came upon\nhim only by gleams and at unexpected times.  As they withdrew, the\ncountess turned away in horror from her husband, and fainted in the\narms of her terrified daughters.\n\nThe inquiry threatened by our ambassador was never made.  Paris was\nthen convulsed, and France was trembling on the brink of anarchy,\neven as the weak Louis trembled on his crumbling throne.  The\nexertions of his Grace of Dorset to unravel more of the mystery, and\nthe fears of the Comte de Montmorin, were alike futile, for next\nmorning the poor major was found dead in his bed.  He had expired in\nthe night.  The sudden revulsion of feeling produced by a release,\nafter so many years of blank captivity, had proved too much for his\nweak frame and shattered constitution.  He was buried in the church\nof St. Germain de Prez; and when Oswald's sans-culottes lifted the\ndead man from the bed, to lay him in the humble shell provided by the\ncur\u00e9 of the parish, there dropped from his breast a locket It\ncontained a miniature and a withered tress of black hair--the last\nmementoes left to him of all that he had loved in the pleasant days\nof youth and hope, and prized beyond even blessed hope itself, in the\nsolitude and horror of the long years that had followed Ticonderoga.\nThe ruffians who had desecrated the regal sepulchres of St. Denis\nrespected the heritage of the dead soldier, so that the locket was\nburied with him; and there, in the ancient church of St. Germain,\nOswald, the political enthusiast, interred his old and long-lost\ncomrade with all the honours of war.\n\nThe stone which was erected in the church, and of which I have given\nthe brief inscription, is said, traditionally, to have been the gift\nof a lady--who, need scarcely be mentioned.  How long this lady and\nthe count her husband survived the disclosures consequent to the\ndestruction of the Bastille, I have no means of knowing; but French\nhistory has recorded the fate of Jack Oswald.\n\nHis two sons left Edinburgh and joined him at Paris, where, to\nillustrate the complete system of equality and fraternity, he made\nthem both drummers in his regiment, among the soldiers of which his\nsevere discipline soon rendered him unpopular; and on his attempting\nto substitute pikes for muskets, the whole battalion refused to obey,\nand then officers and men broke out into open mutiny.\n\n\"Colonel Oswald's corps,\" continues the editor of the \"Scottish\nBiographical Dictionary,\" \"was one of the first employed against the\nroyalists in La Vend\u00e9e, where he was killed in battle.  It is said\nthat his men took advantage of the occasion to rid themselves of\ntheir obnoxious commander, and to despatch also his two sons, and an\nEnglish gentleman who was serving in his regiment.\"\n\nAnd thus ends another legend of the Black Watch.\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\nADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN GRANT.\n\nColquhoun Grant, a captain of one of our battalion companies during\nthe Peninsular war, was a hardy, active, strong, and handsome\nHighlander, from the wooded mountains that overlook Strathspey.\nInured from childhood to the hardships and activity incidental to a\nlife in the country of the clans, where the care of vast herds of\nsheep and cattle, or the pursuit of the wild deer from rock to rock,\nand from hill to hill, are the chief occupations of the people;--a\ndeadly shot with either musket or pistol, and a complete swordsman,\nhe was every way calculated to become an ornament to our regiment and\nto the service.  General Sir William Napier, in the fourth volume of\nhis \"History of the Peninsular War,\" writes of him as \"Colquhoun\nGrant, that celebrated scouting officer, in whom the utmost _daring_\nwas so mixed with subtlety of genius, and both so tempered by\n_discretion_, that it is difficult to say which quality predominated.\"\n\nIn the spring of 1812, when Lord Wellington crossed the Tagus, and\nentered Castello Branco, rendering the position of Marshal Marmont so\nperilous that he retired across the Agueda, by which the general of\nthe allies, though his forces were spread over a vast extent of\ncantonments, was enabled to victual the fortresses of Ciudad Rodrigo\nand Almieda, the 42nd, or old Black Watch, were with the division of\nLieutenant-General Grahame, of Lynedoch.  The service battalion\nconsisted of 1160 rank and file, and notwithstanding the fatigues of\nmarching by day and night, of fording rivers above the waist-belt,\nand all those arduous operations by which Wellington so completely\nbaffled and out-generalled Marmont in all his attempts to attack\nRodrigo--movements in which the sagacity of the \"Iron Duke\" appeared\nso remarkable, that a brave old Highland officer (General Stewart of\nGarth) declared his belief that their leader had the _second\nsight_,--not a man of our regiment straggled or fell to the rear,\nfrom hunger, weariness, or exhaustion; all were with the colours when\nthe roll was called in the morning.\n\nThe information that enabled Wellington to execute those skilful\nmanoeuvres which dazzled all Europe, and confounded, while they\nbaffled, the French marshal, was supplied from time to time by\nColquhoun Grant, who, accompanied by Domingo de Leon, a Spanish\npeasant, had the boldness to remain in rear of the enemy's lines,\nwatching all their operations, and noting their numbers; and it is a\nremarkable fact that while on this most dangerous service he\nconstantly wore _the Highland uniform, with his bonnet and\nepaulettes_; thus, while acting as a scout, freeing himself from the\naccusation of being in any way a spy, \"for,\" adds Napier, \"he never\nwould assume any disguise, and yet frequently remained for three days\nconcealed in the midst of Marmont's camp.\"\n\nHence the secret of Wellington's facility for circumventing Marmont\nwas the information derived from Colquhoun Grant; and the secret of\nGrant's ability for baffling the thousand snares laid for him by the\nFrench, was simply that he had a Spanish love, who watched over his\nsafety with all a woman's wit, and the idolatry of a Spanish woman,\nwho, when she loves, sees but _one_ man in the world--the object of\nher passion.\n\nWhen Marmont was advancing, Wellington despatched Captain Grant to\nwatch his operations \"in the heart of the French army,\" and from\namong its soldiers to glean whether they really had an intention of\nsuccouring the garrison of Ciudad Rodrigo--a desperate duty, which,\nlike many others, our hero undertook without delay or doubt.\n\nThus, on an evening in February, Grant found himself on a solitary\nmountain of Leon, overlooking the vast plain of Salamanca, on the\nnumerous spires and towers of which the light of eve was fading,\nwhile the gilded vanes of the cathedral shone like stars in the deep\nblue sky that was darkening as the sun set behind the hills; and one\nof those hot dry days peculiar to the province gave place to a dewy\ntwilight, when the Tormes, which rises among the mountains of\nSalamanca, and washes the base of the triple bill on which the city\nstands, grew white and pale, as it wandered through plains dotted by\nherds of Merino sheep, but destitute of trees, until it vanished on\nits course towards the Douro, on the frontiers of Portugal.\n\nExhausted by a long ride from Lord Wellington's head-quarters, and by\nnumerous efforts he had made to repass the cordon of picquets and\npatrols by which the French--now on his track--had environed him,\nGrant lay buried in deep sleep, under the shade of some olive-trees,\nwith a brace of pistols in his belt, his claymore by his side, and\nhis head resting in the lap of a beautiful Spanish peasant girl,\nJuanna, the sister of his faithful Leon, a warm-hearted, brave, and\naffectionate being, who, like her brother, had attached herself to\nthe favourite scouting officer of Wellington, and, full of admiration\nfor his adventurous spirit, handsome figure, and winning manner,\nloved him with all the ardour, romance, and depth of which a Spanish\ngirl of eighteen is capable.\n\nJuanna de Leon and her brother Domingo were the children of a wealthy\nfarmer and vine-dresser, who dwelt on the mountainous range known as\nthe Puerto del Pico, which lies southward of Salamanca; but the vines\nhad been destroyed, the _granja_ burned, and the poor old\nagriculturist was bayonetted on his hearthstone by some Voltigeurs of\nMarmont, under a Lieutenant Armand, when on a foraging expedition.\nThus Juanna and her brother were alike homeless and kinless.\n\nThe girl was beautiful.  Youth lent to her somewhat olive-tinted\ncheek a ruddy glow that enhanced the dusky splendour of her Spanish\neyes; her lashes were long; her mouth small, and like a cherry; her\nchin dimpled; her hands were faultless, as were her ankles, which\nwere cased in prettily embroidered red stockings, and gilt zapatas.\nWith all these attractions she had a thousand winning ways, such as\nonly a girl of Leon can possess.  Close by lay the guitar and\ncastanets with which she played and sung her weary lover to sleep.\n\nHer brother was handsome, athletic, and resolute, in eye and bearing;\nbut since the destruction of their house, he had become rather fierce\nand morose, as hatred of the invading French and a thirst for\nvengeance were ever uppermost in his mind.  He had relinquished the\nvine-bill for the musket; his yellow sash bristled with pistols and\ndaggers; and with heaven for his roof, and his brown Spanish mantle\nfor a couch, he had betaken himself to the mountains, where he shot\nwithout mercy every straggling Frenchman who came within reach of his\nterrible aim.\n\nWhile Grant slept, the tinkling of the vesper bells was borne across\nthe valley, the sunlight died away over the mountains, and the\nwinding Tormes, that shone like the coils of a vast snake, faded from\nthe plain.  The Spanish girl stooped and kissed her toil-worn lover's\ncheek, and bent her keen dark eyes upon the mountain path by which\nshe seemed to expect a visitor.\n\nOne arm was thrown around the curly head of the sleeper, and her\nfingers told her beads as she prayed over him; but her prayers were\n_not_ for herself.\n\nInnocent and single-hearted Juanna!\n\nSuddenly there was a sound of footsteps, and a handsome young\nSpaniard, wearing a brown capa gathered over his arm, shouldering a\nlong musket to which a leather sling was attached, and having his\ncoal black hair gathered behind in a red silk net, sprang up the\nrocks towards the olive-grove, and approached Juanna and the sleeper.\nThe new comer was her brother.\n\n\"Domingo, your tidings?\" she asked, breathlessly.\n\n\"They are evil; so wake your Senor Capitano without delay.\"\n\n\"I am awake,\" said Grant, rising at the sound of his voice.  \"Thanks,\ndearest Juanna; have I been so cruel as to keep you here in the cold\ndew--and watching me, too?\"\n\n\"Caro mio!\"\n\n\"It _was_ cruel of me; but I have been so weary that nature was quite\novercome.  And now, Domingo, my _bueno camarado_, for your tidings?\"\n\n\"I would speak first of the Marshal Marmont.\"\n\n\"And then?\"\n\n\"Of yourself, senor.\"\n\n\"Bravo! let us have the Marshal first, by all means.\"\n\n\"I have been down the valley, and across the plain, almost to the\ngates of Salamanca,\" said the young paisano, leaning on his musket,\nand surveying, first, his sister with tender interest, and then,\nGrant with a dubious and anxious expression, for he loved him too,\nbut trembled for the sequel to the stranger's passion for the\nbeautiful Juanna.  \"I have been round the vicinity of the city from\nMonte Rubio and Villares to the bridge of Santa Marta on the Tormes--\"\n\n\"And you have learned?' said Grant, impetuously.\n\n\"That scaling-ladders have been prepared in great numbers, for I saw\nthem.  Vast quantities of provision and ammunition on mules have been\nbrought from the Pyrenees, and Marmont is sending\neverything--ladders, powder, and bread--towards--\"\n\n\"Not Ciudad Rodrigo and Almieda.\"\n\n\"Si, senor.\"\n\n\"The devil!  You are sure of this?\"\n\n\"I counted twenty scaling-ladders, each five feet wide, and reckoned\nforty mules, each bearing fourteen casks of ball cartridges.\"\n\n\"Good--I thank you, Domingo,\" said Grant, taking paper from a\npocket-book, and making a hasty note or memorandum for Lord\nWellington.\n\n\"Ay--Dios mi terra!\" said Juanna, with a soft sigh, as she dropped\nher head upon Grant's shoulder, and Domingo kissed her brow.\n\n\"Now, where is Manrico el Barbado?\" asked the captain, as he securely\ngummed the secret note.\n\n\"Within call,\" said Domingo, giving a shrill whistle.\n\nA sound like the whirr of a partridge replied, and then a strong and\nferocious-looking peasant, bare legged, and bare necked, with an\nenormous black beard (whence came his soubriquet of _el Barbado_),\nsprang up the rocks and made a profound salute to Grant, who was\nbeloved and adored by all the guerillas, banditti, and wild spirits\nwhom the French had unhoused and driven to the mountains; and among\nthese his name was a proverb for all that was gallant, reckless, and\nchivalresque.\n\n\"Is your mule in good condition, Manrico?\"\n\n\"He was never better, senor.\"\n\n\"Then ride with _this_ to Lord Wellington; spare neither whip nor\nspur, and he will repay you handsomely.\"\n\n\"And how about yourself, senor?\"\n\n\"Say to his lordship that I will rejoin him as early and as I best\nmay.\"\n\nThe Spanish scout concealed the note in _his beard_ with great\ningenuity, and knowing well that he could thus pass the French lines\nwith confidence, and defy all search, he departed on his journey to\nthe British head-quarters; and the information thus received from\nGrant enabled the leader of the allies to take such measures as\ncompletely to outflank Marmont, and baffle his attempts upon Almieda\nand the city of Rodrigo.\n\n\"So much for my friend Marmont,\" said Grant, \"and now, Domingo, for\n_myself_.\"\n\n\"Read this,\" said Domingo, handing to him a document; \"I stabbed the\nFrench sentinel at the bridge of Santa Marta, and tore this paper\nfrom the guard-house door.\"\n\nIt proved to be a copy of a General Order, addressed by Marmont to\nthe colonels of the French regiments, \"saying\" (to quote General\nNapier) \"that the notorious Grant, being within the circle of their\ncantonments, the soldiers were to use their utmost exertions to\nsecure him; for which purpose guards were also to be placed, as it\nwere, in a circle round the army.\"\n\n\"Caro mio, read this to me,\" whispered Juanna.\n\nHe translated it, and terror filled the dilating eyes of the Spanish\ngirl; her breath came thick and fast, and she crept closer to the\nbreast of her lover, who smiled and kissed her cheek to reassure her.\n\n\"Have you closely examined all the country?\" he asked Domingo.\n\n\"I have, senor.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"There is but _one_ way back to Lord Wellington's head-quarters.\"\n\n\"And that is--\"\n\n\"At the ford of Huerta on the Tormes.\"\n\n\"Six miles below Salamanca?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I will cross the ford, then.\"\n\n\"But a French battalion occupies the town.\"\n\n\"I care not if ten battalions occupied it--_I must even ride the ford\nas I find it_; 'tis a saying in my country, Domingo, where I hope our\ndear Juanna will one day smile with me, when we talk of sunny Spain\nand these wild adventures.\"\n\n\"No--no--you will never leave Spain,\" said Juanna, with a merry\nsmile.  \"Your poor Spanish girl could never go to the land of the\nInglesos, where the sun shines but once in a year--not once every\nday, as it does here in beautiful Leon: but say no more of this, or I\nshall sing _Ya no quiero amores_,\" &c., and, taking up her guitar,\nshe sang with a winning drollery of expression which made her piquant\nloveliness a thousand times more striking:--\n\n \"My love no more to England--to England now shall roam,\n  For I have a better, fonder love--a truer love at home!\n          If I should visit England,\n            I hope to find them true;\n          For a love like mine deserves a wreath!\n            Green and immortal too!\n  But, O! they are proud, those English dames, to all who thither\n      roam,\n  And I have a better, dearer love--a truer love at home!\"\n\n\n\"You have _me_, Juanna--dearest Juanna!\" exclaimed Grant, tenderly,\nas he kissed her.\n\n\"And now for Huerta,\" said Domingo, slapping the butt of his musket\nimpatiently; \"the moon be above the Pico del Puerto in half an\nhour--vaya--let us begone.\"\n\nGrant placed Juanna on the saddle of his horse, a fine, fleet, and\nactive jennet presented to him by Lord Wellington, and led it by the\nbridle, while Domingo slung his musket, and followed thoughtfully\nbehind, as they descended the hill with the intention of seeking the\nbanks of the Tormes; but making a wide detour towards the ford.  The\nmoon was shining on the river when they came in sight of Huerta, a\nsmall village, through which passes the road from Salamanca to\nMadrid.  A red glow at times shot from its tile works, showing the\noutlines of the flat-roofed cottages, and wavering on the\nolive-groves that overhung the river, which was here crossed by the\nford.  While Grant and Juanna remained concealed in a thicket of\norange-trees in sight of Huerta, Domingo, whose godfather was a\ntile-burner in the town, went forward to reconnoitre and make\ninquiries; and in less than twenty minutes he returned with a gloomy\nbrow and excited eye.\n\n\"Well, Domingo, what news?\" asked Grant, on whose shoulder the head\nof Juanna was drooping, for she was nearly overcome by sleep and\nfatigue.\n\n\"I have still evil news, Senor.\"\n\n\"Indeed.\"\n\n\"The French battalion occupies Huerta, and the main street is full of\nsoldiers.  Guards are placed at each end, and cavalry videttes are\nposted in a line along the river, patrolling constantly backwards and\nforwards, for the space of three hundred yards, and two of these\nvidettes meet always _at the ford_, consequently, be assured, they\nknow that you are on _this_ side of the Tormes.\"\n\n\"The deuce!\" muttered Grant, biting his lips.  \"M. le Mar\u00e9chal\nMarmont is determined to take me this time, I fear; but I _will_\ncross the ford, Domingo, in the face of the enemy too!  Better die a\nsoldier's death under their fire, than fall alive into their hands.\"\n\n\"A soldier's death, and a sudden one, is sure to follow, Senor\nCapitano,\" added Domingo, gloomily, and poor Grant was not without\nanxiety for the issue.  He thought of Juanna, and some recollection\nof the ignominious fate of the gallant Major Andr\u00e9, when found beyond\nthe American lines, under similar circumstances, may have flashed\nupon his memory.\n\n\"Do not weep, Juanna,\" said he to the Spanish girl, who strove to\ndissuade him from attempting the ford; \"your tears only distress and\nunman me, when all my courage is wanted.\"\n\n\"Caro mio, if you love me, stay, for you cannot deceive me as to the\nperil--it is great--and if taken, what mercy can you expect from\nMarshal Marmont?\"\n\n\"But I will _never_ be taken, alive at least,\" responded the\nHighlander, with a fierce and sorrowful embrace; \"'tis better to die\nthan be taken, and perhaps have the uniform I wear--the uniform of\nthe old Black Watch--disgraced by a death at the hands of a provost\nmarshal.\"\n\nThe young Spanish girl caught the fiery enthusiasm of her lover, and\nnerved herself for the struggle, and for their consequent separation;\nbut Domingo had once more to examine the ground and so many points\nwere to be considered, that day began to brighten on the Pico del\nPuerto and the Sierras of Gredos and Gata, before Grant mounted his\nhorse; and by that time, the French drums had beaten _reveille_, and\nthe whole battalion was under arms at its alarm-post, a greensward\nbehind the tile-works.  Juanna and her lover parted with promises of\nmutual regard and remembrance until they met again.\n\n\"When will it be--oh, when will it be?\" she moaned.\n\n\"In God's appointed time--quando Dios sera servido,\" replied Grant.\n\"Farewell, Juanna mio, a thousand kisses and adieux to you.\"\n\n\"Bueno--away!\" said Domingo, taking Grant's horse by the\nbridle--\"away before day is quite broken!\"\n\nAs they hurried off, Juanna threw herself on her knees in the\nthicket, and prayed to God and Madonna for her lover.  She covered\nher beautiful head with that thick mantle usually worn by the women\nof Leon, to shut out every sound; but lo! there came a loud, yet\ndistinct shout from the river's bank, and then a confused discharge\nof firearms that rang sharply in the clear morning air.\n\n\"O Madonna mia!\" exclaimed the Spanish girl, and with a shriek she\nthrew herself upon her face among the grass.\n\nMeanwhile Grant had proceeded in rear of the tile-works, close by\nwhere the French regiment was paraded in close column at quarter\ndistance, and so near was he, that he could hear the sergeants of\ncompanies calling the roll; but a group of peasants assembled by\nDomingo, remained around his horse, with their broad sombreros and\nbrown cloaks, to conceal it from the French, along _whose front_ he\nhad to pass to reach the ford.  From the gable of a cottage, he had a\nfull view of the latter--the Tormes brawling over its bed of rocks\nand pebbles, with the open plain that lay beyond, and the two French\nvidettes, helmeted and cloaked, with carbine on thigh, patrolling to\nand fro, to the distance of three hundred yards apart, but meeting at\nthe ford.\n\n\"Their figures seem dark and indistinct, in the starry light of the\nmorning,\" said Grant.\n\n\"But we know them to be dragoons,\" said Domingo.\n\n\"Si, senores,\" added the brother of Manrico el Barbado; \"from this\nyou may perceive that their helmets and horses are afrancesado.\"\n\n\"Frenchified--yes; now when I whistle, let go my horse's head, and do\nyou, my good friends in front, withdraw to give me space, for now the\nvidettes are about to part, and I must make at dash at it!\"\n\nAt the moment when the patrols were separated to their fullest\nextent, and each was one hundred and fifty yards from the ford, Grant\ndashed spurs into his horse, and with his sword in his teeth and a\ncocked pistol in each hand, crossed the river by three furious bounds\nof his horse.  Receiving without damage the fire of both carbines, he\nreplied with his pistols, giving each of the dragoons a flying-shot\nto the rear, but without injuring either of them.  There was an\ninstantaneous and keen pursuit; but he completely baffled it by his\ngreat knowledge of the country, and reached a cork-wood in safety,\nwhere he was soon joined by Domingo de Leon, who, being attired as a\npeasant, and unknown to the French, was permitted to pass their lines\nunquestioned.\n\nMarmont's rage on Grant's escape was great; the sentinels at the ford\nwere severely punished, and the officer commanding the regiment in\nHuerta was deprived of his cross of the Legion of Honour.  Grant was\nnot satisfied with the extent of his observations, for he became\ndesirous of furnishing Lord Wellington with still further\nintelligence.\n\nFrom the conversations of French officers whom he had overheard, he\nmade ample notes, and proved that means to storm Ciudad Rodrigo were\nprepared; but he was resolved to judge for himself of the direction\nin which Marmont meant to move, and also to see his whole division on\nthe line of march.  For this purpose he daringly concealed himself\namong some coppice on the brow of a hill near the secluded village of\nTamames, which is celebrated for its mineral springs, and lies\nthirty-two miles south-west of Salamanca.  There he sat, note-book in\nhand, with Leon, smoking a cigar, and lounging on the grass, while\nhis jennet, unbitted, was quietly grazing close by, and the whole of\nMarmont's brilliant division, cuirassiers, lancers, infantry,\nartillery, and voltigeurs defiled with drums beating, tricolours\nwaving, ana eagles glittering through the pass below; and Grant's\nskilful eye counted every cannon and reckoned over every horse and\nman, with a correctness which astonished even Lord Wellington.  The\nmoment the rear-guard had passed, he mounted, and although in his\nuniform, rode boldly into the village of Tamames, where he found all\nthe scaling ladders left behind.  With tidings of this fact, and the\nstrength of Marmont's army, he at once despatched a letter to\nWellington, by Manrico el Barbado, who, as before, concealed it under\nhis nether-jaw; and this letter, which informed the allies that the\npreparations to storm Rodrigo were, after all, a pompous _feint_,\nallayed their leader's fear for that fortress, and to Marmont's\ninexpressible annoyance, enabled him to turn attention to other\nquarters.\n\nFearless, indefatigable, and undeterred by the dangers he had\nundergone, Grant _preceded_ Marmont (when that officer passed the\nCoa) and resolved to discover whether his march would be by the duchy\nof Guarda upon Coimbra, the land of Olives; or by the small frontier\ntown of Sabugal, upon Castello Branco, which stands upon the Lira, a\ntributary of the Tagus, and still displays the ruins of the Roman\nAlbicastrum from which it takes its name.\n\nCastello Branco is a good military position; but to reach it, a\ndescent was necessary from one of those lofty sierras that run along\nthe frontier of Portuguese Estramadura, and are jagged by bare and\nsunburned rocks, or dotted by stunted laurel bushes.  From thence, he\ntraversed a pass, at the lower end of which stands the town of\nPenamacor in the province of Beira, thirty-six miles north-east of\nCastello Branco.  There, our adventurous Highlander, accompanied by\nManrico el Barbado and the faithful Domingo de Leon, concealed\nhimself in a thicket of dwarf-oaks; and there a very remarkable\nadventure occurred to him, while waiting the approach of the French,\nwhose advanced guard he hourly expected to see in the dark mountain\npass below.  Their horses were beside them.\n\nWrapped in their cloaks, the captain and his two Spanish comrades,\nafter a supper of broiled eggs--_huevoa estrallodoa_--sat by a fire\nof leaves and withered branches, and after sharing a bottle of vino\nde Alicant, composed themselves to sleep--a state of oblivion soon\nobtained by the two sturdy paisanos; but Grant remained unusually\nrestless, thoughtful and awake.  His mind was full of other times and\npast events--of distant scenes and old familiar faces.  He thought of\nhis home, of the regiment, and of Joanna, whom he had left at Huerta;\nand as the red sunset deepened into night upon that lofty mass of\nrock which is washed by the Eljas and crowned by the picturesque\nhouses, the strong fortifications, and the three churches of\nPenamacor, the light and shadow blended into one, and darkness came\nbroadly and steadily on; then a strange and mysterious sensation of\nsadness stole over him--a solemn melancholy which he strove in vain\nto account for and dispel.\n\nAt last, when about to drop asleep, about ten o'clock, he started up,\nfor a broad blaze of light illumined all the citadel of Penamacor.\nHe saw its solid ramparts and the sharp spires of its three churches\nstanding in black and bold relief against the unwonted glow that\nfilled the sky above the city; he heard the clanging of an\nalarm-bell, the hum of voices, and the tread of feet, as two vast and\ndark columns of infantry debouched from the pass and began to descend\nthe mountains towards the bridge of the Eljas.\n\n\"The enemy--the enemy!\" ne exclaimed.  \"Up, up, Domingo--Manrico,\nawake!\"\n\nRoused by his voice they sprang to his side; but lo! at that moment,\nthe fight faded away from the citadel; the sounds of the alarm-bell,\nthe hum of distant voices, and tread of marching feet died away; the\ncolumns vanished, and the hollow way from the pass to the river was\nlonely and silent as before, in the clear light of the star-studded\nsky!\n\nOf all these alarming sights and sounds, Manrico and Domingo had seen\nand heard nothing!\n\n\"It was a dream!\" said Grant, as he threw himself on the sward in\nalarm and perplexity, while his heart beat wildly and strangely--and\nfor the remainder of that night sleep never closed his eyes.  The\nthree wanderers passed the whole of the next day lurking in the oak\nwoods that overhang the pass of Penamacor, and Domingo, who, after\nsunset, ventured into the town for some provisions for supper,\nreturned to say that no lights had been burned, and no alarm had been\ngiven last night, as _no_ fear was entertained of the approach of\nMarmont.\n\nNight again drew on, and the three companions were all alike watchful\nand awake.\n\nThe hour of ten began to toll from the bells of Penamacor.  At the\nfirst stroke Grant felt a nervous sensation thrill over his whole\nbody, while the same solemn melancholy of the same time last night\nagain weighed down his heart.\n\nAt the tenth stroke, lo! a brilliant light flashed across the sky.\nIt shot upward from the citadel of Penamacor!  Again, as before, the\ncrenelated battlements and the sharp spires of the three churches\nstood darkly out from the blaze, which was streaked by the ascent of\nhissing rockets; again the alarm-bell sent its iron clangour on the\nwind, but mingled with the boom of cannon; again came the hum of\nvoices, and again two dark and shadowy columns debouched from the\nblack jaws of the mountain gorge and descended towards the bridge of\nthe Eljas; but this time there came horse and artillery; the uplifted\nlances and the fixed bayonets gleamed back the starlight, while the\nrumble of the shot-laden tumbrils rang in the echoing valley.\n\n\"Madre de Dios! the enemy!\" exclaimed the two Spaniards, starting to\ntheir muskets.\n\n\"What! do you, too, see all this?\" exclaimed Grant, wildly, as he\nsmote his forehead; for now he had begun to distrust the evidence of\nhis own senses, and a horror that these mysterious visions, known in\nScotland as _the second sight_, were about to haunt him, made his\nhead reel.\n\n\"See them--yes, senor, plain as if 'twas day,\" said Domingo.\n\n\"O! senor capitano, 'tis the French--the French! the ladrones los\nperros!\" exclaimed Manrico, rashly firing his musket at three or four\nsoldiers, whose outline, with shako and knapsack, appeared on a\nlittle ridge close by.  Four muskets, discharged at random, replied,\nand in a moment the three scouts found themselves fighting hand to\nhand with a mob of active little French voltigeurs.\n\nThe latter recognised the Highland uniform of Grant, and finding him\nwith two Spaniards, knew him at once to be the famous scouting\nofficer, for whose arrest, dead or alive, Marmont had offered such a\nprincely reward, and uttering loud shouts, they pressed upon him with\nbayonets fixed, and muskets clubbed.\n\nStrong, active, and fearless, he hewed them down with his claymore on\nall sides.  He shot two with his pistols, and then hurled the empty\nweapons at the heads of others, and, with Leon, succeeded in mounting\nand galloping off; but Manrico was beaten down, and left insensible\non the mountain side.\n\n\"Grant and his follower,\" says General Napier, \"darted into the wood\nfor a little space, and then, suddenly wheeling, rode off in\ndifferent directions; but at every turn new enemies appeared, and at\nlast the hunted men, dismounting, fled on foot, through the thickest\npart of the low oaks, until they were again met by infantry detached\nin small parties down the sides of the pass, and directed in their\nchase by the waving of the French officers' hats on the ridge above.\n(Day had now broken.)  Leon fell exhausted, and the barbarians who\nfirst came up killed him, in spite of his companion's entreaties.\"\n\n\"My poor Juanna, what will now become of you?\" exclaimed Grant, on\nseeing his faithful Domingo expiring under the reeking bayonets of\nthe voltigeure; and now, totally incapable of further resistance, he\ngave up his sword to an officer, who protected him from the fury of\nhis captors.  He was at last a prisoner!\n\nA few days after this, Manrico, covered with wounds and with one arm\nin a sling, appeared sorrowfully before Lord Wellington, to announce\nthat Grant, \"el valoroso capitano,\" had been taken, after a desperate\nconflict in the pass of Penamacor.  Lord Wellington was greatly\nconcerned for the safety of his favourite officer, and the greatest\nexcitement prevailed in the ranks of his regiment, for Colquhoun\nGrant was well beloved by the soldiers of the Black Watch.  To the\nguerilla chiefs Wellington offered a thousand dollars for the rescue\nof Grant, and his letters proclaiming this reward were borne by\nManrico and the broken-hearted Juanna through some of the wildest and\nmost dangerous parts of the frontier; but Marmont took his measures\ntoo well, and kept his valuable prisoner too securely guarded, for\nrescue or escape to be thought of.\n\nThe officer who had captured him, M. Armand, was a young\nsous-lieutenant of the 3rd Voltigeurs (the same who had destroyed the\n_granja_ of Leon the farmer); but he had a heart that would have done\nhonour to a marshal of the empire; and, with all kindness and\nrespect, he conducted him to the quarters of the Marshal Duc de\nRaguse.\n\nThe latter invited the captive to dinner, and chatted with him in a\nfriendly way about his bold and remarkable adventures, saying that he\n(Marmont) had been long on the watch for him; that he knew his\ncompanions, Manrico the Bearded, Leon and his sister Juanna (here\nGrant trembled), and that all his haunts and disguises were known too.\n\n\"Disguises--pardon mi, M. le Mar\u00e9chal,\" said Grant,\nwarmly--\"disguises are worn by spies; I have never worn other dress\nthan the uniform and tartan of my regiment.\"\n\n\"Vrai Dieu! the bolder fellow you!\" exclaimed the Duc de Ragose.\n\"You are aware that I might hang you; but I love a brave spirit, and\nshall only exact from you a special parole, that you will not\n_consent_ to be released by any partida or guerilla chief on your\njourney between this and France.\"\n\n\"Monseigneur le Duc, the exaction of this parole is the greatest\ncompliment you can pay me,\" replied Grant, who, on finding matters\ndesperate, gave his word of honour, and was next day sent towards the\nPyrenees with a French guard, under M. Armand, his captor.  Grant,\nwithout suspicion, was bearer of a treacherous letter to the Governor\nof Bayonne, in which he was designated by Marmont \"a treacherous\n_spy_, who had done infinite mischief to the French army, and who was\nnot executed on the spot out of respect for _something resembling a\nuniform_ (_i.e._, the Scottish dress) which he wore; but he (Marmont)\ndesired that at Bayonne Grant should be placed IN IRONS, and sent up\nto Paris.\"  (_Peninsular War_, vol. iv.)\n\nOn the first night of his march to the rear, M. Armand halted in a\ngrove of cork and beech-trees, within a mile of Medellin, on the\nQuadiana--the birth-place of Cortes, the conqueror of Mexico; but as\na guerilla chief with 5000 desperadoes held possession of the town\nand bridge, our lieutenant of Voltigeurs, with his prisoner and\nescort, were forced to content themselves with such shelter as the\nlight foliage of the wood afforded.\n\nThe night was pitchy dark; the blackness that involved the sky, the\nmountains, the vale through which the Guadiana wound, and the wood\nwhere our travellers bivouacked, was palpable, painful, and\noppressive; but at times it was varied by the red sheet lightning\nwhich shot across the southern quarter of the sky, revealing the\nlofty Sierra, whose sharp peaks arose afar off like the waves of a\nblack sea, and the stems and foliage of the cork and beech-trees in\nthe foreground.\n\nOn this night occurred the most horrible episode of Grant's military\nadventures.\n\nAfter having drained their canteens of Lisbon wine, and discussed\ntheir ration of cold beef and commissariat biscuit, Grant and Armand,\nthe voltigeur, lay down fraternally side by side in their cloaks to\nrepose; their escort lay close by, long since asleep; for Grant had\ngiven his parole that he \"would not attempt to escape,\" and such were\ntheir ideas of military honour and value for a soldier's word, that\nthese brave Frenchmen never doubted him.\n\nJust as the two officers were about to sleep, they became aware of\nvarious cold and dewy drops, or clammy creeping things, that\ncontinued to fall upon them from the beech trees overhead.\n\n\"Sangbleu!\" exclaimed the lieutenant of Voltigeurs; \"we are all over\ncreepers or cockroaches, and they drop like rain from this old beech\nupon us.\"\n\n\"Let us seek another tree, my friend,\" said Grant, drowsily; \"one\nplace is the same as another to me now.\"\n\n\"Diable! let us shift our camp then--but do you smell the lightning?\nIt must have scorched the grass.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"There is a stench so overpowering here on every breath of wind.\"\n\nMoving a few paces to their left, they lay down at the root of\nanother beech tree; but there the same cold dewy drone seemed to\ndistil upon them like rain; yet the night was hot, dry, and sultry;\nand ever and anon there fell those hideous creepers, whose slimy\ntouch caused emotions of horror.\n\n\"Tudieu!\" shouted the Frenchman, springing up again; \"I cannot stand\nthis!  We had better have beaten up the guerillas in their quarters\nat Medellin.  Holo, Corporal Touchet--flash off your musket, and let\nus see what the devil is in these trees!\"\n\nRoused thus, the corporal of the escort cocked his piece; and as he\nfired, the two officers watched the beeches in the sudden and\nlightning-like gleam that flashed from the muzzle.\n\nLo! the dark figure of a dead man swung from a branch, about twelve\nfeet above them!\n\n\"Ouf!\" said the voltigeur, with a shudder of horror.\n\n\"These beeches bear strange nuts,\" said Grant, as they hastily left\nthe wood, and passed the remainder of the night on the open sward in\nfront of it.  When day dawned, Grant went back to examine the places\nwhere they had first attempted to sleep.  The corpses of a man having\na voluminous beard, and a woman with a profusion of long and silky\nhair, were suspended from the branches; and, as they swung mournfully\nand fearfully round in the morning wind, the crows flew away with an\nangry croak, and a cry of horror burst from the lips of Grant on\nrecognising Manrico el Barbado and--_Juanna de Leon_!\n\n* * * *\n\nThree weeks after this, Colquhoun Grant saw the long blue outline of\nthe Pyrenees undulating before him, as he approached the frontier of\nFrance, a country for which he had now the greatest horror; and\nduring the whole march from Medellin towards Bayonne, the young\nsubaltern of Voltigeurs experienced the greatest trouble with his\nprisoner, on whom that frightful episode in the cork wood had left a\ndreadful impression.\n\nIn his hatred and animosity to France and everything French, Grant,\nfrom that hour had resolved, that though he could not with honour\nattempt to escape while in Spain, he would spare no exertion or\ntrouble, no cunning or coin, to leave France, and return once more to\nfind himself sword in hand before the ranks of Marshal Marmont, whom\nhe now viewed as the assassin of that poor maiden of Leon.\n\nAs they approached Bayonne, he took an early opportunity of\ndeliberately tearing open the sealed letter which the marshal had\ngiven him for the Governor of that fortress, and made himself master\nof its contents.  Instead of finding its tenor complimentary and\nrecommendatory as he had been told, he saw himself therein designated\nas a \"dangerous spy who had done infinite mischief to the French\narmy,\" and who should be marched in fetters to Paris, where no doubt\ntortures such as those to which Captain Wright was subjected in the\nTemple, or a death on the scaffold awaited him!  The contents of this\nletter more than released him from any parole.\n\n\"Oho, M. le Duc de Raguse, is this your game?\" said Grant, as he tore\nthe letter into the smallest bits, and buried them in a hole.  \"Let\nme see if I cannot make a Highland head worth a pair of French heels.\"\n\nArrived at Bayonne, Lieutenant Armand presented him to the governor\nand bade him adieu.  Then Grant confidently requested, in the usual\nway, to be furnished with a passport for Verdun, the greatest\nmilitary prison in France.  This the governor at once granted him,\nlittle suspecting that he meant to commence an escape the moment he\nleft the garrison.  Aware that, guarded as all the avenues from\nBayonne and the Pyrenean passes were by French troops of every kind,\nflight towards Spain was impossible, he resolved to make the attempt\nin the _opposite_, and consequently less to be suspected, direction.\nThe moment he left the governor's quarters, Grant quietly put the\npassport in the fire, and repairing to the suburb of St. Esprit,\nwhich, from time immemorial has been the quarter of the Portuguese\nJews, he sold his silver epaulettes and richly-laced Highland\nuniform, to a dealer in old garments, and received in lieu the plain\nfragged surtout, forage cap, and sabre of a French staff-officer; he\nstuck the cross of the Legion of Honour at his button-hole, and after\npromenading along the superb quay, after repairing boldly to the\n\"Eagle of France,\" an hotel in the Place de Grammont, he ordered an\nomelette and a bottle of vin ordinaire with all the air of a Garde\nImperiale and sat down to dinner.\n\nInquiring of the waiter \"if there were any officers in the house\nabout to proceed to Paris?\" he was told that \"M. le General Souham\nwas about to leave that very night.\"  Grant procured a card, and\nwriting thereon _Captain O'Reilly, Imperial Service_, sent it up, and\nwas at once introduced to old Souham, who was just about to start,\nand was in the act of buckling on his sabre.\n\n\"Captain O'Reilly,\" said he, frowning at the name, and glancing round\nfor a French Army List, but fortunately none was at hand.\n\n\"Of what regiment?\"\n\n\"Lacy's disbanded battalion of the Irish Brigade.\"\n\n\"Ah!  And in what can I serve you, monsieur?\"\n\n\"Allowing me to join your party about to proceed to Paris.\"\n\n\"You do me infinite honour, M. O'Reilly.\"\n\n\"Thanks, general.\"\n\n\"From whence have you come?\"\n\n\"The banks of the Coa.\"\n\n\"Sacre! the banks of the Coa!\"\n\n\"Yes; I am attached to the staff of M. le Duc de Raguse.\"\n\n\"Ah! old Marmont Peste! he is my greatest friend.  M. Armand of the\n3rd Voltigeurs brought me a letter from him, in which he says that a\ndear friend of his would join me on my way to Paris.\"\n\n\"How kind of brave Marmont,\" said Grant; \"he never forgets me.\"\n\n\"So he has captured the notorious Scaramouche, Captain Grant?\"\n\n\"Yea; a wonderful fellow that!\"\n\n\"Quite a devil of a man; allons, let us go; you have a horse of\ncourse?\"\n\n\"No, M. le General.\"\n\n\"One of mine is at your service.\"\n\n\"Mille baionettes!  You quite overwhelm me.\"\n\nIn half an hour after this, Grant, with Souham and two other French\nofficers had crossed the wooden drawbridge of Bayonne, and left the\ncitadel of M. Vauban with all its little redoubts in their rear, as\nthey all rode merrily _en route_ to Paris; Souham by the way telling\ntwenty incredible stories of Wellington's prince of scouts, the\nScottish Captain Grant.  In a house of entertainment in the Rue\nRoyale at Orleans, Grant fortunately made the acquaintance of a man\nwho proved to be an agent in the secret service of the British\nGovernment.  This person furnished him with money and a letter to\nanother secret agent who lived in an obscure part of Paris, where he\narrived, still disguised as an officer in the suite of General\nSouham, and as such, for a time, he visited all the theatres, the\ngardens, the operas; and all splashed and travel-stained, as fresh\nfrom the seat of war, was presented to the great Emperor, who\npatronizingly spoke to him of the probability of restoring Lacy's\nIrish Regiment, \"by recruiting for it among the Irish in the prisons\nof Bitche and Verdun, in which case his services would not be\nforgotten,\" &c, \"and his promotion to a majority would be duly\nremembered,\" &c. &c.  Grant could not foresee that in _three_ years\nafter this, the old Black Watch, after raising the cry of \"Scotland\nfor ever\" at Waterloo, would make the Tuileries ring to their\nHighland pipes, and that he would actually compose the well-known\nparody--\n\n  \"Wha keep guard at Versailles and Marli,\n  Wha, but the lads wi' the bannocks of barley?\"\n\n\nHe spoke French with fluency, having been a pupil of the famous Jean\nPaul Marat, when that notable ruffian taught French in Edinburgh,\nwhere, in 1774 he published a work entitled \"The Chains of Slavery.\"\n\nGrant thanked the Emperor, and thinking that the daring joke had been\ncarried quite far enough, he doffed his French uniform, sabre and\nall, and making a bundle thereof, flung the whole into the Seine one\nnight.  Then, attiring himself in an unpretending blouse, he repaired\nto the house of the secret agent, presented his letter, and obtained\nmore money to enable him to reach Britain.\n\n\"Monsieur is in luck,\" said the agent; \"I have just ascertained that\na passport is lying at the foreign office for an American who died,\nor was found dead this morning.\"\n\n\"How is your American named?\"\n\n\"Monsieur Jonathan Buck.\"\n\n\"Very good--thanks!  From this very hour I am Jonathan Buck,\" said\nthe reckless Grant.  He reloaded his pistols, concealed them in his\nbreast, and repairing to the Foreign Office, demanded his passport\nwith the coolness of a prince _incog_.\n\n\"Your name, monsieur?\"\n\n\"M. Jonathan Buck,\" drawled Grant through his nose.\n\nThe passport was handed to him at once, and long before the police\ncould ascertain that Monsieur Buck had departed this life at 9 A.M.,\nand yet had received his papers at 9 P.M., on the same day, our hero\nhad left Paris far behind him, and was travelling post towards the\nmouth of the Loire.\n\nOn reaching Nantes, he repaired at once to Paimboeuff, twenty miles\nfurther down the river, where all vessels, whose size was above\nninety tons, usually unloaded their cargoes; and there he boarded the\nfirst vessel which had up the stars and stripes of America, and\nseemed ready for sea.  She proved to be the _Ohio_, a fine bark of\nBoston, Jeremiah Buck, master.\n\n\"'Tis fortunate,\" said Grant through his nose, as he was ushered into\nthe cabin of the Yankee; \"I am a namesake of yours, captain--Jonathan\nBuck, of Cape Cod, seeking a cabin passage to Boston.\"\n\n\"All right--let me see your passport, stranger?\"\n\n\"Here it is, skipper.\"\n\n\"Well, for a hundred and fifty dollars, I am your man,\" drawled the\nBoston captain, who was smoking a long Cuba; \"but it is darned odd,\nstranger, that I have been expecting _another_ Jonathan Buck, my own\nnephew, from Paris; he is in the fish and timber trade, and hangs out\nat old Nantucket; but he took a run up by the dilly to see the\nToolerie, the Loover, and all that.  Well, darn my eyes, if this is\nnot my nephew's passport!\" exclaimed the American suddenly, while his\neyes flashed with anger and suspicion.  \"Stranger, how is this?\"\n\nIn some anxiety, Grant frankly related how the document came into his\npossession, and produced the letters of the secret agent, proving who\nhe was, beseeching the captain, as a man come of British blood and\nkindred, to assist him; for, if taken by the French, the dungeon of\nVerdun or Bitche, or worse, perhaps, awaited him.\n\nThe Yankee paused, and chewed a quid by which he had replaced his\ncigar.  Full of anxiety, yet without fear, Grant summoned all his\nphilosophy, and recalled the words of Bossuet, \"That human life\nresembles a road which ends in frightful precipices.  We are told of\nthis at the first step we take; but our _destiny_ is fixed, and we\n_must_ proceed.\"\n\nNatural sorrow for the loss of his relative, and the native honesty\nof an American seaman, united to open the heart of the captain to our\nwanderer, and he agreed to give him a passage in the _Ohio_ to\nBoston, from whence he could reach Britain more readily than from the\ncoast of France, watched and surrounded as it was by ships and\ngunboats, troops and gens d'armes, police, spies, passports, &c.\nBelieving all arranged at last, Grant never left the ship, but\ncounted every hour until he should again find himself in Leon, the\nland of his faithful Juanna, with his comrades of the Black Watch\naround him, and the eagles of Marmont in front.\n\nAt last came the important hour, when the anchor of the _Ohio_ was\nfished; when her white canvas filled, and the stars and stripes of\nAmerica swelled proudly from her gaff-peak, as she bore down the\nsun-lit Loire with the evening tide; but now an unlooked-for\nmisfortune took place.  A French privateer, the famous _Jean Bart_,\nran foul of her, and, by carrying away her bowsprit and foremast,\nbrought down her maintop-mast too.  Thus she was forced to run back\nto Paimboeuff and haul into dock.\n\nFor our disguised captain of the 42nd Highlanders to remain in the\ndocks, guarded as they were by watchful gens-d'armes, was impossible;\nthus, on being furnished by the skipper of the _Ohio_ with the coarse\nclothes of a mariner, and a written character, stating that he was\n\"Nathan Prowse, a native of Nantucket, in want of a ship,\" he stained\nhis face and hands with tobacco-juice, shaved off his moustache, and\nrepaired to an obscure tavern in the suburbs of Paimboeuff, to find a\nlodging until an opportunity offered for his escape.  Under his\npeajacket he carried a pair of excellent pistols, which he kept\nconstantly loaded; and a fine dagger or Albacete knife, a gift of\npoor Domingo de Leon.\n\nAs he sat in the kitchen of this humble house of entertainment, his\neye was caught by a printed placard above the mantelpiece.  It bore\nthe imperial arms, with the cipher of the Emperor, and stated that\n\"the notorious spy Colquhoun Grant, a captain in a Scottish regiment\nof the British army, who had wrought so much mischief behind the\nlines of le Mar\u00e9chal Duc de Raguse, in Leon, and who had been brought\nprisoner to France, where he had broken his parole, was wandering\nabout, maintaining a system of espionage and Protean disguises; that\nhe had, lastly, assumed the name, character, and passport of an\nAmerican citizen, named Jonathan Buck, whom he had wickedly and\nfeloniously murdered and robbed in the Rue de Rivoli at Paris; that\nthe sum of 2,000 francs was hereby offered for him dead or alive; and\nthat all prefects, officers, civil and military, gens-d'armes, and\nloyal subjects of the Emperor, by sea and land, were hereby\nauthorized to seize or kill the said Colquhoun Grant wherever and\nwhenever they found him.\"\n\nWith no small indignation and horror, the Highlander read this\nobnoxious placard, which contained so much that wore the face of\ntruth, with so much that was unquestionably false.\n\n\"So Buck, whose papers I have appropriated, has been murdered--poor\ndevil!\" was his first reflection; \"what if the honest skipper of the\n_Ohio_ should see this precious document and suspect _me_!  In that\ncase I should be altogether lost.\"\n\nHe retired from the vicinity of this formidable placard, fearing that\nsome watchful eye might compare his personal appearance with the\ndescription it contained; though his costume, accent, and the fashion\nof his whiskers and beard altered his appearance so entirely that his\noldest friends at the mess would not have recognised him.  He hastily\nretired upstairs to a miserable garret, to think and watch, but not\nto sleep.\n\nWhen loitering on the beach next evening, he entered into\nconversation with a venerable boatman, named Raoul Senebier, and an\nexchange of tobacco pouches at once established their mutual\ngood-will.  Grant said that \"he was an American seaman out of a\nberth, and anxious to reach Portsmouth in England, where he had left\nhis wife and children.\"\n\nThe boatman, an honest and unsuspicious old fellow, seemed touched by\nhis story, and offered to row him to a small island at the mouth of\nthe Loire, where British vessels watered unmolested, and in return\nallowed the poor inhabitants to fish and traffic without interruption.\n\n\"I can feel for you, my friend,\" said old Senebier; \"for I was taken\nprisoner at the battle of Trafalgar, and was seven years in the\nsouterrains of the _Ch\u00e2teau d'Edimbourg_, separated from my dear wife\nand little ones, and when I returned, I found them all lying in the\nchurchyard of Paimboeuff.\"\n\n\"Dead--what, all?\"\n\n\"All, all, save one--the plague, the plague!\"\n\n\"Land me on the isle, then, and ten Napoleons shall be yours,\" said\nGrant, joyfully, and in twenty minutes after, they had left the\ncrowded wharves, the glaring salt-pans which gleam on the left bank\nof the Loire, and all its maze of masts and laden lighters, as they\npulled down, with the flow of the stream and the ebb-tide together.\nThe fisherman had his nets, floats, and fortunately some fish on\nboard; so, if overhauled by any armed authority, he could pretend to\nhave been at his ordinary avocation.  They touched at the island, and\nwere told by some of the inhabitants that not a British ship was in\nthe vicinity, but that a French privateer, the terrible _Jean Bart_,\nwas prowling about in these waters, and that the isle was\nconsequently unsafe for any person who might be suspected of being a\nBritish subject; so, with a heart that began to sink, Grant desired\nold Raoul Senebier to turn his prow towards Paimboeuff.\n\nMorning was now at hand, and the sun as he rose reddened with a glow\nof Italian brilliancy the tranquil banks of the Loire, and the sails\nof the fisher-craft that were running up the stream.  No vessels were\nin sight, for terror of the British cruisers kept every French keel\nclose in shore; but suddenly a large white sail appeared to the\nsouthward, and in the lingering and ardent hope that she was one of\nour Channel squadron, Grant prevailed upon Raoul to bear towards her.\nThe wind became light, and all day the two men tugged at their oars,\nbut still the ship was far off, and yet not so distant but that\nGrant, with a glistening eye and beating hearty could make out her\nscarlet ensign; when evening came on, and a strong current, which ran\ntowards the Loire, gradually swept the boat towards the coast of\nFrance, and just as the sun set, old Raoul and the fugitive found\nthemselves suddenly close to a low battery, a shot from which boomed\nacross the water, raising it like a spout beyond them.  Another and\nanother followed, tearing the waves into foam close by.\n\n\"We must surrender, monsieur,\" said Raoul, wringing his hands; \"and I\nshall be brought in irons before M. le Prefect for aiding the escape\nof a prisoner of war.\"\n\n\"Call me your son,\" said Grant; \"say we were fishing, and leave the\nrest to me.\"\n\n\"I have a son,\" said Raoul; \"he escaped the plague by being where he\nis now, on board the _Jean Bart_.\"\n\nThey landed under the battery; a little corporal in the green uniform\nof a Voltigeur, with six men, conducted them with fixed bayonets\nbefore the officer in command.  He was a handsome young man, and\nGrant in a moment recognised his former captor and companion, M.\nArmand, the sous-lieutenant of the 3rd Voltigeur Regiment.\n\n\"Milles demons! is this you, monsieur?\" exclaimed Armand, who knew\nGrant at once.\n\n\"Exactly, Monsieur le Lieutenant,\" replied Grant with admirable\npresence of mind; \"'tis I, your old companion, Louis Senebier,\ncaptain of a gun aboard the _Jean Bart_, from which I have a day's\nliberty to fish with my father, old Raoul of Paimboeuff, whom you see\nbefore you here; but understanding that a rascally British cruiser is\noff the coast, we were just creeping close to the battery when\nmonsieur fired at us.\"\n\n\"Is this true, M. Senebier?\" asked Armand, with a knowing smile.\n\n\"All true; my son is said to be very like me,\" replied the old\nfisherman, astounded by the turn matters had taken.\n\n\"Like you?  Not very, bon!  But you may thank heaven that I am not M.\nle Prefect of the Loire.  Leave us your fish, M. Senebier, and be off\nbefore darkness sets in.  See,\" he added, with a furtive but\nexpressive glance at Grant; \"see that you keep your worthy father\nclear of yonder British ship, which will just be abreast of the\nbattery and two miles off about midnight.\"\n\nArmand placed a bottle of brandy in the boat, and, while pretending\nto pay for the fish, pressed Grant's hand, wished him all success,\nand pointed out the bearings of the strange sail so exactly, that the\nmoment darkness set fairly in, Raoul trimmed his lug sail and ran\nright on board of her; for her straight gun streak, her taper masts,\nand her snow-white canvas shone in the moonlight above the calm blue\nrippled sea, distinctly in the clear twilight of the stars.\n\n\"Boat ahoy!\" cried a sentry from the quarter; \"keep off, or I shall\nfire.\"\n\n\"What ship is that?\" asked Grant, in whose ears a British voice\nsounded like some old mountain melody.\n\n\"His Britannic Majesty's frigate _Laurel_, of thirty-six guns.\"\n\n\"Hurrah!\"\n\n\"Who the devil are you?\"\n\n\"A prisoner of war just escaped.\"\n\n\"Bravo!\" cried another voice, which seemed to be that of the officer\nof the watch; \"sheer alongside, and let us see what like you are.\nStand by with the man ropes--look alive there!\"\n\nGrant shook the hard hand of Raoul Senebier, gave him five more gold\nNapoleons, and, in a moment after, found himself upon the solid oak\ndeck of a spanking British frigate.  Now he was all but at home, and\nhis Proteus-like transformations and disguises were at an end.  A\nsingle paragraph from the \"History of the War in the Peninsula\" will\nsuffice to close this brief story of Colquhoun Grant's adventures, of\nwhich I could with ease have spun three orthodox volumes, octavo.\n\n\"When he reached England, he obtained permission to choose a French\nofficer of equal rank with himself to send to France, that no doubt\nmight remain about the propriety of his escape.  In the first prison\nhe visited for this purpose, great was his astonishment to find the\nold fisherman (Raoul Senebier of Paimboeuff) and his real son, who\nhad meanwhile been captured, notwithstanding a protection given to\nthem for their services.  But Grant's generosity and benevolence were\nas remarkable as the qualities of his understanding; he soon obtained\ntheir release, and sent them with a sum of money to France.  He then\nreturned to the Peninsula, and within four months from the date of\nhis first capture, was again on the Tormes, watching Marmont's army!\nOther strange incidents of his life could be told,\" continues General\nNapier, \"were it not more fitting to quit a digression already too\nwide; yet I was unwilling to pass unnoticed this generous, spirited,\nand gentle-minded man, who, having served his country nobly and ably\nin every climate, died not long since, exhausted by the continual\nhardships he had endured.\"\n\nBut his name is still remembered in the regiment by which he was\nbeloved; and his adventures, his daring, and presence of mind, were\nlong the theme of the old Black Watch at the mess-table, the bivouac,\nand the guard-room fire.\n\n\n\n\nIX.\n\nTHE STORY OF DICK DUFF.\n\nDick Duff, the lieutenant of our light company in 1812, was one of\nthe happiest and most lively fellows in the British service.  He sang\nand was merry from morning till night, and was occasionally\nuproarious from night till morning; and not even all the horrors of\nthe retreat from Burgos could repress his flow of spirits.  Moreover,\nhe was the terror of innkeepers, and made the lazy hostaleros and\nkeepers of posadas attend to his various commands with a celerity\nthat astonished themselves; for Dick Duff could swear with marvellous\nfluency in Spanish and five other foreign languages; he had served at\nMalta, in Egypt, and Holland; and was wont to boast that he had\nacquired the whole vocabulary of oaths.  This was highly necessary,\nDick was wont to allege, \"lest in a casual war of words with any\nragamuffin on whom one might chance to be billeted, an officer and\ngentleman should have the disgrace of being put down by the sauce\npiquant of a rascally foreigner.\"\n\nDick had joined the service as a full private in the year 1800,\nhaving been forced into the ranks by his chief or landlord.\n\nHe was the second son of a respectable sheep farmer on the mountains\nof Mull, where his forefathers had resided for ages.  His elder\nbrother, Hamish, when a child, had been swept out to sea (while\nplaying among the fisher-boats on the beach), and was drowned, to the\ngrief and dismay of his parents, to whom a wandering Scottish priest,\nFather John of Douay, had foretold his birth, and predicted his\nfuture usefulness and greatness in the church.  His mother, an old\nCatholic of the house of Keppoch, looked upon this elder child as\nblessed by Heaven, and in the fulness of her heart she gladly\ndedicated it to the then oppressed church of her forefathers, in\ntoken of which she had unavailingly tied to his neck a valuable\n_amulet_.\n\nTheir landlord, like many other Scottish feudatories in the year\n1800, became desirous of appearing a person of importance in the eyes\nof the Government; to this end he resolved to raise a kilted regiment\namong his tenants, and on procuring a letter of service, immediately\ncalled upon them for their sons.\n\nThese tidings caused some consternation in Argyleshire, a county from\nwhich every war, prior to 1800, had swept at least _four thousand_ of\nits best men, few of whom ever survived to return.\n\nThe aged father of Dick appeared with others before their feudal\ntyrant, who threatened to deprive every parent of his farm, if his\nsons delayed or declined to volunteer for service; and this can\neasily be done, as the Highland crofter has seldom a written lease to\nshow, believing that the old hereditary cabin of his forefathers is\nhis, as much as the air he breathes or the heather he treads on.\n\n\"Duncan Duff,\" said the laird, who had already donned the uniform of\ncolonel, \"I am raising a regiment for the King's service, and must\nhave your son Dick; he is a stout, active fellow, and here is the\nbounty.\"\n\nThe old man wrung nis hands, and said--\n\n\"Sir, my son is the only prop of my last days.  I am getting old, and\nmay not be able to work long at my little croft.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't trouble yourself about your croft,\" sneered the laird.\n\n\"If my only son goes to battle, what will become of _me_?\"\n\n\"The parish will attend to _that_,\" was the cruel reply.\n\nThe eyes of the old Highlander flashed fire, but reverence for his\nchief repressed the mingled threat and curse that rose to his tongue.\n\n\"Please yourself, Duncan,\" resumed the feudatory; \"I have only to\nwarn you that another person has made my factor an advantageous offer\nfor your farm, and your son's enlistment or his disobedience will\nmaterially influence me in considering the said offer.\"\n\n\"My croft, sir! have not I and my fathers been here under your family\nfor four hundred years and more; and is not our blood the same?\"\n\n\"Stuff!  I tell you that I must have a thousand men, and cannot spare\nyour son.\"\n\n\"I had another son, sir--a poor child who was drowned in his infancy;\nhad he lived, one should have gone to battle and one remained--but\nGod deals hardly with me.\"\n\n\"I care not,\" was the dogged reply; \"men I want, and men I shall\nhave!\" for the letter of service gave the laird an opportunity to\nnominating all his officers, nearly fifty in number.\n\nSo Dick became a soldier in the laird's regiment, and as the old man\ncould not remain on his little farm alone, he became a soldier too,\nin his sixtieth year, and on the long dusty marches in Holland, poor\nDick was often seen carrying the knapsack, firelock, and canteen of\nhis brave old father, whom he buried with his own hands after he was\nkilled by the French at the battle of Alexandria, where he, and\ntwenty others, perished in a rash attempt to rescue their chief, the\ncolonel, who was there wounded and taken prisoner.  Dick's promotion\nwas rapid, and after passing through the intermediate ranks, he found\nhimself, by his own merit, a lieutenant in the Highland regiment of\nthis obnoxious laird in the year 1808; and his reason for leaving it\nand exchanging into ours, was a mishap that occurred to him in\nGlasgow.\n\nHis corps had been quartered for a year in the barracks of the\nGallowgate in the capital of the west, and Dick, who was decidedly of\nconvivial, and scandal whispered of somewhat nocturnal, habits, and\nhaving, moreover, a high appreciation of the virtues of Glasgow\npunch, was in the habit of going home every night in the happiest\nmood of mind; and on more than one occasion was assisted by the\nfriendly arm of the watchers and warders of the civic guard, or of\nthe corporal of the patrol.  The regiment marched for Edinburgh,\nchanging quarters with the brave old Pompadours, who were so called\nfrom the colour of their facings resembling Madame's gown; but Dick,\nhaving obtained a month's leave between returns, resolved to enjoy\nhimself a little longer among his old haunts, and remained behind,\nexulting in freedom from duty and the seclusion of mufti.\n\nA week after the regiment marched, Dick Duff found himself about\nmidnight propped against a lamp-post in the High-street, with very\nvague ideas of his own name, rank, and residence, and seriously\nweighing in his own mind whether the pavement and row of lamps\nextending to the right, or those that lay to the left, led to the\nbarracks; for his faculties were so cloudy, that he had become\nutterly oblivious as to the circumstance of his being on leave, in\nplain clothes, and living at a west-end hotel.\n\nAfter long and serious pondering, Dick instinctively discovered the\nright way by old habit, and proceeded, somewhat deviously, of course,\nthrough the delightful locality known as \"the Sautmarket,\" and along\nthe Gallowgate, until he found himself before the dark gate of the\nbarracks, and heard the familiar step of the great-coated sentry\npacing slowly to and fro inside.  Here he kicked with vigour, and\nstruck up his favourite mess-room song--\n\n  \"Who knows but our girls--\n    (We have known stranger things!)\n  When once they've got feathers.\n    May make themselves wings;\n  And like swallows in winter,\n    May soon take their flight;\n  And for lovers of '_ours_,'\n    Bid their husbands good-night.\"\n\n\n\"Hollo! gate--gate!\" shouted Dick, sprawling against it with\noutstretched hands.\n\n\"Who comes there?\"\n\n\"Friend--particular friend of yours, my boy--very.\"\n\nThe drowsy sergeant of the guard unfastened the barrier, and sulkily\npassed a lantern once or twice across the face of the visitor, till\nit was knocked out of his hand by Dick, who exclaimed--\n\n\"D--n it, sir, what d'ye mean?--light me to my quarters.\"\n\n\"I beg pardon, sir,\" said the sergeant, who thought Dick might be one\nof the staff; but the lantern was extinguished, so our friend resumed\nhis song, and stumbled on alone to the old staircase, with which he\nwas quite familiar; and ascending by mere force of habit to his room,\nfound the door-handle on the right as usual, and entered.\n\n\"All right,\" muttered Dick, \"all right.  Here's the bed-post--and the\ncandlestick should be _here_.\"\n\nBut he could neither find candle nor matches, and resolving to \"row\"\nhis man in the morning, he threw off his clothes, tumbled headlong\ninto bed, and was soon sound asleep.\n\nNow it happened that the proprietor of the aforesaid quarters was the\nofficer of the main-guard, who as the next day proved Sunday, was to\ncome off duty at eight o'clock a.m., and duly at the hour of seven\nhis servant entered to prepare a fire and lay breakfast.  Hearing a\nvehement snore proceed from his master's bed, the servant drew back\nthe curtains, and, to his no small surprise, discovered the dark,\nsunburned, and well-whiskered visage of a stranger, whom he\nimmediately awoke; but not without considerable difficulty and after\nreiterated efforts.\n\n\"Who are you,\" grumbled Dick; \"and what the devil do you want?\"\n\n\"What do you want here?\"\n\n\"Where, old fellow?\"\n\n\"In my master's bed.\"\n\n\"Master's bed, you scoundrel!\" stuttered Dick; \"how dare you intrude\ninto an officer's room? be off, or I shall send you to the _shop_ in\na minute.\"  And so, Dick Duff, believing that he had settled the\nlittle mistake satisfactorily, again composed himself to sleep, while\nthe servant hurried to the main guard to acquaint his master that \"a\nthief was in possession of his bed and quarters.\"  These tidings\npromptly brought up the officer with his sword in his hand, and a\nfile of the guard at his heels.\n\nDick was once more roused, and wrathfully, too, from his slumbers, to\nfind by his bedside two soldiers and an officer _cap-\u00e0-pie_ in a\nstrange uniform.\n\n\"What do you mean, fellow, by this unwarrantable in-in-in-trusion?\"\nasked Dick, with great dignity.\n\n\"Who are you, sir?\" asked the officer in a louder key.\n\n\"You'll soon find that out--off with you, sir, or by heavens I'll\nparade you where you won't like it.  I have a pair of saw-handled\npacifiers that are the deuce for hitting at fifteen paces.\"\n\n\"What the devil are you about in my quarters?\"\n\n\"_Your_ quarters?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, _my_ quarters!\" thundered the Captain of Pompadours.\n\n\"Come, now--I like that.\"\n\n\"D--nit, sir?\"\n\n\"Don't get excited, old fellow; is not this number three stair, four\nroom?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course it is.\"\n\n\"Then allow me to insinuate, sir, that you are drunk--very drunk, in\nuniform too--disgraceful; consider yourself under arrest Sir, these\nquarters are _mine_--you will retire, if you please.\"\n\nAnd Dick, who was still very groggy, again addressed himself to\nsleep.  Trembling with anger, the Pompadour for a moment doubted the\nevidence of his own senses; but seeing all his own luggage and\nproperty in the room, and being certain that his brain was not\nturning, though the cool impudence of Duff confounded him.\n\n\"Corporal of the guard,\" said he, in a stifled tone of anger,\n\"handcuff this insolent fellow, and march him to the cells.\"\n\n\"Handcuff--the devil!\" shouted Dick.\n\nThis imperative order made him spring up, and at that moment, the\nrecollection of the change of barracks, his month's leave, and the\nlast night's potations, flashed upon him.  Unhappy Dick was sobered\nin a moment, and his countenance fell, and he turned to explain--to\napologize; but the Pompadour would listen to nothing.  Our friend was\nignominiously hauled from bed, hastily dressed, roughly handcuffed,\nand despite all his assertions that he was \"an officer--an officer\nand a gentleman,\" &c. &c., he was marched to the guardhouse, into\nwhich he would have been thrust, had not a staff-officer, the friend\nwith whom he had supped overnight, passed in at that moment and\nrecognised him.\n\nThe officer explained, Dick expostulated, the Pompadour was sulky;\nbut after fiery threats, mutual apologies and expressions of\nfriendship for life were exchanged, and Dick dined that evening at\nthe mess, of which he was made an honorary member; but the story\n\"found vent,\" with a hundred absurd additions; and Dick was so\nquizzed about it by the small wits of his own corps, that he\nexchanged into Ours, and joined us about the time Corunna was fought.\n\nBut before the battalion embarked, he fell into another scrape by\ninserting in the Edinburgh papers the following advertisement!--\n\n\"Vive l'amour! any fair dame of spirit, maid .... or widow, who would\nwish to see the world, and will join her fortunes with those of a\ngallant officer, about to embark for the seat of war--age 25, height\nfive feet ten inches by one foot ten across the shoulders--good\nlooking decidedly, may have her offers carefully considered, by\nforwarding her name and qualifications to the President of the Mess\nCommittee.\"\n\nBut for the hurry of embarkation, old Sir David Dundas, he of the\n\"Eighteen Manoeuvres,\" who then ruled at the Horse Guards, would have\nmade this piece of impertinence a dear joke to Dick Duff.\n\nThe latter, at Torres Vedras was severely wounded in the left leg,\nand given over for a time to the care of a pretty patrona, who was so\nkind to him, and like Corporal Trim's Beguin, fomented the wounded\npart so tenderly, that Dick remained so long on crutches, we thought\nhe would never get off them or be well; tell one night getting tipsy\nat the quarters of his friend Garriehorn of the Grenadiers, he walked\nhome, he never knew how, _without them_; and as he had been heard\nsinging his invariable and inevitable song,\n\n  \"Who knows but our girls,\n    (We have known stranger things),\" &c.\n\nin the Plaza of Torres Vedras, he was obliged to report himself \"fit\nfor duty\" next day, despite the tears of his patrona.\n\nAfter serving at Busaco, Fuentes d'Onor, Badajoz, and Salamanca, his\nbattalion, with Stirling's old Highland Brigade, endured all the\nhorrors of the retreat from Burgos.\n\nAt the siege of the latter, the task of storming the famous hornwork,\nwhich had a hard sloping scarp of twenty-five feet, and a\ncounter-scarp of ten, was specially confided to the 42nd Highlanders,\nwho assailed the bastion after darkness had set in, and rushed on\nwith great gallantry.  Dick Duff was the first man up on the first\nladder; and his feather bonnet was literally blown off his head by a\nvolley of balls; every man by his side was bayonetted; and as each\npoor fellow in his fall knocked down others, the loss was terrible!\n\nSword in hand, Major Cox entered the gorge; Major (afterwards General\nSir Robert) Dick led the regiment on _en masse_, and the hornwork was\nimmediately captured; but two lieutenants and thirty-two rank and\nfile were killed; four officers, one volunteer, and one hundred and\nsixty-four Highlanders were wounded.  Captain Donald Williamson\nexpired that night of his wounds.  Lane, the poor gentleman\nvolunteer, was severely wounded and became senseless; but revived, on\nfinding two of the Cameron Highlanders gently abstracting a gold\nwatch worth fifty guineas from his pocket.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, my lads,\" said he; \"but I am not quite done with\nthis.'\n\n\"We beg yours, sir,\" answered they; \"but we thought you dead, and\nsupposed we might take it, as well as others.\"\n\nThey carried him carefully to the rear; and as they were returning,\ntwo stray shots killed them both.  Lieutenant Gregorson was killed,\nand found stripped naked, by Lieutenant Orr, who buried him in a\ntrench.  In the gorge of this hornwork, so fatal to the Black Watch,\ntheir old Quartermaster Blanket, had both his legs carried away; so\nhe might fairly have sung,\n\n  \"O now let others shoot,\n  For here I leave my _second legs_,\n    And the _Forty-second Foot_.\"\n\nHe lived long a prisoner at Bitche and Verdun, and by his fiery\ntemper and wooden pins was named by the French _le Diable Boiteux_.\n\nIn this siege the regiment had other losses; but the concentration of\nthe enemy's forces, and the advance of superior numbers, obliged the\nDuke of Wellington to retire into winter quarters on the frontiers of\nPortugal; and the fatigues and privations incident to this retrograde\nmovement, fell on no regiment more heavily than on our friends of the\nBlack Watch.\n\nOn a gloomy afternoon in the month of November, pressed by the\nenemy's cavalry, who were vastly superior to the British, the brigade\nof which the 42nd formed a part, entered the ancient and pleasant\ncity of Valladolid, all drenched and bedraggled by fording the swift\nPisuerga; for the French, to impede our previous advance, had blown\nup the principal arch of the bridge.\n\nDick Duff was taken prisoner by the French hussars in a taberna, at\nVillanoz, by the treachery of the keeper, a well-known Spanish rogue,\nnamed Antonio Morello.  By his captors and the hostalero he had been\nstripped nude, but made his escape and rejoined the regiment (just as\nit was entering Valloria) clad only in a pair of short scarlet\npantaloons, which he had taken from a dead Frenchman of the line, and\nhis aspect created no small surprise in the ranks--but I cannot add\nmerriment, for our soldiers were then at the lowest ebb of misery and\ndesperation.  During this terrible retreat the rain had been\nincessant, and poured pitilessly down on the wet, dripping sierras\nand rough muddy mule roads traversed by our troops, whose sufferings\nand privations were indescribable.\n\nThe baggage was generally far in the rear, and the troops were\nwithout tents or other means of shelter from the inclemency of the\nweather.  The _vivas_ that greeted the British advance were no longer\nheard--gloom, sombre desperation, and scowling famine were in every\neye.  The arrears of pay were in many instances beyond parallel.\nMany regiments had not received a penny for nine months--nine months\nof constant fighting!  (How many tradesmen in England would have\nworked for that period without wages?)\n\nThe officers were reduced to about a shirt each; most of the men had\nonly the collars or wrists of their linen remaining--many had not a\nvestige.  \"Their jackets were so patched,\" says an officer of the\nGordon Highlanders, in his narrative, \"that I know nothing to which I\ncan so aptly compare them as parti-coloured bed-covers; for there\nwere not fifty in my own regiment but had been repaired with cloth of\nevery colour under the sun.\"\n\nSo admirably is the kilt adapted for marching and activity, that the\nHighland corps were the only battalions _without stragglers_.\n\nHollow-eyed and gaunt, bearded and grisly, emaciated and miserable in\naspect, footsore and shoeless, their jackets turned to black and\npurple, their feather bonnets reduced to quills, and all trace of\npipeclay long since washed out of their belts, yet heavily laden with\nknapsacks, great-coat, blanket, havresack, wooden canteen,\ncamp-kettle, sixty rounds of ball-cartridge, their arms and\naccoutrements covered with mud and mire--after many days' of\nincessant alarm, halting and forming square to repel the enemy's\ncavalry, who at times charged into the rivers up to their very\nholsters--the Black Watch defiled along the quaint old streets of\nValladolid, with their pipes playing a fiery _spaidsearach\nGaelhealach_, or Highland march; but it failed to rouse either the\nspirit or bearing of the men.\n\nAs our troops were retreating, their entrance excited no enthusiasm\nin the sullen and ungrateful Spaniards.  They gazed apathetically\nfrom under their heavy eyebrows and broad sombreros, as battalion\nafter battalion defiled past, nor manifested the smallest interest\nuntil some Highland regiment approached, when cries of--\"Look at the\nScots,\" broke from every quarter.\n\n\"Mira los Escosses!  Viva los voliantes!  Viva los Escosses--los\nhombres valerosos.\"\n\nOthers, who knew the number of the Black Watch, varied the cry with--\n\n\"Viva la Regimento Quarenta Dos!\"\n\nThrough streets of old and decaying houses the regiment defiled to\nthe Plaza Mayor, while the bells of San Benito, St. Paul, and the\nScottish College were tolled mournfully.  All the balconies there\nwere covered with tapestry; and amid a profusion of crimson velvet, a\nportrait of Ferdinand VII. was hung in the great Plaza.  There the\nbattalion dispersed in search of billets; the officers to inquire if\nthe baggage had come up; to sigh for camp-beds and portmanteaux, that\nmight be stuck in the mud twenty miles off; or to swear at stupid\nservants or drunken bat-men, who had let them fall into the hands of\npillagers and paisanos.\n\nWellington and his aides-de-camp had taken up their quarters in the\nScottish College, the rector of which, an old Highlander, though sick\nand dying, welcomed them warmly.\n\nDick Duff, Garriehorne, the captain of Grenadiers, and Colquhoun\nGrant, the famous scouting officer, whose adventures are already, we\nhope, familiar to the reader, made their way straight to a posada,\nprevious to entering which an \"examination of ammunition\" took place,\nand among four purses two duros could only be mustered.  At this\ntime, many officers actually sold their silver epaulettes to the Jews\nof El Campo _for bread_.\n\n\"Ugh!\" said Dick; \"this comes of one's paymaster being nine months in\narrear! and yet, though we have scarcely a tester among us, we are\nfighting for an island which, according to the learned Bochart, was\nnamed by the Phoenicians emphatically--_the land of tin_!\"\n\nAn arched door gave admittance from the street to the lower story of\nthe posada, where the horses and mules were generally stabled; from\nthis, an open ladder gave access to the common hall; a second ladder\nled to the sleeping apartments, which were minus carpets, bells,\nplaster, and almost without windows or furniture; but, as Dick said\nto the grumbling captain of Grenadiers, no one looks for such things\nin a Spanish inn.\n\nSeveral Spanish officers were already in the public room, all\ntravel-stained and splashed with mud, but wrapped in their cloaks,\nand all with their feet planted on the only brassero, round which\nthey sat in a circle, smoking and making themselves as comfortable as\ncircumstances would admit; while the host, an old and sour-visaged\nAsturian, with clumsy hands and enormous shoulders, superintended the\ncooking of various edibles, which simmered and sputtered in stone\njars on the flat hearth, the fuel piled upon which cast a lurid glow\nfrom under the broad impending mantel-piece on his swarthy visage,\nhis stealthy eyes, and black grisly beard.  This fellow was repulsive\nin aspect; but his wife, _la patrona_, was a pretty paisana, not much\nabove eighteen years of age, dressed in the picturesque costume of\nthe country, and having her handsome legs encased in the tightest and\nbrightest of scarlet stockings.  She welcomed us with smiles of the\nutmost good humour that two brilliant eyes and a mouth filled with\nthe finest teeth could express.\n\n\"All right, Garriehorne,\" said Dick, in his bantering way; \"here is\none of the beautiful sex--como esta senora, how handsome you look\nto-night; 'pon my soul, I feel quite inclined to fall in love with\nyou.  Senor Patron--what is in the crocs, old fellow?\"\n\nDispleased by Dick's mode of addressing his young wife, the host\naffected not to hear.\n\n\"What can you let us have for supper, senora?\" asked Garriehorne,\nunbuckling his sword, \"hot castanos and garlic, of course, with Xerez\nand ripe grapes.\"\n\n\"Ripe grapes in November,\" growled the sulky patron; \"what the devil\nare you talking about, senor official?--_Ninas y vinas son mal de\nguardar_!\"\n\n\"Which means--\"\n\n\"That ripe maidens and ripe grapes require vigilance to keep long,\"\nsaid the pretty patrona, with a waggish smile.  \"We have a fine\nguisado in this croc, senor.\"\n\n\"A guisado!\" exclaimed Dick \"By Jove, the very thought of it makes me\nmore hungry than ever.\"\n\n\"What is it made of?\" said the captain of Grenadiers, doubtfully.\n\n\"Don't you know--everything! hare, rabbit, chicken, pheasant, claret\nand water, bacon, salt, garlic, onions, pepper, pimentos, Valdepenas\nbutter, a bunch of wild thyme--\"\n\n\"The deuce! what more?\"\n\n\"A little oil, and then it would add glory to the wedding of\nCamacho,\" said Dick.\n\n\"The senor caballero is quite a Spanish cook,\" said the pretty\npatrona; \"but,\" she added, with a furtive glance at Dick's pair of\nFrench pantaloons, \"I hope we shall not lose--\"\n\n\"Lose--not at all, my dear senora.  You shall be paid in gold as pure\nas your wedding ring.\"\n\n\"If we have it,\" added Garriehorne, aside.\n\n\"So serve up the guisado.  Its odour is exquisite!  By Jove, we four\nHannibals have here found our Capua!  But, Senor Patron,\" continued\nDick, speaking with his mouth very full, \"you are singularly like an\nugly fellow whom I met yesterday--what is your name?\"\n\n\"Morello.\"\n\n\"The devil it is! that name proved an unlucky one to me lately.\"\n\n\"Where, senor?\"\n\n\"At Villahoz.\"\n\n\"I have a son there--\"\n\n\"Keeper of a venta?\"\n\n\"Si, senor.\"\n\n\"The villain! he betrayed me to the French for ten dollars.\"\n\n\"Likely enough of Antonio,\" said the young wife; \"he is my step-son,\nand proves mala, mala--very bad.\"\n\n\"Step-sons frequently do in a step-mother's eyes, my dear patrona.\"\n\n\"He hates his father--\"\n\n\"The unnatural wretch!\"\n\n\"Hates him for having married me.\"\n\n\"In that I almost agree with him,\" said Dick.\n\n\"But he hates me, too.\"\n\n\"Hates you--so young, so charming!\"\n\n\"Yes, senor, and daily vows to have revenge; believing that I have\ncheated him out of his birthright.\"\n\n\"Dick, what are those fellows round the brassero jabbering about?\"\nasked the grenadier.\n\n\"Oh, they are mere cazadores, who say we should not have given up\nMadrid, or Burgos either, without a battle.\"\n\n\"Faugh! don't speak of Burgos; I am sick of shelling, storming, and\nmining.  A battle, indeed! but, perhaps, they know better than Lord\nWellington.\"\n\n\"A pretty woman that patrona is, ugh!\" added Dick, as he drew off his\nboots.  \"See now muddy and deep the path that leads to glory and\nPortugal is!  There are three inches of the mud of immortality, at\nleast.\"\n\nBy this time our friends bad finished the guisado, which proved\nexcellent, and a huge leathern bota of Xerez had been passed rapidly\nfrom hand to hand.  They became comfortable--then jolly.  Dick sang\nhis usual song, and they all retired to pass the night in a crazy\ngarret, and to thank Heaven that they were not for out-picquet on the\nBurgos road, and that they were to halt and not march all the next\nday.\n\nExhausted by toil, and perhaps somewhat overcome by their potations,\nand what our old friend Sancho Fanza would term \"the blessed scum\" of\nthe hot and savoury guisado, Colquhoun Grant and Garriehorne fell\ninto a sound sleep on the hard floor, with plaids around them, and\ntheir swords at hand; but poor Dick Duff's restless disposition kept\nhim long awake.\n\nHe thought of the young and pretty patrona, with her taper legs and\nmelting black eyes; of her scowling old spouse, and the rascal,\nAntonio Morello, who yesterday had so nearly procured him--the said\nDick Duff--three inches of a French bayonet, or a three years'\nsojourn at Bitche or Verdun on parole.  Then, as the moon shone\nbrightly, he rose and looked out upon the scenery, where the bright\nflood of her silver light fell aslant on the spires of the churches,\nand gilded with a white lustre the pinnacles and little square\nbelfries of the convents.  On one side lay a narrow street which led\nto the Plaza Mayor; on the other, spread a wilderness of flat roofs,\nfrom amid which the huge cathedral, begun, but never finished, by\nPhilip II., reared its dark outline; beyond, lay the beautiful plain\nwatered by the Esqueva, stretching away in the moonlight and the haze\nit exhaled.  All was silent and still, and no one seemed abroad save\none man, whom Dick perceived to be reconnoitring the posada with\nstealthy eyes and steps.  He placed a short ladder against one of the\nlower windows, which opened in two halves.  He pushed the lattice\nopen and entered.\n\n\"Is this fellow a thief or a lover?\" thought Dick; \"if an affair of\ngallantry, it is no business of mine.  Bah! what is there to steal\nfrom a Spanish posada? and to interfere with the nocturnal rambles of\nsome loving stableboy or amatory muleteer would be rather an insane\nproceeding on my part.\"\n\nWith these reflections he resumed his place on the floor, and was\nabout to drop asleep--for on service all curiosity becomes blunted;\nthe value of property and the risk of death but of little\nconsequence--when a cry pierced his ear.\n\nA cry! it was a wild and despairing one, that rang terribly along the\nwooden corridor; a struggle--the stamping of feet--the explosion of a\npistol, with the fall of a body heavily on the floor followed; and\nthen all became still save the barking of the _perro de caza_, or\nhouse-dog, in the yard.  Duff's first thought was of the enemy--that\ntheir cavalry were in the town--and that the picquets had been\nrepulsed on the Burgos road.  Then he thought of the intruder.\n\n\"Up, Grant,\" said he; \"get your sword, Garriehorne--the French or the\ndevil are at work here!\"\n\n\"Help, senores caballeros--help!\" cried a piteous voice in the\ncorridor.\n\n\"Is that you, senor patron?\"\n\n\"Si, senor--'tis I and the senora patrona--open, por amor de\nDios--the posada has been attacked by thieves.\"\n\n\"By thieves\"--\n\n\"Yes; and by the holy of holies, I have had the narrowest of\nescapes,\" he added, dragging in his young and pretty wife.  Both were\nin their night dresses; both were breathless and ghastly pale.\n\n\"What was the meaning of that pistol-shot?\"\n\n\"You shall hear, senor--you shall hear,\" replied the host, staggering\nto a seat.  \"Dios mio!  I was sound asleep, my day's work has been a\nsevere one, so many noble caballeros have been about the house all\nday long.  I was asleep; but the senora patrona saw a man in our\nroom; he carried a pistol in one hand, a lantern in the other.  Her\ncries awoke me, and I sprang from my bed to reach my Albacete knife,\nwhich usually lies on a stool close by; when lo! there was a flash in\nmy eyes, a pistol-ball grazed my right ear, and buried itself in the\npillow I had just left!  Santiago! my knife was in my hand; I became\nblind!  I rushed upon the would-be assassin; once, twice, ay, thrice,\nmy knife was buried in his heart; at first there was a cry of agony,\nthen I heard the breast-bone crack, as, with a heavy sob, he was\ndead.  Ouf!\" he added, as a light was brought; \"see how my right hand\nand arm are drenched in blood.\"\n\nHe flung the knife on the floor, and it sounded like a knell.\n\n\"Grant, look to the poor patrona,\" said Duff.  \"Come, Garriehorne,\nthe man may not be dead yet.\"\n\n\"O, senor, I warrant him dead enough; my first stab went straight to\nthe heart,\" replied the hostalero, grinding his teeth with savage\nenergy.\n\nProceeding along the dingy corridor, they reached his bedroom, where\na man, in a pool of thickening blood, lay prostrate on the floor.\n\n\"He is quite dead,\" said Garriehorne.\n\n\"Grant, turn the poor devil over, and let us see what like he is,\"\nsaid Dick Duff.\n\nHe was turned on his back, and a hoarse cry burst from old Morello,\non recognising in the relaxed jaw and fixed eye-balls of the corpse\nthe features of----_his son Antonio_!\n\n* * * * * *\n\n\"Come, gentlemen, let us quit this place,\" said Dick, with a shudder;\nand, as they issued into the empty streets, daylight was beginning to\nstruggle through their sinuous windings, while the merry rat-tat of\nthe British and Portuguese drums was heard, as they beat _reveille_\nin El Campo, the market-place, and before the old royal palace, where\nAnne of Austria first saw the light, and which, to the fourth story,\nwas full of allied troops.  The inlying picquets (always turned out\nin those days an hour before daylight) were standing under arms,\nlooking pale, wan, and drowsy in their dark great-coats, in the Plaza\nMayor.  This place was square, and surrounded by an arcade, within\nwhich are shops, and the brick houses have balconies of gilded iron\nat all the windows.  At a corner of the old palace our ramblers\npassed under a curious projecting clock, like that of Strasbourg; but\nbeing a loyal old Spanish clock, of true Castilian origin, it had\nnever gone since the French entered Spain.\n\n\"Senor,\" said Dick Duff to a Spanish cazadore who passed, and who\nseemed, like himself, to be on the look-out for a place of\nentertainment, \"what house is that?\"\n\n\"You mean the house without windows?\"\n\n\"Si, senor, and which has only those little holes to admit light\nthrough its high walls.\"\n\n\"The Holy Office, senor.\"\n\nDick shrugged his shoulders and quickened his pace.\n\n\"And is that place opposite the convent so famed for its pretty nuns?\"\n\n\"Which, senor?\"\n\n\"The convent of the Bleeding Heart.\"\n\n\"No, senor,\" said the don, with a dark look; \"it is the monastery of\nthe Bloody Nose.\"\n\n\"You seem to be a wag, my friend--well, and what place is that which\nthe staff are just leaving?\"\n\n\"El Colegio de los Escosses.\"\n\n\"Bravo--the Scots College!\" said they altogether; \"muchos gratias,\nsenor--we shall go there.\"\n\nAnd just as Wellington, cloaked and muffled, with a telescope slung\nover his shoulder, his blue cape and cocked hat covered by oiled\nskins, trotted into the Plaza Mayor, followed by his aides-de-camp,\none of whom was Prince Leopold, now King of the Belgians, Dick Duff\nand his comrades presented themselves at the arched doorway of the\nancient Catholic seminary.\n\n\"A college of priests!\" said Dick; \"I would infinitely prefer a\nconvent of nuns--but we cannot choose, unfortunately.\"\n\n\"Now, Duff,\" said Garriehorne, \"you must behave with propriety.\"\n\n\"Oh, you shall see; I am arranging my face to a most becoming length.\"\n\nWhile they were speaking the door unfolded, and a grave,\ndark-complexioned priest, clad in a long black satann, appeared\nbefore them.  His mild glance of anxious inquiry expanded into a kind\nsmile when he saw the tartans and plumed bonnets of the visitors; for\nhe was a Scotsman, and in those days, anterior to the Catholic\nemancipation, the Scottish clergy of the ancient faith were all but\noutcasts, and usually exiles from their own country; thus the poor\nman's heart filled and his eyes glistened, as he stretched out his\nhands inviting them to enter, and led them through the garden towards\nthe main building of the college.\n\nThis Scottish college at Valladolid was founded by the family of\nSemple, one of whom, Robert, known as the great Lord Semple, was long\nambassador from James VI. of Scotland to Philip II. of Spain; a\nservice on which he acquitted himself with reputation and honour to\nhis country, while his rigid adherence to the Catholic Church won him\nthe respect of the Spaniards.  The revenue of this college is about\n1000_l._ per annum, and the edifice was anciently a house of the\nJesuits.  Its lands are to be held of the Spanish crown _while vines\nshall continue to grow on them_, and in its cellars is a jolly\nwine-tun capable of holding eighteen thousand bottles--the mention of\nwhich made Dick Duff's eyes twinkle with delight.  Its chapel had a\ncrucifix which grew out of a thorn-tree to convert a Jew, but is now\nin the cathedral; and still better, it had a valuable library,\nwherein hangs a portrait of the founder in rich robes carrying a\nbaton, and another of his lady, Agnes Montgomery, daughter of Hugh,\nEarl of Eglinton.  Six miles from the city, the college has a\nhandsome country mansion, which Wellington occupied for one night\nduring the Burgos retreat.\n\nThe ancient faith in Scotland was then all but extinct.  A few\nwandering priests, braving the severe penalties of the Scottish law,\nlurked in the wildest parts of the Highlands, and, protected by the\ngentle ties of clanship, administered the rites of the Roman Church\nto its scattered adherents.  At Glenlivat, in the eighteenth century,\na little academy was maintained by them almost in secret; there\nphilosophy and divinity were taught to boys of talent, after which\nthey were sent abroad to the Scottish colleges of Rome, Douay,\nRatisbon, or Valladolid, from whence, as Jesuits or secular priests,\nthey returned to preach once more unto the clans the faith in which\ntheir fathers died.\n\nAll these odds and ends of information _anent_ this Scoto-Spanish\nestablishment were told to the military visitors by Father John\nCameron, in a low and gentle tone, as if he feared to wake some one,\nand all the Scottish priests and students, who crowded about the\nHighland officers in the little refectory, where wine and fruit were\nfreely proffered, spoke in the same remarkable manner, stopping ever\nand anon as if to listen for a passing sound; while gravity and\nanxiety were impressed on every face.\n\nRattling Dick Duff had so completely adopted the bearing of a modest,\nquiet, and seriously-disposed young man, that the heart of Father\nJohn Cameron, a priest well up in years, was quite won; and Dick\nbegan to feel some compunction, while telling him with the utmost\ngravity, that \"a natural abhorrence of gaiety and military uproar,\nwith a love of retirement and of cloistral seclusion, &c. &c., had\nbrought him and his companions, Captain Garriehorne and Colquhoun\nGrant, the famous scout who so tormented the Duc de Raguse, to visit\nthem;\" but he added, \"what the devil is the matter?  Is any one dead\nor hidden here--what's the row, that you all speak in whispers, as if\nthe walls had ears?\"\n\n\"It is a strange story,\" said the old priest, Father Cameron; \"our\nbeloved rector, without an apparent ailment, believes himself at the\npoint of death.  It is a sad narrative to me, for I loved the rector\nas a younger brother; although many years his senior (more than I\ndare reckon now), his talents and his piety made him superior to us\nall.  He believes that the day, the hour--yea, the moment of his\ndeparture _is fixed:_ it is a solemn, a terrible presentiment--but\nyou, as soldiers, will be inclined to smile at it and me.\"\n\n\"Nay, sir,\" replied Dick, \"you wrong us there; for on service we see\nevery day the most terrible fulfilment of presentiments.  I had a\nbrother drowned upon the 16th of November--my father ever said it was\n_our fatal day_, and had been so for ages.  He was wounded by my side\non the 16th of November, when our Highlanders stormed one of the West\nIndia Isles, and on the 16th of November he was killed near the city\nof Alexandria, and with my own hands I buried him the day before we\nmarched towards the Nile.  Poor old man!\"\n\n\"And there was poor old Major Wallace of Ours,\" said Grant, \"who had\nalways a presentiment that he would die on the 18th of March, the day\nhe was wounded as an ensign at the blockade of Alexandria in 1801,\nand on the 18th of last March we found him dead in his tent, killed\nby a random shot, when we were covering the siege of Badajoz.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" sighed the priest, \"there was poured forth the hot blood of\nmany a gallant heart.\"\n\n\"So you see, my dear sir, that solemn presentiments are to be found\nin the camp as well as in the cloister,\" added Dick, draining his\nwine-horn, with a thoughtful smile.\n\n\"Our reverend rector is powerfully possessed by the idea that he will\nnot outlive the 16th of this month of November, the day on which his\npatron----\"\n\nThe priest hesitated.\n\n\"Don't hesitate, my dear sir,\" said Dick; \"for I am come of an old\nCatholic stock--say on.\"\n\n\"The day on which his patron-saint died, and for a year past this\nconviction has become stronger in his mind as the time approached;\nyet he is a hale man and well, though somewhat more feeble than he\nwas wont to be.  His patron is Margaret, Queen of Scotland, who died\non the 16th of November, and this day is the _fifteenth_.  A month\nago, he felt this presentiment come more strongly, mysteriously, and\nsolemnly upon him; so that he could no longer attend to his duties as\nrector, but spent his whole time in abstemious fasting and earnest\nprayer, as one preparing for a great change.  He dismissed all the\nprofessors, students, servants, and other inmates to a country house\nwhich we possess, six miles from the city, telling us to enjoy\nourselves for a brief space, as a dark day of mourning was at hand.\n\n\"Impressed by the solemnity of his manner, we set out for the place,\nand remained there anxiously waiting to hear tidings from him, for he\nis dearly loved by us all, and by none more than me.  A week elapsed,\nbut we heard nothing from Valladolid; at last, I turned back, being\nhis dearest friend, and moreover, the oldest priest in the\ncollege--for I can remember the days when Charles of the Two Sicilies\nsat on the Spanish throne, and I was one of those who chanted the _De\nProfundis_ by the grave of Charles Edward Stuart; I can remember when\nthe spires of seventy convents towered over Valladolid, for in El\nCampo every alternate house was a religious one; and now there are\nbut sixteen and _only_ twenty-four convents.  Well, gentlemen, I came\nback to inquire, and soon saw enough to fill me with alarm.  In our\nabsence the rector had hung the college chapel with black; he had\nmoreover raised the pavement before the shrine of St. Margaret, and\nafter measuring his own height, had there dug a grave for himself,\neight feet deep, and as I crossed the aisle, its ghastly depth in the\nblack and bone-impregnated earth that lay piled on each side, struck\nme with awe and terror.  I searched for the rector, but was unable to\nfind him in any of the dormitories, refectory, library, or garden.\nAt last, barefooted and bareheaded, clad in sackcloth, and girt by a\ncord of discipline, I found him kneeling near the grave he had dug;\nhe was praying earnestly, and never did the divine Murillo conceive a\nhead more noble, or a face more expressive of piety, enthusiasm,\nworship, and prayer, in all its glory, than those of our rector as I\nsaw him at that moment, with his eyes uplifted from a book of vespers\ntowards the crowned statue of the Scottish Queen, around which twelve\nlittle lights were sparkling; and I could hear the words that came\nfrom his pale lips, though they fell faintly and slowly,\n\n\"'Deus, qui beatam Margaritam, Scotorum Reginam, eximi\u00e2 in pauperes\ncharitate mirabilem effecisti: da, ut ejus intercessione et exemplo,\ntua in cordibus nostris charitas jugiter augeatur.'\n\n\"When I approached, he fainted.  I had him at once conveyed to bed\nand applied restoratives; but so low had his strength and system\nebbed by excessive fatigue, prayer, and fasting, that we have\nscarcely a hope of recovering him, and the conviction that he shall\ndie to-morrow, on the 16th November, the anniversary of his patron's\ndeath, seven hundred years ago, is so vividly impressed upon his\nmind, that knowing its breadth of thought and unyielding energy of\npurpose, a solemn sadness has come upon us all, and we wait in terror\nthe issue of this gloomy presentiment.\"\n\nThe military visitors were deeply impressed by this strange and\nfantastic story; and on Father Cameron requesting them to visit the\ncouch where the rector lay, in the hope that their Highland garb\nmight rouse some old or other emotions in his breast, they at once\nassented and followed in silence to his chamber.\n\nUnder cloisters arched and old, they were led through the ancient\nchapel, where many a stern Jesuit who had heard Loyola preach, and\nwhere many a poor priest of the Scottish mission, were at rest from\ntheir labours; and past the newly-dug grave where a stone already\nbore the name of the rector, cut by his own hand.  Duff paused for a\nmoment and read thereon,\n\n\nM.S.\n\n_Don Iago de Santa, Margareta; Rector del Collegia de los Escosses;\nValladolid.  Requien a Dios por el._\n\n\n\"Mater Salvatoris, ora pro nobis!\" muttered Father Cameron, as he\nhurried past, and led them into the gloomy little apartment, in which\nthe further to mortify his flesh, the rector had taken up his\nquarters.\n\nIt was square, and floored with red tiles; on the dull and\ndiscoloured walls were two or three Murillos and Alonzo Canos; in the\nwindow, around which the naked vines had clambered, lay a skull\nbefore a crucifix; around were shelves laden with books, many being\nold tomes of Scottish theology; and there were many old engravings of\nthe House of Stuart in ebony frames, Prince Charles, James VIII., and\nCardinal York.\n\nDick Duff took all this in at a rapid glance, and then his eyes\nrested on a thin, wan, and emaciated figure that lay on a plain and\nuncurtained Spanish bed in a corner of the apartment.  The rector's\neyes were closed and his hands were clasped.  He scarcely seemed to\nbreathe, and yet he was praying earnestly.  His profile was sharp and\nthin; he did not seem to be much above forty years of age; yet the\nhair that clustered round his high and intellectual temples was\nprematurely silvered over.\n\n\"Heavens!\" exclaimed Dick, in a suppressed voice, and with a start of\nterror, \"how like my poor old father he looks just now!\"\n\n\"Like your father?\" reiterated Garriehorne.\n\n\"Yes--yes: he is the poor old man's image--just as he lay dead at\nAlexandria, when I rolled him in my blanket and buried him in the\nsand, digging his grave with my bayonet--God rest him!\"\n\n\"The rector's history is a strange one,\" said Father Cameron; \"but we\nknow not his name, therefore we call him James of St. Margaret.\"\n\n\"But how came he here?\"\n\n\"Listen,\" replied the priest in a low voice, and they all drew aside.\n\"Many years ago I was at sea, flying for safety from Argyllshire,\nhaving been hunted from parish to parish, because I had dared to say\nmass in secret to our people--for to perform the offices of our faith\nin Scotland was then to commit a crime.  Our vessel was running\nseaward down the Sound of Mull, when a boat was discovered adrift,\nwithout sails or oars; and in that boat we found a little child--a\nboy--asleep, or worn by terror and the tossing waves into a dreamless\ntorpor.  He was brought on board, and to me the discovery of a boy\nfloating thus upon the sea, like Amadis de Gaul or Florizel in their\nbaskets, as we read in the old romances; or like Moses or Judas\nIscariot, as we may read in the writings of the Fathers, seemed of\ngreat import--the more so, as I found an amulet, or reliquary, at his\nneck, wherein was a relic of St. Margaret, with a prophecy written by\none whom I knew, for I was then but a youth--yea, knew well----\"\n\n\"Father John of Douay?\" exclaimed Dick Duff.\n\n\"Yes; John Macdonald of Douay--how know you that?\"\n\n\"Ask me not--ask me not, sir---but proceed.\"\n\n\"Yes, written by the most reverend father, John of Douay (who was\nbutchered by the French in Flanders), foretelling that this child\nwould yet become great in the church, and would serve God at His\naltar long and faithfully----\"\n\n\"This was in the year 1772?\" exclaimed Dick, who had listened\nbreathlessly.\n\n\"It was, sir.  The poor child could tell me nothing of his parents,\nand knew only that his name was Hamish--that he had seated himself in\nan old boat upon the beach, and fallen asleep, after which he was\nawaked by the rough rocking of his new cradle, as it tumbled on the\nwaves, which had risen and floated it out into the Sound.  He wept\nfor his mother long and passionately; but I brought him hither, and\nin the bosom of our Mother Church he soon learned to forget his\nearthly mother, who is now, perhaps, awaiting him in heaven----\"\n\n\"For her wish has doubtless been mysteriously fulfilled,\" said Duff,\nincoherently.  \"Eternal Power! if this should be the case!  Tell me,\ngood sir, is there a scar----\"\n\n\"Upon his left side?--yes.\"\n\n\"The mark of a stag's-horn, which gored him on the rocks of\nLoch-na-Keal.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes.\"\n\n\"Then this child whom you found floating on the sea, and who has\nlived to become the Rector of your College, is my _brother_, Hamish\nDuff, for whose supposed drowning in the Sound of Mull, our poor\nmother died of grief on the sixteenth of November.\"\n\n\"The _sixteenth_ of November! the very day on which he has so long\nbelieved he is himself to die.\"\n\nDick threw down his plumed bonnet and hastened to the bedside with\nhis eyes full of tears and a wild expression in his face.\n\n\"O how like our old father he looks!\" he exclaimed, as he turned down\nthe coverlet.\n\nThere was no motion; he placed a hand on the rector's heart; but\nthere was no pulsation.  He was dead--dead, but still warm.\n\nAt that moment the clock of the college tolled the half-hour _after_\ntwelve!\n\nThus as he had so long foretold and foreseen, but by what mysterious\nintuition or presentiment, Heaven alone knows, he had actually passed\naway on the early morning of the sixteenth day of November.\n\n* * * * * *\n\nThe French cavalry were still pressing on, and the jaded allies were\nstill in full retreat; thus the Scottish fathers of the ancient\ncollege hurried the funeral by the next noon, that the Lieutenant of\nthe Black Watch might lay his brother's head in the grave; and\naccordingly the rector was lowered into the tomb which his own hands\nhad formed before the shrine of St. Margaret, the Patroness of\nScotland; and Dick Duff was a changed man, and a grave man too,\nduring the remainder of that horrible retreat, on which so many of\nour brave soldiers perished of starvation and fatigue; and which Lord\nWellington continued without delay, until the Ebro and the Douro were\nfar in his rear; and his harassed army found winter quarters on the\nfrontier of Portugal.\n\nFather John Cameron lived to a good old age, and died Catholic Bishop\nof Edinburgh, where he now lies interred before the altar of St.\nMary's Chapel.\n\n\n\n\nX.\n\nTHE FOREST OF GAICH;\n\nOR, THE CAPTAIN DHU.\n\nAfter the Flemish campaign, under his Royal Highness the Duke of\nYork, and the terrible retreat to Deventer--a retreat in which the\nsufferings of our troops rivalled those endured by the French after\nMoscow--the 42nd Highlanders were encamped during the spring of 1795\nat Hanbury, in England, under the command of General Sir William\nMeadows, when their strength, which had been weakened by their recent\noperations against the French republican armies, was greatly\naugmented by volunteers from various Highland fencible corps, which\nhad been raised in the preceding year.  Among others, they were\njoined by the two entire flank companies of the Grant Fencibles, or\nold 97th Regiment, which had been raised to the number of thirteen\nhundred men by Sir James Grant of Grant, Bart, (locally known as the\n_Good_ Sir James), almost entirely among his own name and clan in\nStrathspey, a district which has long been famous for its stirring\nmusic and the military spirit of its people.  These volunteers, in\nthe month of September, set out on their march through Badenoch to\njoin the 42nd, under the command of Captain MacPherson of\nBallychroan, who had been appointed to the corps, the colonel of\nwhich was then Major-General Sir Hector Munro, K.B.\n\nEvan MacPherson was generally known in that wild and mountainous\ndistrict named Badenoch as the Captain _Dhu_, or Black Officer, in\nconsequence of his raven-coloured hair, his swarthy complexion, and\ndark eyes, and, perhaps also, from the peculiarities of his\ncharacter, which, though brave to recklessness, was stern, severe in\ndiscipline, and at times mysterious, savage, and vindictive.\n\nThe captain swore high, drank deep, and gambled as if he had the\nmines of Peru among the glens of Ballychroan.  These qualities,\ntogether with his great strength and stature, rendered him more\nfeared than loved in the district of Badenoch, where it was currently\nbelieved that he was in league with the devil, and where the story of\nhis terrible end is yet remembered with a shudder by the people round\nthe winter hearth.  There are many yet alive in Strathspey who saw\nand knew Black Evan, and remember the events which I am about to\nrecord.\n\nFrom Speyside he marched his volunteers through Glentromie, and,\nfollowing the course of the river which gives that valley its name,\nentered the wilder and more romantic parts of Badenoch, between the\nStoney Mountain ana Drum Ferrich, till about nightfall, when, to the\ngreat bodily discomfort and greater mental discomposure of the\nsoldiers, who dared not complain save in whispers to each other, he\nhalted in the haunted Forest of Gaich, a wild and uninhabited tract\nof country on the northern slope of the mighty Grampians.\n\nThere he ordered them to pile arms, and have a fire lighted in a\nplace which he indicated, near a well, deemed holy, as the water of\nit had been blessed by St. Eonaig of old.  On this, a white-haired\nsergeant, Hamish Grant, from Brae Laggan, respectfully ventured to\nsuggest that the fire might burn equally well elsewhere.\n\nMacPherson, who was not accustomed to be trifled with or have his\norders disputed, stormed and swore terribly, according to his wont,\nboth in Gaelic and English.\n\n\"Good will never come of it,\" said the sergeant, moodily.\n\n\"Let evil come if it may, and welcome be it!\" responded MacPherson,\nscornfully; \"let the old fellow who blessed the well come from his\ngrave at Kilmaveonaig, and, if he chooses, I'll give him a jorum of\nits water flavoured with Ferintosh.\"\n\nMuffled in their grey great-coats, or in their plaids of the bright\nred Grant tartan, the soldiers sat or lay in groups near the fire,\nwhich burned cheerfully, and shed a wavering glare along the green\nmountain slope.  The night was calm, and the stars shone brightly\noverhead; no moon was visible yet, and scarcely a breath of wind\nstirred the light foliage of the silver birches.  Attracted by the\nunwonted light of the fire, the dun deer were visible at times, but\nfor a moment only, as they peered from their lair among the feathery\nbracken leaves, and then fled to distant parts of the forest.\n\nThe soldiers sung Gaelic songs to while away the time, and each\nshared with his comrade the contents of his canteen and havresack;\nfor, having just left their homes in Strathspey, all were amply\nprovided with bread and cheese, beef, venison, and plenty of good\nusquebaugh; thus, though the place of their halt was weird, wild,\nand--all save the little runnel that trickled down the heather\nslope--unholy, the night seemed likely to pass merrily enough.\n\nApart from all his men lay Evan MacPherson, of Ballychroan, who on\nthis night was unusually sullen, gloomy, and taciturn; so much so,\nthat the soldiers, all of whom knew him well, remarked that a\n_tarnecoill_, or black cloud, was upon him; for at times he had his\ndark or melancholy hour.\n\n\"And how could he be otherwise?\" said old Sergeant Hamish, in a\nwhisper, as he took a huge _sneishen_ from the silver-mounted mull of\nCorporal Shon Grant, his own cousin, \"only seventeen times removed,\"\nas Bailie Jarvie has it.  \"Oich! oich! who but he would have halted\nin the Forest of Gaich, and at night too?\"\n\n\"I'll sleep with one eye open, at all events,\" replied the corporal,\nimpressively, with a wink.\n\n\"And I with both my ears,\" said Duncan Bane, the piper; \"for, by the\nhorns of the devil--\"\n\n\"Whisht!  Oich, don't name him here, for he is, perhaps, nearer than\nwe know of; but what were you about to say?\"\n\n\"That we shall be lucky if we pass the night without hearing the\nscream of Comyn's eagles as they fly towards the Tarff.\"\n\n\"It is said, they pass through the forest from Benoch Corrie Va\nalways at midnight,\" said Donald Bane Grant, or Fair-haired Donald\nthe piper, in a whisper.\n\nSome of the younger soldiers laughed; but the older shrugged their\nshoulders, and took an additional dram and sneishen, as they thought\nof all the Forest of Gaich had witnessed in other times.\n\nIn a previous legend, the fate of the Red Comyn has been mentioned;\nbut this forest was the death-scene of his father, the equally\ntraitorous Black Comyn; and it was to the story of his terrible death\nthe soldiers referred.\n\n\"He was killed,\" said one, \"by a fall from his horse, which a weird\nwoman had bewitched.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" said the sergeant, bluntly; for he was well versed in\nall the oral literature of his native hills.\n\n\"How then--how?\" asked several.\n\n\"His death happened thus,\" began the sergeant in Gaelic.  \"The Black\nComyn was a fierce tyrant, who dwelt in the black Castle of\nInverlochy, to which he added the great round western tower, that\nstill bears his name; and there he and his wife, who was the Lady\nMarjorie, daughter of John Baliol, King of Scotland, were a terror\nand a grievance to the whole country by their exactions, extortions,\nand severity.  Every one in Badenoch knows the story of his\nconceiving a love for two pretty girls whom he saw reaping in a field\nnear Croc Barrodh, and whom, because they fled from him, he ordered\nhis Lowland men-at-arms to strip nude as they came into the world,\nand in that condition he compelled to finish the reaping of the field\nin the light of open day, while he and his friends mocked them, and\nlooked on.\n\n\"Two days after this, he was at the Cell of St. Eonaig, in Blair\nAthole, where he tarried at a wayside cottage to obtain a draught of\nbeer.  The baron was thirsty, and he drank deep; the day was hot--he\nhad ridden far, and the beverage was cool, sharp, and refreshing.\n\n\"'This beer of yours pleases me much,' said he; 'whence get you it,\ndame?'\n\n\"'I am my own brewer,' replied the cottager; 'but the malt is brought\nfrom St. John's Town.'\n\n\"'And the water?'\n\n\"'From yonder stream.'\n\n\"'The Aldnehearlinn?'\n\n\"'Yes.'\n\n\"'Good!  I shall have such beer made in my Castle of Inverlochy, if\nit cost me a thousand lives and fifty thousand silver crowns!' said\nComyn, wiping the white froth from his coal-black beard with his\nsteel glove.\n\n\"'Then you must make a road over the Grampians,' said the woman.\n\n\"'And a road I shall make, dame,' he exclaimed.\n\n\"The woman laughed covertly, and bitterly uttered a curse under her\nbreath; for she was the mother of one of the young reapers whom he\nhad so recently dishonoured.  Now this woman was a witch, and the\nbeer she had given the Lord of Badenoch was brewed under a spell;\nthus, whoever drank thereof became her victim and the instrument of\nher will.\n\n\"The Black Comyn resolved that whatever might be the result, he would\nhave beer of the same kind in his Castle of Inverlochy; but to\nprocure the ingredients a road was necessary, and he at once ordered\none to be made.  Then thousands of men were soon seen at work, with\naxe and shovel hewing a path from the lonely little cell of St.\nEonaig, through the dense fir woods of Craig Urrand, building a\nbridge across the Bruar in Athole, and digging a way straight to this\nForest of Gaich; and thus far it was made when the work was stopped\nby witchcraft.\n\n\"Daily the Black Comyn came to survey the road and to watch its\nprogress over hill and glen, and wood and water, and many observed\nthat daily two eagles hovered above his head, but high in mid-air,\nwhere the arrows of his best archers failed to reach them; for these\nscreaming eagles were witches, the mother of the two pretty\nreapers--the beer woman of St. Eonaig, and another cailloch who dwelt\nby the Lochy, and who came hither to scheme out vengeance and to\ndestroy the Black Comyn's road, lest when finished it might prove an\neasy avenue for the Perthshire clans to march into Badenoch.\n\n\"By the day of St. Eonaig the road had been made nearly to Gaich, and\nthe dun deer, roused from their lair, were flying before the workmen,\nwhen the screams of the two giant eagles were heard overhead; the men\nwere dispersed or rendered powerless by a spell, while all their\nhorses and oxen took to flight, as if possessed by the demons which\nentered the swine of old, and rushing headlong over the precipices\nwere destroyed.\n\n\"Corayn beheld this sudden catastrophe with emotions of astonishment\nand rage, which were soon changed to fear, when the flapping wings\nand shrill cries of the furious eagles rang close in his ears, and\nwith dusky wings outspread, and monstrous beaks open, he saw them\ndescending swoop upon him.\n\n\"He turned his fleet horse, and goring him with his spurs, fled he\nknew not whither.\n\n\"The infernal birds pursued him closely, and the summer sun cast\ntheir shadows like flying clouds upon his path.  He crossed the ridge\nof the Grampians, and galloped downward at a frightful pace towards\nCraignaheilar; but there they overtook him, though he cowered upon\nhis horse's mane, and implored God to save him!  His entreaties were\nin vain, for God seemed to have abandoned the Black Comyn to the\nfiends, even as He abandoned his son the Red Traitor to the dagger of\nBruce; and now the eagles, plunging their beaks and talons in his\nflesh, tore him limb from limb, and scattered the reeking fragments\nof his body in the wilderness.  One of his legs was still dangling in\nthe silver stirrup when his terrified horse fell dead on the banks of\nthe Tarff.*\n\n\n* At a place still named _Lechois_, or _one foot_, according to Mr.\nScrape.  See his work on \"Deerstalking.\"\n\n\n\"And once in every hundred years,\" concluded the sergeant, \"his\nspirit is said to ride from Gaich, followed by the screaming eagles.\"\n\n\"And here, too,\" said the corporal, glancing about him and stirring\nthe embers of the fire, \"has been seen many a time, as I have heard\nmy mother say, the great Black Cat of the Woods--the king of all\ncats.\"\n\n\"Aire Dhia!\" exclaimed the sergeant, uneasily; \"that is the devil\nhimself.\"\n\n\"Cat or devil, I care not which,\" said the corporal; \"but we all know\nthe story of the Laird of Brae na Garacher, who fought in the wars of\nMontrose, and when hunting here in Gaich, on Yule Eve, shot a black\ncat of enormous size, and just as he approached, cautiously, to\nexamine the scratching brute, to his astonishment it opened its red\nmouth and addressed him in very good Gaelic, begging that he would\nhave the Christian charity to inform the cats at home of his untimely\nend.  You may be sure that Brae na Garacher lost little time after\nthat in making his way out of the forest and reaching home, where he\nrelated what had happened, and all the family laughed at him, saying,\nthere was nothing in the world like good Campbelton whiskey for\nmaking even a cat speak!\n\n\"But lo! the moment his story was concluded, a little black kitten,\nthat sat by the hearth, sprang with a fierce bound to the back of a\nhigh arm-chair, with its tail bushy like a fox's brush, its ears flat\non its head, its yellow eyes glaring with rage, its back erect, and\nits little body swollen to all appearance thrice its usual size.\nThere it sat for a minute spitting and howling like an evil spirit,\nand then vanished up the chimney!  This event silenced the laughers,\nand sorely disturbed the mind of the laird, who resolved to consult\nwith the minister about it on the morrow, and, in the meantime, to\ndrink deep before going to bed.  About midnight he was awakened by a\nsound, and, by the dim rays of his night-lamp, saw a black mass\nhovering over him.\n\n\"It was the huge black cat he had shot in the Forest of Gaich!\n\n\"Its eyes shone like those of a snake, its fierce claws were extended\ntowards him, its red mouth was open, and its hot breath came\nbalefully upon his cheek, as slowly, surely, and deliberately, it\ndescended from the roof of his bed upon him, and clutching at his\nthroat, lacerated and strangled him to death!\"\n\n\"And I have heard from my father, who was out with the Prince, God\nrest them both!\" said the piper, \"that on the same night of Brae na\nGaracher's death, when the minister of Kingussie was riding home by\nthe skirts of this forest, he passed a mighty multitude of cats.\nThey covered all the sides of the hills, and swarmed among the rocks\nand trees, like mites in an old cheese.  On reaching home, he found\nthat every cat in the village, and all the adjacent cottages, had\ndisappeared, and gone towards the Forest of Gaich, from whence they\nnever returned.\"\n\nJust as this third veracious story was concluded by Donald Bane the\npiper, he, the sergeant, and others who yet lingered by the\nwatch-fire, as if in that place, so weird and lone, they were loth to\ncommit themselves to sleep, were startled by the presence of a man--a\nstranger--who suddenly appeared among them, without any one having\nseen or heard him approach--appeared as if he had sprung from the\nground.\n\nHis aspect was remarkable, and had something alike impressive and\nterrible about it.  He was dressed like a Lowland peasant; but his\ncomplexion was dark as that of a mulatto.  His hair, beard, and\nwhiskers were of raven blackness; the latter appendages, which he\nwore in great profusion, grew close up to his keen and restless eyes,\nwhich glared from under the shadow of his beetling brows and broad\nround bonnet, like those of a polecat from under a bush; but his grey\nplaid, the folds of which were full and ample, rose high upon his\nbreast and concealed his mouth.\n\nHis eyes, which had all the fascinating glare of the fierce bright\norbs of the rattle-snake, leisurely surveyed the quailing soldiers\none after another in silence, and then he grinned, as if pleased by\nthe startling impression his sudden appearance created, and spreading\nhis strong, brown, swarthy hands over the flames, thrust them almost\ninto the fire, without seeming to feel the heat in any way oppressive.\n\n\"Who are you?' asked the sergeant, firmly.\n\n\"One whom you may perhaps know well enough by-and-by,\" replied the\nother, with a grimace.\n\n\"Are you a Lowlander?\" asked the corporal.\n\n\"Dioul!\" growled the other; \"did such pure Gaelic as mine ever come\nfrom the tongue of a bodach in breeks?  But speak out, my friends; of\nwhat are you afraid?\"\n\n\"I fear nothing human,\" replied the sergeant; \"but I fear God, and\nhate the devil and all his works.\"\n\n\"What wrong has the devil ever done you?\"\n\n\"He put it in the heart of a vile Cateran to draw his dirk on me at\nthe Inverness cattle tryst in August last.\"\n\n\"Nay, sergeant, it was not the poor devil who caused this, but your\nhot Highland whiskey and temper to boot.  Yet I do not think you have\nmuch to complain of, as you well nigh slew him afterwards.\"\n\n\"The devil?\"\n\n\"No--the Cateran, as you call him.  As for the devil, he, poor\nfellow, is very much maligned on earth, I assure you.\"\n\n\"'Twas only a dab with a dirk I gave the Cateran, and he gave me\nanother.\"\n\n\"A dab--a severe wound?\"\n\n\"Bah!  I would let any honest man do as much to me, for a good dram,\nany day; like true Highlanders, we parted after the first blood\ndrawn.\"\n\nThe dark man gave one of his ferocious grins, as he said,\n\n\"You parted--true; but how fared it with your assailant?\"\n\n\"He was lodged by the meddling provost and bailies in the bottle\ndungeon in the middle arch of Inverness Bridge.\"\n\n\"Yes--confined there, with nothing between him and the rain and wind\nof heaven but an iron grating--a narrow hatch of steel ribs, over\nwhich the wayfarers tread, and there he is yet.\"*\n\n\n* This _oubliette_ perished with the old Bridge of Inverness.\n\n\n\"All this is the provost's fault, _not_ mine.  _We_ march by\ndaybreak,\" said the sergeant, who had imbibed a strange mistrust and\nfear of this nocturnal visitor; \"whither go you?\"\n\n\"To a warmer place than even the warmest West Indian Isle,\" was the\nsignificant reply of the other, with a withering glance of\nmalevolence and irony; \"but it was not to talk with you I sought the\nForest of Qaich to-night.  My man is here!\"\n\nWith these strange words, the tall dark man strode to the foot of a\ntree.  There, muffled in his cloak and fast asleep, or to all\nappearance so, Captain MacPherson was lying with his head pillowed on\nthe root of a gigantic larch, and when shaken roughly by the\nshoulder, he started up with one of his terrible oaths, but grew pale\non beholding the person who aroused him.  On recovering himself\npartially,\n\n\"What errand brings you here to-night?\" he asked, in a low and\nstifled voice.\n\n\"To see you,\" was the brief reply.\n\n\"But why now, fiend?\"\n\n\"Where so fitting a place as the Forest of Gaich?\"\n\n\"True--true! fool--madman that I was!  What lured me to halt here?\"\n\n\"What lured you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Shall I tell you?\" grinned the other.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Fatality,\"\n\n\"Alas! alas!\"\n\n\"Come,\" said the visitor, fiercely, \"for time presses.\"\n\n\"Hurry no man's cattle,\" grumbled MacPherson; \"so begone, fiend, for\nI go not with you to-night.\"\n\n\"You will not?\"\n\n\"No!\"\n\nThe dark stranger laughed till the very hills seemed to echo; and\nthat weird sound made the marrow freeze in the bones of the old\nsergeant, who was listening.\n\n\"Come,\" continued the visitor, \"lest I drag you hence.\"\n\n\"Drag!\" reiterated the captain, with a furious malediction.\n\n\"Yes, drag; for you are powerless as a suckling, and your will is\nmine.\"\n\nFor a moment their swarthy eyes glared like live coals upon each\nother.  At last those of the Captain Dhu lowered, and he said, in a\nbroken voice,\n\n\"Go to the place of tryst, and I shall be with you.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"In the snapping of a flint,\" he groaned, while the perspiration\nrolled over his pallid brow.\n\n\"Ha! ha!  Nay, I go not without you.\"\n\n\"Then the curse of God--the bitter, blighting curse that marked the\nfront and withered up the soul of Cain--be on you!\" exclaimed the\ncaptain, maddened with fear and rage.  \"Hound of hell, lead on--I\nfollow you!  Stand by your arms, men.  Sergeant, at your peril, see\nthat no man follows us!\"\n\nThe swarthy man grinned again on hearing this outburst and these\norders; and while the startled soldiers gazed in each other's faces\nwith blank astonishment at the progress and issue of a conversation\nso strange, and at the aspect of one before whom this terrible\nofficer, the Captain Dhu--he so stern and stormy, so fierce and\nunyielding--seemed to quail and bow, he and his weird-like visitor\nwent from amidst them, and together sought a lonelier and more\nsequestered part of the forest.\n\nThey remained absent for some time.  The whole party of soldiers were\nnow awakened, and muttered strangely among themselves; while,\nregardless of the orders he had received, old Sergeant Hamish Grant,\nimpelled by an irresistible and, perhaps, laudable curiosity, crept\nslowly forward on his hands and knees; but he had not proceeded far\nthus, when he heard the voices of the captain and his nocturnal\nvisitor--the former in tones of entreaty, and the latter in those of\nauthority and fierce derision.  Creeping on a few paces further, with\na drawn bayonet in his hand, he beheld a sight which, when he\nconsidered the proud and stern character of his leader, filled him\nwith blank wonder.\n\nThe waning moon was now visible; it shone out for a moment from\nbehind a mass of crapelike cloud.  The dark figures of MacPherson and\nthe stranger were distinctly seen.  The place of their meeting was a\ngreen fairy ring, covered with rich grass, which waved solemnly in\nthe breeze.  Close by it towered three gigantic granite blocks,\nspotted with green lichens, silent, grim, and lonely, for they were\nDruidical obelisks; and in the middle of this circle of Loda lay the\n\"mossy stone of power,\" the altar of other times.  MacPherson was on\nhis knees; the dark man towered over him, threatening and commanding,\nbut what he said, the trembling sergeant knew not, though all around\nwas deathly still, save the trembling of the wiry pine foliage; for\nat times a tremulous motion will agitate a wood, even when the breath\nof the wind has passed away.  Wan, white, and ghastly, the rays of\nthe sinking moon poured over Benoch-corri-va aslant, and threw the\nshadows of the Druid stones, and of those who lingered there, far\nbeyond the ancient circle.\n\nA cloud passed over her face, veiling everything for a moment.\n\nWhen again the still white moonbeams fell on the fairy ring and the\nDruid stones, no one was there.\n\nThe place was lonely and silent\n\nFull of terror and awe, the sergeant rushed back to the bivouac to\ntell what he had seen; but for a time his lips were sealed, for he\nheard the voice of the captain, who had reached the night-fire before\nhim, ordering the whole to stand to their arms and prepare to march.\n\nEvan MacPherson was deadly pale; his manner was wild and excited; but\nthe strictness of discipline, and the known severity of his\ncharacter, alike forbade inquiry or remark.  The arms were unpiled in\nsilence, knapsacks were strapped on, and just as the light of\ndaybreak began dimly and faintly to eclipse the waning moon, the\nStrathspey men proceeded on their march, which lay across the\nGrampians, and through Glen Bruar towards Blair Atholl.\n\nA dead silence pervaded the ranks: if any spoke, it was in a whisper,\nand each man suggested to his comrade that Evan Dhu of Ballychroan\nhad sold himself to the Evil One.  If further proofs were required\nthan those afforded by this night-interview, Sergeant Hamish Grant\nand the piper, Donald Bane, were ready to aver on oath that in every\nplace around the fire and across the forest towards the fairy ring\nwhereon the foot of that mysterious visitor had trod, the grass was\nscorched and withered.  Their clansman, the corporal, who was\nsomewhat sceptical on this point, suggested that these black spots\nmight have been caused by the birch and pine sparks from their\nwatchfires, but old Hamish indignantly repelled the idea; and the\nfuture career of Evan of Ballychroan more than corroborated all that\nwas averred to have taken place on that eventful night, in the\nhaunted Forest of Gaich.\n\nAbout the end of September, MacPherson, with his Strathspey men,\njoined the regiment, which embarked on the 27th October for the West\nIndies, forming part of the expedition of twenty-two thousand one\nhundred and fifty-nine infantry, and three thousand and sixty\ncavalry, led by Sir Ralph Abercrombie, and destined to reduce the\nisles of St. Lucia, St. Vincent, and Trinidad.  Tempestuous weather\nsucceeded the embarkation, and on the 29th the wind blew a hurricane,\nwhich drove many of the Indiamen and transports from their anchors,\ndismasted some, and bulged others on the beach.  The expedition was\nthus delayed until the 11th November, when again the whole fleet,\nconsisting of three hundred sail, put to sea; but the flagship\n_Impregnable_ was stranded on a sand-bank, and unable to proceed;\nother disasters succeeded; the _Middlesex_, with five hundred of the\nBlack Watch on board, had her bowsprit and foretopmast carried away\nby the _Undaunted_ when off the Isle of Wight, and was thus left\nastern of the whole squadron; which had no sooner cleared the British\nChannel, than it was dispersed by another dreadful tempest, which\ntotally disabled the _Commerce de Marseilles_, a\nhundred-and-twenty-gun ship (French prize), having the 57th Regiment\non board, and caused the loss of several transports and many hundred\nlives.  The admiral was driven back to Portsmouth, and his fleet,\nafter being long tempest-tossed, and scattered over the stormy winter\nsea, reached Barbadoes in detail.\n\nIn the Black Watch, this strange series of disasters were secretly\nbut unanimously attributed to the malevolence and interference of the\nDevil.  The mysterious meeting in the Forest of Gaich was remembered,\nand Evan of Ballychroan was viewed with anything but favour by the\nsoldiers under his command; yet he did his duty bravely and\ncheerfully, and was stern and severe as ever when any fault or\ndereliction of orders occurred.  The superstitious dread with which\nhis mountaineers regarded the events of the voyage need not excite\nsurprise, when we remember that, about the same period, the crew of\none of his Majesty's crack frigates flatly refused to sail until the\ncaptain thereof sent his black tom-cat ashore, or had its ears and\ntail docked, to alter its feline aspect.\n\nBut this long succession of mishaps by sea, and upon the events which\npreceded the voyage, were forgotten by the Strathspey men, when, on\nthe 9th of February next year, the _Middlesex_ ran into one of the\nharbours of Barbadoes, and the clear brilliant sky and blue waters of\nthe Caribbean Sea were beaming around them; and then the charming\ngreenness and fertility of this place, the most eastern of these\nlovely Indian isles, made all long for the shore, eager to disembark,\nand to escape the vertical heat of a tropical sun blazing on the\ndecks of a crowded transport.\n\nBrigades were now detailed to attack and reduce the principal isles\nof the West Indies.  General Whyte, with the brave 39th (\"_Primus in\nIndia_\"), the Sutherland Highlanders, and the old 99th, sailed\nagainst Demerara and Berbice, which he captured almost without\nresistance; while Brigadier-General Moore (the future hero of\nCorunna), with our old friends the 42nd and other troops, sailed to\nfavour the French in St. Lucia with a visit and found themselves off\nthe Pigeons' Isle on the 27th April, when they were ordered to land\nat a little sandy bay, into which the bright blue water ran in\nglittering ripples, under shadowy foliage of the most luxuriant and\nbrilliant green.\n\nThe landing was made by the troops in four divisions, at four\ndifferent points; and the first man who leaped ashore was Evan\nMacPherson of the Black Watch.  His company followed with a loud\nhurrah! and when the four united columns advanced against Morne\nFortun\u00e9e, the principal military post in the island, on officers\ndesirous of leading the forlorn hope being requested \"to enclose\ntheir cards to the brigade-major,\" the first on the list for this\nperilous work was the Captain Dhu!\n\nThis caused his men to consider and have serious doubts of the affair\nduring the halt in Gaich; for, at Sergeant Grant said, a man who had\nreally sold himself to the Devil would have chosen some less\ndangerous trade than soldiering; and, moreover, would not have been\nin such a deuced hurry to risk promotion to a warmer climate than the\nWest Indies.\n\n\"But how if his life be charmed,\" suggested the corporal, \"and his\nskin proof to shot and steel? we have heard of such things in the\nHighlands.  Like Claverhouse, he may have his _appointed time_.\"\n\n\"Lambh dhia sinn!\" exclaimed the sergeant; \"so have we all.\"\n\nBut the corporal's opinion was not given without finding due weight;\nand it caused the unfortunate captain to be more closely watched than\never.\n\nEre nightfall the troops were all under arms, and on the march to\nassault the great fort of the island; and when, as usual in such\ncases, old Rawlins the quartermaster was made custodier, _pro temp._,\nof all the rings, watches, and purses of the officers, that they\nmight be safe with him in the rear, it was remarked that MacPherson\nretained his own valuables.  \"Ballychroan is a cool fellow,\" said the\nofficers; \"he has quite made up his mind to escape scatheless.\"\n\nThe eve of the tropical sun is brief and beautiful; in the forcible\nlines of Scott--\n\n  \"No pale gradations quench his ray,\n  No twilight dews his wrath allay;\n  With disclike battle target red,\n  He rushes to his burning bed;\n  Dyes the wild waves with bloody light,\n  Then sinks at once--and all is night!\"\n\n\nSo sank the disc of the West Indian sun into the burning Caribbean\nsea, and sudden darkness veiled the march of the troops, while the\npipes of Donald Bane, and other kilted minstrels of the Black Watch,\nwoke the echoes of the fertile valleys and green cocoa-groves, as the\ncorps formed the avant garde of the midnight movement, which brought\nthe troops close to Morne Fortun\u00e9e, in the attack on which MacPherson\ncharmed all by his rashness and headlong bravery.\n\nBy a mistake of the black guide, General Moore found himself\nentangled with the French outposts two hours before the other columns\ncame up.  An immediate encounter ensued.  The 53rd Regiment drove\nback the enemy; and here Evan MacPherson, ever foremost in danger,\nleaving his own ranks, pushed on with the English corps, as the\ndispatch of Lieutenant-Colonel Abercrombie, its commander, relates;\nand after a hand-to-hand conflict, slew the French Republican\ngeneral, piercing him through the body with such force that the long\nfluted blade of the Highland claymore would not come forth; so that\nhe had actually to place his feet upon the corpse before he could\nwithdraw his weapon.  Spurning the body off his sword, he uttered one\nof his old ferocious oaths of passion and blind fury.\n\nThe outpost was carried; by daybreak the other columns came up, and\nwith the loss of fifty grenadiers Morne Fortun\u00e9e was completely\ninvested.\n\nAfter this, five companies of the Black Watch, the Black Rangers\nunder Malcolm of Lochore (a Fifeshire gentleman, who had a powerful\npresentiment that he would that day close his earthly career), the\n55th Regiment, and the Light Company of the 57th, were ordered to\nassault the battery of Secke which was close to the outworks of Morne\nFortun\u00e9e, and, by a dangerous flank-fire, enfiladed the approach\nthereto.\n\nAs they advanced to the attack, MacPherson, being senior volunteer\nfor the forlorn hope, led the stormers.  He seemed wild with\nexcitement; his cheek was red, and his dark eyes sparkled with a\nfiery glow.\n\nFollowed closely by six men carrying a scaling-ladder, with his sword\nclenched in his teeth, and bearing in his arms one of those huge\ngrass-bags which are often used in such affairs to prevent stormers\nfrom being hurt by falling into the trenches, and which, for this\npurpose, are filled with freshly cut grass, he rushed forward at the\nhead of the forlorn-hope-men, nearly all of whom were swept away by a\nrolling fire of grape, canister, and musket-shot.  He tossed his\ngrass bag into the trench, and seizing the ladder, shook off the\ndying men who clung to it, and with his own powerful hands he erected\nit at once against the slope of the stone bastion, uttering shouts of\nrage and triumph as he ascended.\n\nPell-mell a cheering mass of the Black Watch and 55th men\nintermingled followed him.\n\nThe fire concentrated upon this point was terrible; it seemed the\nvery crater of a volcano, vomiting flame and missiles, and bristling\nwith points of steel.  Lieutenant James Frazer of the Black Watch,\nand Donald Bane, now the pipe-major, fell dead.  The former was\ncaught in the arms of Sergeant Grant just as he was falling over the\nbastion, and many more were killed and wounded.  MacPherson received\nseveral cuts and scars; but he seemed to be regardless alike of\ndanger and pain.  On the old sergeant falling in the embrasure\nstunned by a blow from a musket-butt, the captain snatched the\nhalbert from his hand to replace his claymore which, had been broken\non a musket-barrel, and armed anew, he hewed a passage into the\nbattery, which was carried in triumph; but not until the brave\nMalcolm of Lochore was slain by a grape-shot (thus fulfilling his\nsolemn presentiment) and many of his Rangers had perished by his side.\n\nMacPherson's bonnet had been denuded of its gay plumage by\nmusket-shot, his plaid and uniform had been cut and pierced by sabres\nand bayonets; yet he had but three wounds of consequence, and when he\npresented to General Moore the tricolour which he had pulled down\nfrom the battery, the brigadier said,\n\n\"By my soul, Captain MacPherson, you seem to bear a charmed life.\"\n\nTo this the captain replied only by one of his strange laughs, as he\ntore a Frenchman's tricoloured sash into strips to bind up the wounds\nin his sword-arm, for he had received two bayonet-stabs and a\nsword-cut in the affair.\n\nBut though the battery of Secke had thus fallen, Morne Fortun\u00e9e was\nyet untaken; and when the Vizie, a fortified ridge under its guns was\nto be mined and carried by assault, MacPherson again volunteered for\nservice in the front.\n\nThe local features and scenery of these isles, torn as they were by\nconvulsions of nature into deep gorges covered with bosky thickets,\nor invaded by abrupt cliffs and bluffs, made the operations of the\ntroops, who were cross-belted for weeks consecutively, severe and\nharassing.  The hardihood and power of endurance which are\ncharacteristic of the Scottish Highlanders, rendered the Black Watch\nof the greatest service, while, on the other band, the cavalry of the\nexpedition were soon totally unfit for duty, and the 28th Light\nDragoons gradually disappeared altogether.\n\n\"St. Lucia presents a chequered scene of sombre forests and fertile\nvalleys, smiling plains and towering precipices, shallow rivers and\ndeep ravines;\" but the chief of all its hills are the huge pyramidal\nPitons, two sugar-loaf shaped masses of rock, which from their base\nin the blue ocean to their summits in the sky are ever covered with\nwaving foliage of the most brilliant green.  The steep and rugged\nnature of the country and its pathless woods, where of old the\npainted Carib lurked, presented innumerable difficulties to the\nsoldiers and seamen, who had to drag the battering guns from the\nbeach into position against Morne Fortun\u00e9e; but on the 17th May a\nsufficient number were in readiness to open a fire against the Vizie,\nor fortified ridge, which had been strengthened by palisades,\nearthworks, and bastions of stone, on which the French had mounted\nsome of their heaviest guns.\n\nIt was proposed to undermine one of these bastions, and Evan\nMacPherson, who had volunteered for the engineering department,\ndiscovered--no one knew how--an arched place almost immediately under\nit; and he at once resolved to turn this vault to the best advantage.\nIt was small and domed with stone, having been an oratory hewn out of\nthe hill-side in the days of the Sieur de Rousselan, a French\nGovernor of St. Lucia, who died in 1654, and who was much beloved for\nhis gentleness even by the fierce Caribs, one of whose women he had\nmarried.\n\nHere, for three nights preceding the seventeenth of May, the Captain\nDhu, with ten soldiers of the 27th Regiment, worked to lay a mine,\nwhich, when fired, would blow the whole upper work, with its men,\ncannon and shot into the air.  In the dark they crept to and fro on\ntheir hands and knees, reaching the place unmolested it is true, but\nnot _unseen_; for on the third night they were attacked by the\nFrench, and a terrible close combat with bayonets and pistols took\nplace in the dark.  Most of MacPherson's men were slain and cruelly\nbutchered by the infuriated French; but him they could neither kill,\ncapture, overcome, or drive out of the vault.\n\nPlying his broadsword with both hands, he swept aside the charged\nbayonets and clubbed muskets like dry reeds by a winter brook; the\nwounds he inflicted were terrible!  Lights were now brought, and in\nthe red blaze of torches, and the ghastly green glare of fire-balls,\nhis tall and muscular form was seen towering over a pile of fallen\nmen who encumbered the slippery and gory floor, towering like an\ninfernal spirit or destroying angel, his sword-blade and his eyes\nflashing together, his swarthy cheek a deep red, and his black hair\nwaving in elf-like locks.\n\n\"_C'est le diable!_\" exclaimed the French, and precipitately retired,\nleaving the vault, but only to adopt measures more sorely to destroy\nhim.  Piles of straw, damp hemp, tar-barrels, and powder were flung\nin.  Then fire was applied, and thus all the miserable wounded were\nsuffocated or burned alive, with the corpses of the dead.  Even the\nCaptain Dhu did not come forth after this; and at midnight his\nregiment, with the 27th or Inniskillings, and the 31st or\nHuntingdonshire Foot, commenced the attack on the fortified ridge of\nthe Vizie without him; and his company was led by Lieutenant Simon\nFrazer, who was afterwards so severely wounded at the capture of St.\nVincent.\n\nSix days the fighting continued, and an unceasing fire was exchanged\nbetween the British battery and the fort, until the 27th Regiment, by\na desperate exertion of bravery, effected a lodgment within five\nhundred yards of the French works, where they repulsed a furious\nsortie of the enemy, and maintained their ground almost over the very\nplace where the miners had been destroyed.  This movement proving\nsuccessful, the French capitulated on the twenty-sixth May, and from\nthat day the Isle of St. Lucia became a British colony, after the\nloss of one hundred and ninety-four officers and men killed, and five\nhundred and fifty-four wounded, according to the nominal return; but\nthat document was in error by _one_; for among those returned as\nslain six days before the capitulation, was the Captain Dhu.\n\nWhen the interment of the dead took place, the fatal mine was\nexplored, and it presented a dreadful scene, being full of dead\nsoldiers, half scorched, roasted, decomposed, and covered with black\nfestering wounds, while the pavement was so slippery with blood and\nhideous slime, that the fatigue party could scarcely bear out the\nremains of their comrades to their hastily-made graves under the\nfatal guns of Morne Fortun\u00e9e.\n\nThe 27th found old Bill Hook, the corporal of their Pioneers,\nliterally burned to a mere piece of charcoal; and the remains were\nalone identified by a brass tobacco-box which the deceased was known\nto possess.\n\nOne body, fearfully blackened by smoke, and having the uniform\nscorched off it, a sword in its fingers calcined by the fire to a\nmere stripe of rusty iron, was borne out and laid upon the grass in\nthe bright sunshine; and then with a shout of astonishment old Hamish\nGrant and others recognised the famous Captain Dhu!\n\n\"It is MacPherson, Black Evan of Ballychroan!\" they exclaimed; and\nthe whole regiment crowded to gaze on what they believed to be the\nremains of this brave but terrible fellow.\n\n\"Quick--let us bury him!\" said some of the soldiers.\n\nBut louder cries of astonishment rose from all, when he began to move\nand breathe; and then, like one awakening from a long trance, opened\nhis eyes and gazed wildly about him.\n\nFor six days he had survived the horrors of that dark and terrible\nvault!  The surgeons were promptly on the spot, and no means were\nleft untried to restore MacPherson.\n\n\"Oich! oich!\" muttered the Strathspeymen; \"leave him to himself--the\nhour of his end is not yet come.\"  Sergeant Grant, who was ordered to\nsee if the vault was now cleared of dead bodies, entered it slowly\nand with some reluctance; but in a moment after he came forth with a\nbound, as if he had been shot from a mortar, leaving his bonnet\nbehind him; his grey hair was on end, his eyes dilated, and his\nusually nut-brown and weather-beaten cheek was deadly pale with\nterror.\n\n\"What the devil is the matter now?\" asked several officers.\n\n\"The Devil himself is the matter,\" gasped the sergeant.\n\n\"How--what have you seen?\" asked General Moore, laughing.\n\nHamish could not explain himself in English; but to the Black Watch\nwho crowded about him he related that, on entering the\n_black-hole_--for so they named the mine--he had seen in the further\nend thereof the figure of a man, and believing he was some Frenchman\nwho had found concealment there, he drew his sword and approached.\nThen a pair of bright, fierce, and terrible eyes, flaring like those\nof an owl or snake, met his gaze; and while secret awe and horror\nfilled his soul, he found himself confronted by a man who was of\ngiant stature, and whose face was darker than that of a mulatto, with\na beard of raven blackness, and wearing a grey plaid and Lowland\nbonnet.\n\nHe was the stranger whom they had seen in the Forest of Gaich!\n\nHe uttered a thrill laugh, which rung round the vault, and for a\nmoment rooted the poor sergeant to the bloody pavement; then the\nsoldier, wild with terror, rushed into the light of day.\n\nThe story that a Scottish sergeant had seen the Devil in the mine\noccasioned great laughter in the camp, for no trace of his Satanic\nmajesty--not even the print of a cloven hoof--could be found, when\nthe 81st Regiment demolished the whole fabric next day, after\ndismantling the Vizie.\n\n* * * *\n\nAfter the capture of Morne Fortun\u00e9e, a marked change came over the\nCaptain Dhu.  He was subject to fits of profound melancholy and\nabstraction, and to gusts of passion and fury, when he drank deep and\nbecame almost mad, exclaiming that he was tormented by fiends--that\nthe atmosphere was full of flame--that hell was yawning under his\nfeet, and so forth.  His excesses soon impaired his health so\nseverely, that he was sent home with invalids, on a year's leave of\nabsence, with a constitution broken by war, wounds, and the\nwine-bottle; and with a temper soured and furious, none knew by what.\n\nThe transport _Queen Charlotte_, in which he sailed from St. Vincent,\nwas wrecked in the Irish Channel; and of three hundred souls who were\non board, the Captain Dhu--though but the ruins of what he had been\nin bodily strength--alone escaped, being cast ashore, lashed to a\nspar; and after many strange and perilous adventures among the Irish,\nwho were then in arms against the government, in the winter of 1799,\nhe found himself at home in his native place, the beautiful valley of\nthe Spey: and now we have reached the last chapter in his mysterious\nhistory--an event which is still locally remembered by the Grants and\nothers in Strathspey as the DARK DEED in the Forest of Gaich.\n\nOn the 11th of January, 1800, being the day preceding Yule, he\nsummoned a party of gillies, and announced his intention of\nproceeding up the mountains to hunt the red deer in that place.\n\nThe Badenoch men looked at each other with perplexity and fear--as,\nfrom time immemorial, the Eve of Yule has been the epoch for all\nmischief, devilry, and witchcraft in the Highlands; and the scene of\nthe proposed hunting was just the place that men might be supposed to\navoid at such a time.\n\n\"To hunt on Yule Eve--and in the Forest of Gaich!\"\n\nIrresolute and unwilling alike to offend or obey, they gazed at each\nother in silence.\n\n\"Go not forth to hunt to-day,\" said old Hamish Grant, the sergeant,\nwho, being discharged after long service, was an occasional visitor\nat the house of his old leader.\n\n\"And why not to-day?\" thundered Black Evan, with a terrible oath.\n\n\"Can you ask?\"\n\n\"What day is it in particular?\"\n\n\"The Eve of Yule.\"\n\n\"Would you refuse to fight the enemy on Yule Eve?\" asked the captain,\nscornfully.\n\n\"No, Ballychroan,\" replied the sergeant, proudly; \"for on that day in\nthe year '76 I fought with the Americans on the Delaware.\"\n\n\"And what is Yule to me?\" exclaimed the captain, as he drank a deep\ndraught \"Ha! ha! what is that to me?  Go I shall, though the\nfiend--the accursed fiend--came up from hell with all his legions to\nbar the way.  Go I shall, Hamish; and go I must?\"\n\n\"This is most strange!\"\n\n\"Fatality compels me,\" said the captain, mournfully and wildly.  \"Oh,\nhow few could comprehend the misery of a conviction like this!  Fain\nwould I give up _existence_ if I could receive oblivion in exchange,\nbut not life--_this_ life at least.  Fain would I rest in my grave,\nHamish; but in the grave, even of a saint--yea, under the altar-stone\nof Iona--I could not find repose.\"\n\n\"I do not understand all this,\" said the old sergeant, solemnly; \"so\nlet us consult the minister about it.\"\n\n\"The minister--bah!\"\n\n\"You never feared death, Ballychroan?\"\n\n\"Death--no! for he has everywhere eluded me.  You have seen me rush\ninto the breach amid a thousand dangers, and escape them all.  I have\nflung myself upon the levelled bayonets, and among the uplifted\nswords of the enemy; but the bayonets became pointless, the swords\nblunted, the bullets harmless as snow-flakes!  In the dark vault of\nthe Vizie, the flames spared me; even the ocean itself repelled me,\nwhen three hundred brave men went down into its greedy gulf; and,\nlike he who wanders for ever--he who mocked his Saviour on the ascent\nto Calvary--I seem to bear a charmed life; but yet, like that more\nhappy wretch, I cannot live for ever.  No, Hamish, no--my days are\nnumbered!\"\n\n\"Go not forth to-day,\" reiterated the old soldier, grasping the arm\nof the excited captain.\n\n\"Bah!\" he responded, and drained another glass of whiskey.\n\n\"What did Kenneth Ower foretel two hundred years ago?\"\n\n\"That when a _black_ Yule overtook a _black_ Laird of Ballychroan,\nthe race would cease.\"\n\n\"Well--you are the first of your family who have the name of Evan\n_Dhu_--and you have no son.\"\n\n\"Thank Heaven, no!  I care not for predictions, and Kenneth Ower\nMackenzie, the Brahn prophet, was a fool.\"\n\n\"He foretold strange things though.\"\n\n\"Such as, that oats would replace the fairies on the hill of\nTomnahourich, and that ships with sails unfurled would pass and\nrepass it; but the green bracken and the purple heather wave yet on\nthe Fairies' Hill, and we hare heard nothing of the ships.\"*\n\n\n* The captain spoke in 1800.  \"Tomnahourich, the far-famed Fairies'\nHill, has been sown with oats,\" states the _Inverness Advertiser_ of\n1859; \"according to tradition, the Brahn prophet, who lived 200 years\nago, predicted that ships with unfurled sails would pass and repass\nTomnahourich; and further, that it would yet be placed under lock and\nkey.  The first part of the prediction was verified by the opening of\nthe Caledonian Canal, and we seem to be on the eve of seeing the\nrealization of the rest by the final closing up of the Fairies'\nHill.\"  In what succeeds I have closely followed local and oral\ntradition; but the black officer was _not_ the last of his race, as\nhe left a daughter, who, I believe, was married in England.\n\n\n\"Kenneth Ower never spoke in vain,\" said the white-haired sergeant.\n\n\"I am too old a soldier to be terrified by silly predictions,\"\nexclaimed the captain, wrathfully; \"so enough of this.  Set forward,\nmen--away to the forest!  Let us drink, dance, and hunt while we may!\"\n\nAnd quaffing off a huge jug of alcohol, with a party of gillies, whom\nhe had made half tipsy, he departed towards the Forest of Qaich.\n\nOf all that band of hunters, not a man ever came down from the\nGrampians again!\n\nOn that night, when the whole atmosphere seemed calm and still, a\nterrific tempest, sudden as the discharge of a cannon, swept over the\nmountains.  For hours the forked lightning played and flashed over\nBenoch-Corri-Va and the Haunted Forest of Gaich, while the\nthunder-peals made the old women in every cottage and clachan totter\ndown on their knees to mutter a prayer for deliverance from evil and\ndanger, as the electric salvos hurtled over the great wooded valley,\nthrough which the swollen Spey, the most furious of the Scottish\nrivers, laden with the spoil of a hundred forests, swept with a\nceaseless roar to the German Ocean.\n\nOver Gaich, the sky seemed all on fire.  It was an expanse of crimson\nflame streaked with forky green flashes; and against this steady\nflush the huge Grampians stood strongly forth in sombre outline.\n\nWith night this storm passed away.\n\nThree days after, some shepherds who, in pursuit of their scattered\nflocks, ventured into the wilderness of Gaich, saw a sight, the\nmemory of which causes many yet to shudder, as they tell to their\ngrandchildren around the winter hearth the story of the Captain Dhu.\n\nA lonely shieling, in which he and his twenty gillies took refuge,\nhad been destroyed by a thunderbolt.  Its rafters and stones were\nscattered over the forest, with the corpses of its inmates--every man\nof whom had been _torn limb from limb_, and scattered far apart, as\nif by the hands of some mighty fiend!\n\nSuch was the startling end of the Black Captain and his companions.\n\nHis evil reputation, the weird locality of his hunting, and the\nequally weird character of this tempestuous night, have fixed the\nidea deeply in the minds of the peasantry that Evan Dhu, of\nBallychroan, decoyed these twenty Badenoch men into Gaich Forest for\nthe sole purpose of delivering them to the fiend, in conformity with\nsome terrible compact; for the whole scene of the catastrophe bore\nevidence of their destruction by some infernal agency, rather than,\nas others averred, the levin brand of Heaven.\n\nAt times, on the returning Eve of Yule, those who have been belated\nin the forest suddenly find themselves in the midst of an invisible\ncompany of roisterers, whose laughter, shouts, imprecations, and\nimpious songs, fill the poor loiterers with affright; for though the\nvoices seem close to the ear, no one in visible: and these unearthly\nbacchanalians are supposed to be the spirits of the doomed captain\nand his companions.\n\nOn other occasions, screams, yells and entreaties for mercy--wild,\nand thrilling, and heartrending--with the hoarse, deep baying of\ninfernal dogs, are swept over the waste on the wind.  But since that\nterrible catastrophe on Yule Eve, 1800, none pass willingly through\nthe Forest of Gaich alone!\n\n\n\n\nNOTES.\n\n\nI\n\nTHE LETTER OF SERVICE.\n\nIn the story of Farquhar Shaw, the formation of the Highland Watch\nhas been fully detailed; but the following is the Letter of Service\nby which the Independent Companies of the Reicudan Dhu became the\n43rd, and afterwards the 42nd Regiment of the Line:\n\n\n\"George R.--Whereas, we have thought fit that a Regiment of Foot be\nforthwith formed under your command, and to consist of ten companies,\neach to contain one captain, one lieutenant, one ensign, three\nsergeants, three corporals, two drummers, and one hundred effective\nprivate men; which said regiment shall be formed out of six\nIndependent Companies of Foot in the Highlands of North Britain,\nthree of which are now commanded by captains, and three by\ncaptain-lieutenants:\n\n\"Our will and pleasure therefore is, that one sergeant, one corporal,\nand fifty private men, be forthwith taken out of the three companies\ncommanded by captains, and ten private men from the three commanded\nby captain-lieutenants, making one hundred and eighty men, who are to\nbe equally distributed into the four companies hereby to be raised;\nand the three sergeants and three corporals draughted as aforesaid,\nto be placed to such of the four companies as you shall judge proper;\nand the remainder of the non-commissioned officers and private men,\nwanting to complete them to the above number, to be raised in the\nHighlands with all possible speed, _the men to be natives of the\ncountry, and none other to be taken_.\n\n\"This regiment shall commence and take place according to the\nestablishment thereof.  And of these our orders and commands, you and\nthe said three captains and the three captain-lieutenants, commanding\nat present the six Independent Highland Companies, and all others\nconcerned, are to take notice, and yield obedience thereunto\naccordingly.\n\n\"Given at our Court of St. James's this 7th day of November, 1739,\nand in the 13th year of our reign.  By His Majesty's command.\n\n(Signed) \"WM. YONGE.\n\n\"To our right-trusty and well-beloved cousin John Earl of Craufurd\nand Lindsay.\"\n\n\nLetters of service usually contain the _special conditions_ under\nwhich troops are levied.  It is worthy of remark that such are\ncarefully _omitted_ in the foregoing.\n\n\n\nII.\n\nHIGHLAND SOLDIERS.\n\nIn the war between 1755 and 1762, sixty-five thousand Scotsmen were\nenlisted, according to the \"Scots Magazine\" for 1763, and of these a\ngreat proportion were Highlanders, whose services were extremely\nill-requited.\n\n\"Were not the Highlanders put upon every hazardous enterprise where\nnothing was to be got but broken bones, and are not all these\nregiments _discarded_ now, but the 42nd?\" says a writer in the\n_Edinburgh Advertiser_ of 6th July, 1764.  \"The Scots colonel who\nentered the Moro Castle* is now reduced to half-pay; while an English\ngeneral, whose avarice was the occasion of the death of many\nthousands of brave men, is not only on full pay, but in possession of\none-fifth of the whole money gained at the Havannah--what proportion\ndoes the service of this general, who received \u00a386,000, bear to a\nprivate soldier who got about fifty shillings, or an officer who\nreceived about \u00a380?**\n\n\n* Lieutenant-Colonel James Stuart, who afterwards commanded at\nCuddalore, in 1789.\n\n** Lieut.-General the Earl of Albemarle received \u00a3112,697 10s.  The\nwriter is in error.\n\n\n\"The 42nd regiment consisted of two battalions and three companies,\nin all 2800 men, and now (in 1764) there remain only about ninety\nprivates alive of the whole.\"\n\nA passion for military glory and adventure, with the old patriarchal\nlove of the chiefs and gentlemen who officered the Highland\nregiments, drew our mountain peasantry in great numbers into their\nranks.  \"Thus we find,\" according to General Stewart, whose work has\nbeen quoted in the text, \"that the whole corps embodied in the\nHighlands amounted to twenty-six battalions of fencible infantry,\nwhich, in addition to the _fifty battalions of the line_, three of\nreserve and seven of militia, formed altogether a force of EIGHTY-SIX\nHIGHLAND REGIMENTS embodied in the course of the four wars in which\nBritain had been engaged since the Black Watch was regimented in\n1740.  From a first glance, allowing 1000 men to each of these\neighty-six regiments, would appear to come near the truth; but on a\ncloser view it will be found to be far short of the actual\nnumber--several of the regiments had in the course of their service\ntreble or quadruple their original number in their ranks.  Thus the\n71st, the 72nd and the 73rd, during the thirty-one years they were\nHighland (_i.e._ kilted), had at least 3000 Highlanders each, and\nother regiments had numbers in proportion to the length and nature of\ntheir service, both in tropical and temperate climate.\n\n\"From the commencement of the late war,\" according to another and\nequally careful writer, \"the Island of Skye alone had furnished no\nfewer than 21 Lieutenant-Generals and Major-Generals; 48\nLieutenant-Colonels; 600 other commissioned officers and 10,000 foot\nsoldiers; 4 Governors of British colonies; 1 Governor-General; 1\nAdjutant-General; 1 Chief Baron of England; and 1 Judge of the\nSupreme Court of Scotland.\"\n\nThe game laws and expatriation of the people have now reduced the\nHighlands and Isles to a wilderness, or nearly so; the clans, whose\nmemory is so inseparably connected with the military history of\nScotland in modern times, and with the memory of days gone by, are\nswept to Australia, or the wilds of that Far West which is now the\nnew home of the Celtic race.\n\nAccording to Wilson--\n\n                              Time and tide\n  Have washed away like weeds upon the sands,\n  Crowds of the olden life's memorials;\n  And mid the mountains you might as well seek\n  For the lone site of fancy's filmy dream.\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nTHE LETTRE DE CACHET.\n\nOf Major White's companion in misfortune, referred to in the legend\nbearing the above title, the _Edinburgh Magazine_ for 1789 supplies\nthe following information:--\n\n\"The Earl of Mazarine is an Irish peer; he was nearly stopped at\nCalais, on Friday, on his way here.  He was with two other gentlemen,\nhis companions in misfortune, and being all extremely mean and\nshabbily dressed, were suspected of being bad persons, and no one\nseemed desirous of embarking in the packet with them.  He was at\nlength obliged to declare himself.  The people in the packet thought\nhim mad.  On landing at Dover, his lordship was the first to jump out\nof the boat, and in gratitude to Heaven for his deliverance,\nimmediately fell on his knees, and kissing the ground thrice,\nexclaimed--\n\n\"God bless this land of liberty!\"\n\nThis was one of the last episodes in the history of the terrible\nBastille.\n\n\n\nTHE END.","title":"Legends of the Black Watch; or, Forty-second Highlanders","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":107850}